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Chapter 28


“I want to work on this one,” Ivy said, all but leaning over Aaron as he lay on his back on a bench, screwing a bent wire to the side of the loom that would control one of the shuttles on Loom Number Two. “You’ll snug it in as tight as tight for me, won’t you?” She wriggled just a little closer to him, her leg brushing his. Her bodice was laced more tightly than usual, squeezing her modest assets up provocatively against the material of her camisole.

The men in the shed laughed. Aaron kept his scarlet face underneath the machine and concentrated on his task. She was carbonating his blood. Not that he objected, exactly.

“You’d best watch yourself, girl,” Master Walter said, taking his turn on the second completed loom under Martin’s watchful eye. Fred had the third loom’s warp partially strung with his sleying hook. He intended to begin on a full bolt on Loom Two as soon as Aaron was finished, despite what Ivy wanted. “Mistress Margaret said he understands more than he can say.”

“He’s coming along well enough,” Ivy protested. “Except that he keeps mixing up warp and weft, and he says ‘varp’ and ‘veft.’ He knows the difference, but I think he’s teasing me.”

“That seems to go both ways, then,” Lily Dale said with a smirk, winding weft bobbins with rose-colored thread. Ivy stuck her tongue out at her friend.

Daniel Taylor sat at the first loom, his eyes fixed on his work. Aaron listened to the soothing rhythm as the shuttles ran back and forth. Daniel turned the cloth beam and handled the beater like the expert he was, adjusting his speed a tiny bit at a time. Aaron was pretty pleased with the smooth way the machine was running. Not a harsh sound anywhere in it. The aqualator was doing its job, lifting and lowering the heddles as the shuttles zipped back and forth.

Aaron had taught himself to look at weaving critically, both by reading the books that Miz Mailey had left for Miz Margaret to read, and by a kind of apprenticeship under Herr Oberdorn. If he was right, Mr. Daniel would be finished with the bolt he was working on by the time the sun went down, or by noon the next day at the latest. In fact, all the weavers had adapted to the change in the looms really quickly, a lot faster than they kept saying they would. Partly, Aaron thought it was competition, with themselves as well as with each other. But it was also because they were on fire for the idea of the new pattern. Now that he had seen the actual cloth, he understood Miz Margaret’s dream, and they shared it. The weavers, for all the protests of the night before, wanted to be the first in the world to make this brocade.

The initial piece that had been woven, about three feet long, was bound off and pinned to the wall of the shed for all to see. The weavers, one and all, couldn’t help but go over and touch it, turn it to see the back, and comment to one another on the way the weave went together. Aaron was pretty pleased with himself for getting Miz Margaret’s design just the way she wanted it. She had an expert’s eye, just like he did for a page of code. Weaving and programming did have a lot in common.

Once he got the connections made, Aaron crawled out from underneath the loom to hook up the pipes. That part of the design always took a little adjusting. The edge of the pipe slipped and a spray of water hit him in the face.

“Turn it off!” he shouted, feeling for the stopcock. He sputtered and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Everyone laughed at him.

“Don’t drink too much, son,” Martin called through the wall in Amideutsch. “We don’t have a lot of medicine to stop you up again if you catch something.”

Ivy’s dad said much the same thing, except in English. Aaron was looking forward to not having to pretend not to speak the language himself. He rubbed his face, almost grateful for the cold water cooling his hot cheeks.

He tightened the stopcock and went back to check all the connections between the aqualator block and the loom.

“Okay, Dad! It’s hooked up.”

Martin returned to the workroom, dusting his hands together. Master Fred had finished his work on Loom Number Three and made his way toward Loom Number Two. Ivy started to sit down at it, but Master Matthew pulled up the stool, keeping it away from her. He gave her a stern look. She seemed dismayed, but made way at once for her father. At a wave from Fred, she retreated to the side of the room with the apprentices. She’d told Aaron herself that Loom Number Two was his special pet machine, and no one used it without his word, not even his own daughter.

The older man took hold of the beater and gestured impatiently at the Americans.

“Make it go, then,” he said. Martin turned the little brass handle, and water began to dribble through the aqualators. In a moment, the shuttles started to fly. Fred pulled the beater toward him with a thud, then pushed it back again. Within a handful of passes, he fell into the rhythm, and the cloth began to grow on the loom.

“I wonder if playing music would keep them on the beat,” Aaron said to Martin. “Maybe something with a steady beat like “All Together Now”?”

“Oh, no, boy,” his father said, with a look at the others to make sure no one could understand them. “I warned you when you packed that record player that it was to be kept out of sight. We’re risking enough just by being here.”

Aaron sighed. “I’d have liked being able to listen to music while I’m working.”

“No! You know better. Don’t get Miz Margaret in trouble. She’s trusting us. Don’t go too far.”

Aaron sighed. “I won’t, Dad.”

“Need to refill the shuttles,” Daniel called.

One of the apprentices dropped what he was doing and ran to turn off the water. The shuttles slowed to a halt. The boy plucked the two empty bobbins from their “boats,” and hurried to the big spools near the wall to wind fresh thread into them. Master Blackford came over to watch him as he clipped the ends and set them back where they belonged.

Aaron watched, realizing how much work went into something simple, like a length of cloth to make one piece of clothing. So, this is what the world looked like before the Industrial Revolution. His history teacher was expecting a paper on the comparison as soon as he got back.

