Beneath the Tapestry’s Glow: VERSION II by Adonai Kirabo

What the eyes embrace, the soul must always question. 

At the edge of a jagged cliff, where land surrendered to the boundless sea, the Artisan dwelled in solitude. Within the vast, almost otherworldly expanse of a cave, they wove in silence, their existence untethered from the world of men. Towering mountains and an endless forest shielded the entrance, obscuring the line between myth and reality. Beyond the reach of sunlight, time had no dominion; days and nights blurred into an eternal gloom. No human voice had ever disturbed their stillness, and the Artisan had never sought to hear one. 

No one knew when the Artisan began their task. 

They could have lived a hundred years. A thousand. Perhaps they had watched the birth of the world, or emerged amid its second great war. Few ever attempted the perilous journey to find them, and fewer still survived. Yet those who did claimed that at the journey’s end lay the Golden Tapestry, an artifact of legend, woven with threads of silver and gold that shimmered as if it were alive. Some swore it granted divine healing; others believed it revealed one’s fate. Those who claimed to have gazed upon it described its patterns as unearthly, stories woven in a language beyond comprehension. They whispered that the tapestry was a reflection of a perfect world, one that allowed mortals to see the true beauty of existence. 

Most dismissed these accounts as mere fables, the inventions of madmen and storytellers. 

But then, 108 years ago, a woman named Thema Adjeyi charted a course to the Artisan’s domain. It took her fourteen years to complete, at the cost of her right arm and the lives of half her crew. Her triumph ignited a fervor, birthing the Passage for the True Light, a pilgrimage undertaken by thousands each year. They came seeking absolution, transcendence, purpose. The Ugly, the Poor, the Unloved, the Unsatisfied, all aboard vessels that promised salvation at the journey’s end. Kings sat beside beggars, merchants alongside thieves. Earthly differences lost meaning when all sought the same deliverance. 

For 108 years, they came. For 108 years, the winds and stars guided them unerringly to the Artisan’s doorstep. No ship was ever lost. No voyage ever failed. How easily mankind has always followed, never questioning the hand that leads them. The once silent cave became a place of worship, a temple of yearning, as the world spilled its sins at the Artisan’s feet. 

Yet the Artisan remained unseen, their hands moving with the rhythmical heartbeat of the cosmos. A dance performed for no audience, an act of creation as old as time. Spindles of silver and gold lay scattered across the cave floor, glowing faintly as though infused with starlight. At the heart of it all stood the loom, an impossible construct, carved with patterns that defied human understanding, its angles shifting as if rejecting the rules of geometry. 

And none dared to venture beyond the Golden Tapestry’s edge. 

Though of course, man must develop their own stories for the unexplainable. Some believed the Artisan was an angel, sent to cleanse humanity of its sins. Others claimed the cavern held no Artisan at all, but instead concealed a gateway to the first world, an untouched realm before time, where existence had yet to be tainted by suffering. A few simply chose not to believe in the concept of the Artisan completely, and insultingly searched for the answer in science. 

Yet, for all their theories, none knew the truth. 

Thousands of seekers. And none of them truly saw or understood. Millions of believers. Each with their own desires, fears, and dreams. Billions of souls. All chasing redemption in a lie. 

They did not know the true nature of the Golden Tapestry. 

Every touch, every lingering gaze, allowed the tapestry to take from them. Their very essence unraveled, absorbed into the woven threads. They left believing they had been transformed, not realizing they had merely been emptied. To the Others, somewhere beyond the stars, this was no crime. The extraction of a soul in exchange for the illusion of perfection was a fair trade. After all, had they not willingly sought it? 

It took millennia for the first whispers of doubt to form. To question the flawless euphoria. 

And even then, it was far too late. 

Too many lives had been taken, too many souls fed to the loom. The pilgrims were nothing but hollow shells, their supposed enlightenment nothing more than a meticulously crafted illusion. None who had seen or touched the tapestry could ever be reclaimed. 

And still, the winds and our hands guide new souls to the Artisan, promising salvation where only emptiness awaits.