#threadway

This started as a throw-away reference in a narrator piece I’m writing. I wanted an in-setting analogue to Halloween. That turned into me examining the cultural habits surrounding the holiday which, as it turned out, had two different celebrations: one public, one personal.

That turned into thinking about the story behind the ritual, and drawing on real world mythological cycles—The Mabinogion, Cú Chulainn, Arthurian legends—and coming up with my own: the Aedrath Cycle and a king that crossed the river while carrying his dying brother (I may modify that name, since it does feel somewhat fake/imposed).

We worldbuild to exercise our creativity, sure. It’s fun exploring these worlds we create, and seeing what they contain. It’s fun inventing things and seeing how they line up (or contradict).

More than that though, we also worldbuild because it informs the characters that live in those worlds. I came up with a holiday and a potential mythological cycle, just so I could have a throw-away reference. Only now, there’s a holiday that people can look forward to and have opinions about.

I never had the focus to sit down and develop those ideas. I knew I could capture moments with words, but an actual narrative with a beginning, middle, and end? Ha!

Despite the fact that it was a long walk uphill, Sunniva loved going up the lane to her usual spot overlooking the city and the River Ossen. She felt it helped to get her in the right frame of mind to perform an unshaping. The effort made her work feel like it carried the weight of that distance.

The location wasn’t strictly necessary as such things go. She was perfectly capable of bringing somebody back in a more domestic setting. Sometimes the contract required it. Sometimes time pressures simply didn’t give her a chance to make the walk. So she never let herself get hung up on that sort of detail.

Yet, in a way, it was quite necessary. Bringing people back was a matter of framing. And standing above Threadway if only for a moment… well, that was just the proper way to bring somebody back. It was like you had a chance to sit apart from the world. To witness the craze of civilization before you reentered it. It was worthwhile even without returning somebody. Most Threadwayians had never made the trek themselves, and so never had a chance to appreciate their city in that way.

So, no, she knew what she was doing, thank you very much.

She stopped herself. She was bickering with the Beatrice in her thoughts again. “Why are you up at such an early hour? It don’t seem sensible to me.” She had accidentally woken Bea up as she was leaving, leading to the usual slate of well-meaning barbs.

Sunniva gripped the handle of her lantern tight for a second, before casually swinging it in her hand as a matter of redirecting thoughts. It was still dark and while the lamplights probably provided enough light for the walk up, once she went off the lane, the early morning encroached. It wouldn’t do to go stumbling about in the dark. Not with something as precious as what she was carrying.

Her satchel shifted. She had double-checked it before she left the workshop. Tea. A sheet for sitting. A blanket for wrapping, just in case Beatrice decided to be cheeky. Slippers, again, just in case Bea decided to be cheeky.

“Aye, we’re midwives for the transposed,” Bea had opined that one time, as if she and Sunniva were in full agreement. She had called it “the true work that transmorphosists did”. Sunniva had rolled her eyes at all of that high-minded academic tosh. Shapers, Bea. We’re shapers. And a midwife for the transposed?! We’re not bleedin’ obstetricians, Trishy!  ‘E’s a teacup! 

Niva had held her tongue though, because she loved her Bea. 

She looked down at the swaddled teacup she was bouncing in her arm and felt an immediate sense of irony. She puffed out a terse breath. 

She stopped again and took a moment to reflect. 

Fine, the care was important. But that was going to be true whether she was doing midwifery, or making teapots out of porcelain, or shaping somebody into a teapot. Doing the work correctly took focus and attention.

And when she brought somebody back from that state, she was ready to sit with them for as long as they needed. Most only needed moments and seemed to appreciate coming back during a quiet part of the day. It’s why she chose dawn. A few needed several minutes. It’s why she had tea.

Of course, some needed longer. She had never packed a lunch, but she had shared breakfast with a fair number. 

But none of it were midwifery, Bea. It was more like meeting a friend and sitting with them while they reflected on a profound moment.

Anyway, Sunniva came back around to the work at hand, and smiled down at the teacup named Noah. She bounced her arm lovingly. “Your contract certainly made it seem like you’re the sort who might only need a hot drink and a chance to watch the sunrise. We’ll see if I made the right bet. I didn’t bring us breakfast.” 

