Who: The Moirae [narrative] When: June 1968 - April 1970 What: Clotho loses her way.
You believe in fate, I guess I believe in consequences Flapping butterflies and photographs It's not karmic destiny Just consequence devoid of meaning Meaning makes us miss the issue anyway
It is hard to run away when the two people you seek to avoid comprise two thirds of your very soul. Such was Clotho's dilemma. The Moirae had three faces, three forms, three personas with their own responsibilities -- but they were ultimately one goddess, as bound to each other as they were to the Task.
She could keep her thoughts inaccessible to her sisters, but she could not conceal her presence, nor stop them from reaching out. For the most part they respected her privacy, but every so often she would feel their minds brush against her own-- Lachesis' usually, full of concern and projecting gentle greetings and questions that were never answered. Atropos said nothing at all, simply lingered at the edge of Clotho's consciousness, radiating disapproval.
And always, always she could feel the ghostly impression of rough thread beneath her fingertips and the solid weight of the distaff in her hand. It didn't matter how far she took her physical form from the Loom, a part of her laboured there still; a pair of insubstantial, barely visible hands that kept the spindle moving.
Clotho was as tied to her destiny as any hapless mortal.
For the first time in her existence, she hated that.
She met Asher in San Francisco; a sandy-haired, mellow-minded kid of twenty or so who had arrived at the commune with nothing but a couple of bucks in his pocket and a guitar slung across his back.
"Figured I'd know where I was going when I got there," he told her later with a broad shrug.
A wry smile twisted Clotho's lips. "You thought Fate would intervene." It had been a throwaway remark, sarcastic; she was thinking more about her own situation than his. But Asher inclined his head, and seemed to consider it seriously before replying.
"Well, yes," he said slowly, "and no. I think we make our own fate, you know? You've gotta take the chances when you see 'em."
So Clotho -- or Clover, as she was now being called -- took a chance. She pooled her cash with the money Asher had saved from busking, and with it they bought a car. It was, admittedly, a piece of shit, more likely fourth- or fifth-hand than second, but Asher promised her it would get them to where they wanted to go.
It crawled and coughed its way through Oregon and Idaho, staggered across the Wyoming-Nebraska border before finally giving up the ghost in Iowa. They'd hitch-hiked the rest of the way to New York, but the destination had more than made up for any discomforts during the journey.
Was it love, what the two of them had shared? Clotho would never really know for sure.
She knew that he adored her, worshipped her in his own way. And he made her happy, that was undeniable. She loved his quick wit, the intelligence so many others overlooked beneath his slacker exterior. She loved the intensity that could suffuse his blue stare, loved his passion, the way he cared so readily and so deeply. Maybe that was enough.
But in a small part of her mind, she knew too that the relationship was not-- could never be an equal one, for even if Asher knew who she truly was, what she was, he would always and forever be a child to her.
Asher was almost as confused as she.
("Ash-- no--"
He drew back, puzzled. "What's wrong?"
"It's not-- I mean, I'm not--" Clotho swallowed.
"It's okay. We can take it slowly if you want," he said quickly, misreading her anxiety.
The Maiden winced. "No, it's not... that. Exactly. It's--" Argh. "I'm... saving myself."
It took a moment for him to get her meaning. "For what? Marriage?" She could hear the note of incredulity in his voice.
"...something like that.")
The weather grew warmer, and the two of them moved north to Bethel. After Woodstock they scored a ride with some friends of thirty-six-or-so hours who were headed out west.
Clotho, please. Lachesis urged her. You have to stop this foolishness. It will destroy us all.
Foolishness? Clotho bristled.
You know what I mean. She could hear Lachesis' exasperation. And you know it is foolishness. Spinner, you of all people understand the folly in fighting what's fated. You know that to do so is only to hasten the inevitable.
Do I? I mean, do I truly? Clotho's mental voice seemed to grow thoughtful. I'll tell you what I know, 'Chesis. I know this isn't the old country. I know we're old and we're weak and we're forgotten. Rod and distaff and shears-- they're meaningless here. This country weaves its own fate, sister. These days, it's all we can do to keep pace.
They didn't bother her for a while after that, perhaps unsure how to counter her words, perhaps surmising that she was better left alone for the time being.
