Unwed Widow

By Erik Harssan

Two investigators investigate what is man-made, and what is not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Harssan
• Release date: Feb 26, 2015

Erik Harssan

Slayer of windmills

Book preview

Unwed

Widow

by

Erik

Harssan

Copyright 2014 Erik Harssan

Smashwords Edition

Like a master chef presenting his finest dessert, the adjunct brought forth a shiny piece of fabric. It lay lightly over his raised fingers, and folded in smooth curves that glowed in luxurious sheens of gray. The four corners hung free and wafted with the weak drafts from the windows, and when the hand moved, they followed with the delayed, supple grace of a spider web.

Everyone agrees, said the adjunct. This was not made by men.

He eyed the overseer, his superior, seated behind the grand desk.

Amazing, said the overseer, observing the sample with interest. Is it as flimsy as it looks?

Not at all, said the adjunct.

He pinched two of the corners, and proceeded to twist, tug and wring them both ways. His fingers paled with the effort, but produced no ripping sounds. He spread the fabric onto the desktop, and it evened itself out, without the slightest rift or wrinkle crinkling the smooth texture.

We put it to through some fairly destructive tests, said the adjunct, and its tensile strength is simply tremendous, for something so fine.

The overseer reached forward and stroked the fabric with a curious finger.

Remarkable, he mumbled, and rubbed gently on a corner. A spring leaf feels coarse by comparison.

As his eyes came closer, silvery bands flowed and bent and pooled fluidly over the fabric.

It’s more of a membrane, he said, admiringly, than a compressed crosshatch of threads.

Yes, by now everyone agrees it’s quite unique, said the adjunct. That’s why it fetches the price it does. This little sample on your desk cost us one week’s budget.

The overseer sat back, and his strained eyes sought the windows, relaxing their focus to the pleasant pastels of another sunset. His upper-floor office gave him a front-row view of the sky, only bounded below by a jumble of roofs, domes and some spiky turrets.

What did the weavers have to say? he asked.

They call it sorcery, sir, said the adjunct. There was no doubt in their conclusion: Whoever made this is not human. He raised a finger to elaborate further. However, they found the thread pattern to be familiar. It could potentially be produced by a human loom, whereas the thread itself is the real mystery, and was by no means spun by human hands, the weavers say.

The older man faced the sunset thoughtfully.

As the city’s principal overseer of non-human affairs and infiltrations, he carried heavy responsibilities. It was his solemnly sworn duty to track down, expose and ultimately put a stop to any non-human activity within the realm’s borders. An active trade in any merchandize not made by men qualified as a clear warning sign, either as an initial symptom of creeping foreign encroachment, or a manifestation of an ongoing and growing infestation.

It is by all means an investigation-worthy piece, said the overseer, after some deliberation. But we have so many other matters to attend to.

The adjunct folded his hands behind his back.

I suggest we put the pigeon case to rest for now, he said. And give this peculiar cloth our top priority.

But there are so many black pigeons, said the overseer. It must mean something.

What if we put the apprentices on that case, offered the adjunct. "The pigeons’ coloring is certainly a