He couldn’t hear her. At least she had always been told that “...the transposed had no sense of the outside world while in their altered form.” More tosh. She preferred to think that they did, that they enjoyed the thrill of being bounced.

She would never ask for any confirmation from them, of course. That would ruin it.

She and her teacup had arrived at the gate of the Seven Dancers Cemetery. The latch was closed and chained, but the lock was open, as expected. She had a key, naturally enough, as she had a professional relationship with the groundskeeper. But she was usually able to coordinate with him for her work.

Still bouncing the bundle, she set the lantern down. “No more bouncing for you once we’re past the gate. One does not play in graveyards.” With a well-practiced motion, she undid the latch and chain with her free hand. The chain rattled across its bars with a clean ringing note that hung in the air a moment longer than it had any right to. 

She closed her eyes and took a moment. A deep breath. Once. Twice. Just enough to reach into where she needed to be. Now focused, she opened her eyes boldly, and pushed the gate open silently. 

Then in a smooth motion, she picked up the lantern, stepped past the threshold of the graveyard, hooking a toe onto the gate to pull it closed behind her, and began walking down the short wooded path that led to the overlook.

She loved this walk through the woods. A cloaked figure, lantern shining. Proof against the darkness. It gave her chills every time. Sadly, it wasn’t nearly long enough to indulge in the sensation.

Crunching softly on the gravel of the pathway, Sunniva emerged from the trees and onto the hillside overlooking the town. 

She never got tired of the view. Maybe that was justification enough. You could see the whole breadth of the Ossen as it ran through the city. The boulevards. The twinkle from the still-lit streetlamps. The wisp of chimney smoke above the city. The Ossenwold stretching out beyond.

And she was alone up here, with only the dead and a teacup to keep her company. She glanced to her left. Well, maybe not entirely alone. 

The Seven Dancers stood in a stately pose on just a small rise overlooking the same vista. She was sure that whoever had built the stone circle felt the same way she did about the view and its quietude.

Voicelessly, with a small but respectful nod, she acknowledged them like old friends. One always did well by being polite. Threadway noticed that sort of thing.

Sunniva turned her attention back to the town and lingered for a long moment. A breeze picked up and swept through an old oak tree that stood nearby the circle, freeing a few autumn leaves that swirled past.

She frowned, feeling like she had just forgotten something. She set her lantern down for a moment and checked her satchel again. Everything was in order, including the sheet she used to stop the dew from soaking her clothes. She decided to pull it out and tucked it under her arm.

Grabbing her light, she turned and continued on towards the Dancers. Her usual spot was just a few yards in front. No graves, and just large enough to set up a picnic. 

She set Noah and her lamp down carefully. 

Snap. She unrolled the sheet with a flick.

She recalled a would-be suitor who had once pestered her and Bea while they were out at a pub. He had just found out they were shapers and became quite curious towards them. 

“Queer thing, isn’t it? People into teapots. Peculiar work.” The look on his face told her far more than he meant to say. Sunniva had bristled in a way that Bea immediately picked up on.

Bea put on a bright smile, and stepped in to head her off. “Oh, we just enjoy the work. We get to meet all sorts of fascinating people. Isn’t that right, Niva?” 

Snap. Must be perfect, no wrinkles to sit on.

“But… why?”, he had pressed on, oblivious. He had given them a glance up and down. “You’re clearly both beautiful. I could take care of either of you and you could put this shaper business behind you.” Even his grin was off-putting.

Even Bea’s best attempt couldn’t stop what was about to happen.

She recalled squaring herself up against the gentleman. "Why did I get into this?" she snapped, indignant but still cool. "Why? I got into this 'cause I 'ad a calling, sir. And despite a childhood of wishin’ I didn't, I chose to embrace it. Sir."

Snap. There we go, perfectly laid out.

The air felt suddenly heavy. Then the sky pulsed dark for a moment.

Sunniva had barely looked at the sky, puzzled, before her ears started ringing.

Something on the rise between her and the menhirs grabbed her attention. Just a stone's throw away, along that incline, there was a dark shape. Clawing. Crawling. Creeping. 

Without thinking, she put herself between it and Noah’s bundle.

The sky pulsed again. The gloom whipped around her as a strong wind, and she became aware of an oak tree that stood near the Dancers. There was always a tree there. There was always a tree. Why was she aware of it? Oh god, why did she always forget about that tree?