But for all her bravado, that insubstantial part of her lingered still in DC by the Loom, working tirelessly over spindle and distaff.
Halfway to Texas, Clotho's hands grew cramped and callused, and still they prickled as though touched by rough yarn.
It was December. They had missed Altamont by a matter of days in a stroke of what had seemed at the time to be bad luck. Asher was talking about heading east to New York. Clotho, rather anxious to avoid the coast, wanted to go back south. The question was moot anyway, until they either scraped together the cash to get the van repaired or hitched a ride with somebody else.
They were staying in an flat belonging to one of Asher's friends. It was claustrophobic living with the three of them -- the place was cramped enough for one person -- but it beat camping out in the car.
And it was here that Clotho came to a decision.
She was acutely self-conscious as she stepped out of the bathroom, battling the instinct to cover herself. "Asher..." she began diffidently.
He turned.
And smiled. "I thought you were saving yourself."
"For what?" Clotho smiled crookedly, echoing the question he had asked himself, months earlier.
Asher hesitated. "Clover, are you--"
Clotho cleared the space between them, silencing him. "Ash, please. I want this."
For the first time in centuries, Clotho felt something other than wool beneath her fingertips.
In a small, rented house in DC, an ancient spindle shuddered and a pair of ghostly hands were stilled.
There was a thread taking form, a gathering cluster of fibres, each of them as fine as a spider's silk, gradually coalescing. It was fragile yet, vulnerable to the merest straining or warping of the Loom-- some would question whether it could be properly called a life at all. But it was a beginning.
And Clotho, who was Spinner and Creator and Life-giver and yet could birth no life of her own, found her belly swelling with child.
Asher liked Angel, Starlight and Summer. Clotho, more nostalgic for her homeland, favoured Ariadne, Chrysanthe and Khryseis.
What are you doing, Maiden? Lachesis whispered in a mental voice tight with anxiety.
Clotho couldn't answer. The truth was, she had no idea. She didn't know what was going to happen -- as far as she was aware, the pregnancy shouldn't have even been possible. She was the Maiden, suspended in eternal youth and virginity; child-bearing was Lachesis' due, not hers.
But the more the tenuous life-string took form, the more certain she became that this was right.
It happened in one horribly sudden moment. Long had she seen Atropos wield her shears, but never before had Clotho felt that terrifying chill of the abhorred twin blades descending. Those scissors had cut down heroes, had severed even the threads of the gods. The spider-silk string of a foetus provided no resistance at all.
Clotho knew even before the bleeding began that it was all over.
When Asher found -- an hour later? two? -- her she was huddled on the floor of the bathroom hugging her knees, her face swollen red with tears that wouldn't stop flowing.
"Clotho," she sobbed bitterly as he held her in his arms. "Her name was Clotho."
The two elder Fates gazed down at the severed puff of fibres, barely substantial enough to call a thread.
"She'll never forgive you," said Lachesis quietly.
Atropos' expression was unreadable. "At least she'll be alive to hate me."
It had to be done. Even Clotho knew it, however deeply buried the understanding was beneath the suffocating grief.
The birthing would have destroyed her, not only physically but on a far more fundamental level. No longer Maiden but Mother she would have simply ceased to be: an alien to the Loom, obsolete, edged out of office by her newborn daughter.
Atropos had saved her life.
Clotho hated her for that.
A presence brushed her mind with uncharacteristic hesitance. I'm sorry. It was the Crone. They were the first words she had spoken to Clotho since their parting.
"Go. Away." She said it aloud, her voice frosty and hard with resentment.
Atropos wavered, but did not budge. She was silent for a long while, and by the time she spoke again Clotho had half-imagined her gone.
Hate me, if it makes it easier to bear. Curse me, ignore me, do whatever you have to do, but I'll not say I regret the part I played. I couldn't lose you, sister. I couldn't let it happen.
Clotho buried her head beneath her pillow.
It was only when she felt Atropos withdraw that she allowed herself to cry.
It took almost five years before she could stomach the thought of facing them again. She arrived home without warning or fanfare, simply slipping in through the back door one winter's morning as the sun made its tentative ascent.
Her sisters were there. They had been waiting. Just as they always had.
Everyone will alter everyone Will alter Everyone will alter everyone Will alter everyone