The Loom of the Decree

The chancellor brought a loom instead of a skein, and with it three generals who believed wood could bully thread. They set the machine in the hall. It was beautiful, and it wanted to finish sentences by itself.

“Efficiency,” the chancellor said. “Your hands are one reign. The loom is the next.”

Aya laid her palm on the frame. The loom began a tax, a levy, a quiet disappearance, all in perfect stitches. She found the knot where the machine had skipped the sister and pulled. The whole draft sighed and collapsed into a snarl.

“A decree that cannot be stopped is not a decree,” she said. “It is a weather. We already have weather.” She kept her eyes closed so she would not see their faces decide to be brave. “Take it out. If you bring it back, bring it as firewood. Firewood I can use.”