And when she tried to look at the thing, her eyes slid off of it. 

Behind it, she could sense the thing dragging something. A person. And whoever it was reached out to her, and she heard a groan, a plea whose words didn’t reach her ears, but whose tone absolutely did. 

Reflexively she reached towards the person, but recoiled from the shadowy beast that kept yanking him along. Along towards that tree.

From the corner of her eye, she could see a yawning hole at the base of the tree, reaching to some impossible depth. Whispering voices. Calling voices. Too many voices.

In an instant, she knew: This was something she should not have been allowed to witness. This wasn’t hers. She didn’t want it to be hers. 

The dark thing finally seemed to notice her. A deep growl from it seemed to shake the ground she was standing on, followed by a sharp hiss that stabbed at her ears. It drew itself up to its full height. A curl of shadowy smoke poured down the rise towards her. Her and Noah.

Oh god, Noah. 

This was her fault.

She chanced a glance back at the bundle. 

She could grab it and throw him off the edge of the overlook. He’s bundled up, so he shouldn’t break. The thing would ignore him and only go after her. It wouldn’t have any idea that the cup was a person. So he’d be safe. And Beatrice could find him. Would find him. She knew her Niva was coming up here. 

Oh Bea, I’m so sorry. You’ll never know what happened to me, but at least you’d be able to bring him back.

The shadows continued to pile around them, pressing them in, penning them in. Sunniva’s lantern shone next to her blanket, the only light visible now.

Heart racing, she steeled herself to run, to snatch up Noah’s bundle, to do the unthinkable and abandon him. Save him. Bea would understand…

Mwydyn du, nid ddraig ddu… 

A chorus of voices knelled into her mind. She understood the meaning. Vermin, not a dragon… Whatever that thing was, it was below her dignity to be afraid of it.

She shut her eyes and Sunniva felt the world tilt.

The ringing in her ears stopped. She felt a sense of calm enter her, a sibling to the calm that allowed her to shape. She felt the depth of that stillness, and was caught by it.

Sunniva the Potter opened her eyes, and now saw two men fighting. Their words spoke of money and debts incurred. She balled her fists and felt anger, for they were violating a sacred space. This is what lies on the surface.

Sunniva the Shaper beheld a worm. It was entwined in the hair of a half-decomposed corpse, and a single purple hyacinth grew from the corpse’s heart. This is what lies beneath.

Sunniva drew in breath and growled at worm. Oi! How dare you! This is a bleeding graveyard, not a pub! 

And Dancers howled with delight at her brashness and her wrath. Shaper may yet learn to Dance.

Shaper walked towards corpse, anger in her heart, a light in her hand, and bent down to glare at worm. Out! ‘E don’t have no money for you!

She reached down and pulled worm off corpse. She held worm up to eye and beheld its rot. She could destroy it easily for it was a small thing. Off! Him! Now!

Yet she stayed her hand, and realized her own anger at something so low.

She started laughing. How could she have been so afraid?

And so, not unkindly, Shaper placed worm back on rich earth, away from corpse. Flee, you rotter!

Rot removed, she regarded corpse, and sorrow filled her. What life did this man have before he died? There, ‘e’s run off. Now, how did you fare?

She bent down to smell the hyacinth that grew from the man’s chest. She could smell his regrets, his unrealized dreams, his failed ambitions. Oh, you poor blighter…

“Go home,” Sunniva the Dancer said in a well-practiced register. And she lifted her head from his flower and kissed his skull.

The lantern pulsed, and the darkness relented.

The sky opened above her. Sunniva shielded her eyes from the sight, for it was not hers to see.

The oncoming dawn, which had been holding its breath, exhaled again. Threadway imposed itself back onto matters. 

Sunniva panted twice. She was tense, and wide eyed, and her heart was racing. And she was on the rise and facing the Dancers, her back to the tree. 

There was no sign of the creature or the man anywhere.

Still trying to catch her breath, she stared at the standing stones. For the briefest moment, she had the impression of people dancing... 

The weight of her lantern in her hand snapped her out of the moment. She nearly dropped it in surprise. When did she pick her light up? She didn’t remember grabbing it.

Her attention was drawn towards the tree behind her. She turned to look at it, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just an old oak, shedding its leaves. Only… for the first time it seemed, she actually saw the tree. A gnarled, knotty thing. Angry. 

Her gaze drifted down to the roots. Like fingers…

There was something about those roots. Something deep, almost inviting. Curiosity pulled at her. Maybe if she got a closer look…

But just as she took a step towards the tree, she heard the ringing of a bell somewhere in the city.

The sun was already coming up.

“Shite!”

Her senses slammed back to her and she remembered why she was here. 

Noah!

Her stomach knotted. Oh god! Please, don’t let anything have happened to him.

Bolting back to her blanket, she dropped to her knees and found Noah still wrapped up, safe in his bundle. A weight lifted off of her. Hugging the swaddling blanket, she exhaled, tears almost welling up in relief. 

Heart racing, she looked around again, scared she might still see something. 

But no, it was just her, alone on the hillside, her sheet laid out, her bag sitting to one side. By all rights, it was just another normal morning.

As she sat there, letting herself calm down, she tried to recall exactly what had just happened. The memory had already faded like a dream. Just an impression of having been invited to dance. Or maybe she had broken up a fight? And she was very angry at a worm? None of it made sense. 

Holding Noah protectively against her chest, she glanced between the tree and the stone circle again, trying to bring the vision back, trying to figure out why she had gotten so worked up.

She was here for something else though. She could puzzle about it later.

Calm, Niva. Steady. She closed her eyes. When she felt ready, she opened her eyes again and blew out the lantern.

She retrieved Noah from the swaddling blanket and turned him in her hands. Beatrice’s work. She could tell by the pattern painted on him. The design was otherwise plain. Something the working class might use. 

Entirely appropriate for Noah, based on what she could recall from his contract. She had met him briefly. Just some bloke who needed to get away for a while. He had a nice smile though.

Sunniva concentrated on the cup, and found the spark she was looking for. 

“Hey… hey, time to get up…” A mother rousing her child from a good night’s sleep. Reminding the spark of what it was like to have a body. 

To Sunniva, it always seemed like it took more time to bring somebody back than it actually did. Minutes, not the hours it sometimes felt like. This time though, the spark flared back quicker than she was used to.

But, with the spark now kindled, Sunniva set the teacup next to her on the blanket, leaving it cupped in her hand. A bit of warmth from her to comfort the person coming back. She never watched it happen these days. It had lost its mystique.

When she felt Noah’s back and spine under her fingertips, she realized that Beatrice had done it again. Naked.

“Bea told you it was necessary to take all your clothes off, didn’t she?”

She heard him laugh. “Yeah.”

She sighed, but was already fishing out the blanket and slippers. She chanced a glance at him as she handed them over. As much as she would chastise Bea for her childishness, Niva had to admit… she didn’t mind it this time.

“Thanks. It’s chilly out.” Noah took the blanket and wrapped himself up, while Niva poured out the tea for him.

 “Something warm? It’s black currant.” She held a cup out for him. “Having something tangible, and engaging helps. ”

“Mm, my favorite.” Noah took the cup from her and chuckled, holding it up. “Hard to believe that I was just like that.” A wisp of steam was rising from the cup. He held it up to eye level to take a closer look. “This anybody?”

Sunniva frowned, and shook her head. “No. Just you and me up here.”

“It’s just… I could’ve sworn you did something with another person. Like it felt like it did when Beatrice turned me into…” 

Noah was contemplating the cup, taking care not to spill the tea.

“Uh…” Unnerved, she glanced back at the Dancers, suddenly unsure of herself. And she couldn’t help but notice that she had put herself between Noah and the tree. “N-no. I didn’t do anything like that…” 

Noah shrugged, accepting her answer. “You have a beautiful laugh, by the way.” 

As observed by Professor William Harwood

Transmorphesis, vulgarly termed shaping among the lay population of the Ossenwold, is described herein as the act of taking a human figure and converting them bodily into an inanimate form. Frequently the form is that of a stone, plant, or other natural object, though of late the practice has expanded to forms which are particular to daily life.

The act of Transmorphesis is frequently described by the broader academic community as a particular quirk of folk habit that is endemic to the Ossenwold region. This practice exceeds the narrow compass in which it is usually confined as a subset of folk magic and indigenous religious practices. Indeed, Transmorphesis has spiritual overtones that are frequently absent in the standard observational texts.

I feel it my duty to elevate Transmorphesis to the height usually reserved for formal studies found in the regions with established thaumaturgic traditions. I aim to document the many forms it takes throughout the Ossenwold through survey, interview, and direct observation as a proper student of natural philosophy.

On the Outside World's Understanding

Externally, Threadway is primarily understood as a performing arts center, with a strong secondary reputation as a source of excellent manufactured goods and craft. 

The city is a place that is visited once for the spectacle and described back home as charming and eccentric, though quaint is never used. Transmorphesis is mentioned as a curiosity: "Oh yes, and they have this folk magic thing where people voluntarily become objects. Can you imagine? Very strange, but quite safe by all appearances" and then the conversation moves on.

With regard to the city’s trade craft, it is not difficult to find inferior off-goods in open markets exploiting the Threadway name for the premium value that name commands. These imposters damage the city’s reputation, and without the experience of witnessing a transmorphologist working on a piece, it is difficult to put one’s finger on what makes a good superior. But from personal experience, if you put two otherwise identical goods side by side, the distinction between the two is obvious, though I would be hard pressed to tell you exactly why.

The profound philosophical infrastructure concerning transmorphesis underneath that reputation is largely invisible from the outside. This inconspicuousness quite suits the city’s temperament as a place that demonstrates rather than announces. 

I worry that my observations risk drawing more attention to the city and the practice than transmorphology practitioners would strictly be comfortable receiving. I see this as a necessary consequence for the practice and would allow it to receive the attention needed to be taken seriously. Should the philosophical underpinnings of transmorphic practices be lost, the world will have lost something irreplaceable and unique. The future gnaws at the world in much the same way as the Nidhogg gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil. 

Where Transmorphologists Can Be Found In and Around the Environs of Threadway

According to the Threadway Guild of Transformative Arts, Threadway hosts approximately 260 registered and licensed transmorphologists, with the Ossenwold holding an additional 200 or so that travel according to the changing season. 

A census is taken every summer by headcount at the old Guild headquarters situated in Threadway proper. Participation seems to be voluntary however, and I strongly suspect that actual count may be almost twice as much as what the official records document. 

As the Ossenwold covers approximately 800 to 1,000 square miles, it can be quite difficult to conduct a proper census of transmorphic culture. Individuals may travel and service clusters of remote communities, before returning to Threadway. A number of transmorphologists also find themselves in private employ and may not participate in Threadway’s official counts. 

In reality, most practitioners keep to themselves, though it is unclear whether this is due to reticence about opening up to outsiders, or mere humbleness. (ed. It could be, my dear sir, that you merely lacked a proper introduction.)

On Transmorphic Disciplines 

I identify two forms that the practice seems to take: Traditional Transmorphesis, and Modern Transmorphesis. The former largely concerns itself with natural forms, as stated earlier. Stone, plant, water, bone, as well as animal forms. The latter focuses on manufactured forms including stoneware, glassware, baked goods, and textiles. These lists are intended to be demonstrative and not exhaustive of practice.

Traditional transmorphologists live close to their material source. Stone shapers typically work in quarries, alongside and indistinguishable from other laborers. Every graveyard in the region seems to have a bone transmorphologist who will regularly visit to attend to matters. Of note are the water transmorphologists, who seem to maintain a semi-autonomous relationship with the Guild of Transformation, and who maintain their offices on the Threadgate road outside of the city’s borders. This coincides with the official response offered by the Guild offices.

Modern transmorphologists cluster according to their industry, frequently working out of shared work spaces. A number incorporate to produce the high quality goods that are associated with the Threadway name. The modern transmorphologist's attention to craft is unrivaled in a way that I had not fully appreciated before coming to the city.

Future Explorations

And Where to Find the Better Ones The Showcase Boulevard performers are good. Quite good, in fact. And that's almost the problem. They're good in the exact way that all professional performers are expected to be good. Musicians' melodies and rhythms are pleasant to the ear, played on well-tuned instruments. Spoken word performances are well-rehearsed and dramatic, with proper costumes staging and lighting. 

The performer knows what their audience wants, and delivers it. Their audience knows what they expect, and it’s exactly what they receive. The entertained enjoy a sublime moment, and the entertainer is paid in something more materially grounded. The transaction is clean, capable, and profitable for both parties. 

Across the river Ossen, things get quieter. 

The buskers along the university road still leave hats out, and are genuinely glad when something lands in them. But the hat is almost incidental. 

The young Miss Florence Taylor, with her grandfather’s fiddle, has set up outside a bakery. The light is just right, and there’s something about how the music dances with the bricks that she hasn’t found anywhere else.

The baker's boy, Robert, has started timing his sweeping to coincide with her arrival, which she has noticed and he doesn't know she's noticed. She hides her smile.

A group of law and philosophy students from the university slow down without meaning to. Their normally heated arguments grow quieter, and they will arrive late for their evening plans.

A man – one Herbert Eskridge – walking his dog stops, ostensibly to let the dog sniff at something. Both stay for four songs and enjoy them thoroughly. 

Down the lane, where the lampposts grow a bit further apart and the cool night air starts seeping back in, we can find Ambrose Pierce standing up on a wooden crate. 

Three months ago, he was playing a duet. Him on a concertina, her with a fiddle. Two months ago, he was belting out a song he had written after he had broken up with the love of his life. 

Tonight, however, he’s back to solo performances with his concertina, though he’s added a small jig to the routine.

I close my case in front of a sweets and confections shop belonging to Silas Wunderberg. Mister Wunderberg is a Threadway transplant, but he has thoroughly embraced the city’s spirit. 

Silas prefers to sleep late and works during the day to prepare his goods for sale. As a result, his shop is open later than other sweet shops. Frequently his doors stay open well past midnight and beyond.

Starting every evening, right at dusk, his off-key singing can be heard up and down his street. His voice is a touch too loud and he frequently searches for his high notes. His robust and sometimes ribald singing leaves half his audience laughing while the other half blushes. 

The Queen’s Lion sits on the corner of the Threadgate Road and Pellam Lane. Which is to say it sits precisely where everyone going anywhere interesting has to walk past it. And it is well worth the walk.

Its windows are clean and broad. Its interior is warm and inviting, and infused with the sort of mythic atmosphere that lends charm without being obnoxious about it.

Cedric Pellam claims Pellam Lane as his own. To hear him tell it, his family was once landed gentry but chose to graciously give up their claim because the needs of the city politely asked him to. In exchange, the pub was built in its prominent location with the blessing of the city. The specifics of that claim have grown less convincing over the years, but most people indulge Cedric anyway. Threadway loves its stories.

Now, if you arrive at the Lion before the lamps are lit, you will find it modestly empty. If you wish to speak to Cedric himself, this is the correct and courteous time to arrive. He is reliably behind the bar between five and six, just as the shops are wrapping up business for the day. He will be polishing glasses that do not need polishing, and he will be pretending not to watch the door. Cedric has been pretending to not watch that door for thirty-one years and has not yet fooled anyone, including himself.

At this time of year, the lamplighters walk past at half six, which is also the same time the stew goes on, and the stew is a very good reason to come. I will not describe the stew. That is something you must discover for yourself, assuming the recipe survives Cedric’s current dispute with his supplier, which at the time of this writing remains unresolved. Right now, I have opinions about his supplier, and I am keeping them to myself, and that should be taken as a sign that the matter is more delicate than it appears.

By seven, the room has filled. The regulars take their usual seats. Shop owners mostly, but a handful of shapers and a group of philosophy students from the university —their arguments take over the pub sometimes; lately, it’s been about the ethics of shaping. That leaves any passers-through or tourists to take whatever is left, though Cedric is always quick to find a spot should somebody ask.

There is one stool in particular that belongs to a woman named Henrietta Marsh, though no placard marks her ownership.

Hettie has been sitting on that stool every Thursday evening for the better part of six years. She makes small talk with Cedric, and Cedric makes small talk with Hettie. Their conversations are light, and as warm as anything else in the pub.

One Thursday, Hettie did not sit there, nor was she present at the pub itself.

The following Thursday, Cedric, without being asked, moved the stool six inches to the left. When Hettie arrived, she sat on it and said nothing and neither did he. But she did make it a point of moving the stool back to its usual place.

This is the kind of thing I mean when I say the Lion is worth the walk.

At this time, I have not told you anything about the Lion’s music, nor am I going to tonight. The music deserves its own entry, and this story has already told itself. The tea is cold, besides.