The guild master had been underfoot since early morning. Aaron had seen the avid look in his eyes as he sized up the looms and their new attachments. It reminded him of the way his friends eyed each other’s computers or collectibles. Master Blackford wanted these devices, too, as soon as they could be imported. He saw the possibilities, just like Miz Margaret did. Master Blackford was being converted to a modern man. The other masters were more than a little afraid of change, but even they could see money in the new cloth. Master Blackford saw a lot more. Aaron longed to ask him what was on his mind, and maybe discuss what other applications he could design for them. Maybe after the de Beauchamps made enough money, his next programming job could be for the local guild. From the man’s fancy clothes and gold jewelry, Master Blackford looked like he could afford it. Aaron would have loved to make enough to buy his mother some jewelry, or bring home some of the nice fabric the weavers were making. Not the brocade, not yet. Miz Margaret had plans for every piece for the foreseeable future.

Miz Margaret herself flitted around, checking over each of the looms as Aaron and Martin finished fiddling with them. Aaron didn’t realize, not really, until he was there, how much she had risked on him and his skills. Though Sir Timothy was generous to a fault with hospitality, it wasn’t without an eye to keeping everything in balance. Aaron was sorry then that he had charged Margaret anything for his coding. After all, he had learned a lot that he could take away from learning to program looms and use it for other applications. For her sake, he vowed to make sure nothing would go wrong.

But, of course, it did.

Mr. Fred had no trouble keeping up with the rhythm of the aqualators. He fixed a frowning stare on the shuttles, and Aaron saw his free hand twitch again and again. He must be doing all he could not to slam the shuttles himself. But Fred was wary of all the wires. He kept adjusting his shoulders so as not to interfere with the mechanism. Aaron knew how he could widen the space and adjust the tension on the wires, which almost sang their frustration, but every time he started to move toward Fred, the older man snarled at him like a guard dog. Oh, well, he could wait until Fred stopped, and fix it for the next day.

Even though Mr. Fred seemed cranky, he kept nodding at the growing breadth of fabric. A little smile crooked the ends of his mouth every time another feature of the pattern appeared on the field of red, a leaf here, a petal there. When the motif had finished forming, Fred put his lower lip out in what looked like an expression of satisfaction. Everyone noticed his expressions but didn’t draw attention. They all seemed to know him pretty well.

Aaron had to admit that at a distance, the woolen cloth looked as smooth as the silk Miz Margaret had shown him. Master Fred was the best of the weavers he had watched so far. Small wonder the others put up with his grouchy attitude.

Clump, clump. Swish, swish. Creak, creak. Thud, thud. The shuttles flew from one side to the other and back again, propelled by the framework Aaron had set up. The cloth being wound up on the big spool in front of Fred’s chest grew steadily. There was no way he could overtake Daniel’s progress, but he wouldn’t be far behind him, despite having started over an hour later. Aaron found himself grinning as he worked to attach the mechanism to Loom Number Three. Ivy crouched beside him, pretending to pick up pieces of lint. She sure was a pretty girl, smart and ambitious.

“Hey, there, my friend,” Master Matthew called. “Fred, tha’s makin’ an eerie noise.”

“Shush,” Fred snapped at him. “It’s nothin’. The loom’s old. My granda made it with his own hands a hundred years ago. It’s bound to sound as creaky as my old bones.”

“And it complains as much as you do! Hold back. No need to race her as though she was a yearling!”

Fred lifted his eyes from his work to glare at the other master. “There’s naught wrong with my loom, I tell ye! Despite the blacksmith’s construction attached there’n. It’s fine!”

Master Matthew shook his head and retreated. But Aaron started paying attention to the noises. The heddles were shaking in their framework. The wobble wasn’t normal, although he had to admit his experience was limited. It wasn’t the fault of the aqualator. He saw Miz Margaret close by and wriggled out from under Loom Number Three.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Something’s going loose in the loom. I think it’s coming apart. Mr. Matthew can tell there’s a problem, too. Everyone seems to hear it but Mr. Fred. Please make him stop so I can take a look at it.”

“Master Wilkinson,” Margaret said, in a gentle and conciliatory tone, moving toward Loom Number Two. He favored her with a momentary glance and went back to concentrating on the shuttles. “Your work is exemplary, but I believe that Aaron needs to make adjustments in the mechanism.”

“It’s workin’ fine, I tell ye!” Fred said. But his back looked tense. The loom was making some alarming noises.

“I beg you to slow down,” she pleaded.

“I don’t need to slow down. I know this old girl as if she was my wife.”

Aaron smelled something burning. He hurried to the stopcock to turn it off.

“Don’t ye touch that!” the weaver snapped. But almost as soon as he spoke, the tension pulling on the frame caused it to creak like a car going around a tight bend. The shaft harness containing the heddles lurched out of place. The speed was too much for the old machine. The warp suddenly flew upward, tangling the shuttles in the half-finished cloth. Attached to the moving framework, they tried to pull themselves loose. Aaron twisted the stopcock to close off the flow of water, but it was too late. The old loom seemed to collapse in on itself, then burst with a sound like a gunshot. Pieces flew outward. Fred ducked, but a splinter of wood the length of his hand grazed his scalp. Margaret turned away in time, but was pelted by small pieces. The heddles sprang loose like pickup sticks and hung on the warp threads running through them.

“Curse ye, now see what you’ve done!” Fred shouted. “Look at my old girl!” Blood ran from the cut over his ear. Ivy grabbed a handful of lint and came to press it against the wound on her father’s head. He ran his hands over the ruined loom, looking distraught. “Curse ye, Germans! If it weren’t for your infernal machine, there’d be no problem here. Oh, poor old girl. Poor thing!”

“We can fix her, Fred,” Matthew said, kindly. He gathered up a handful of small parts and started to sort through them. “She’s from the last century. She never thought to be a modern lass.”

“I meant to have Alder take her over one day,” Fred said, laying his hand on one part after another, as if mourning them. “And now look at her.”

“I couldn’t get her to go like that for me, Dad,” Alder Wilkinson said, soothingly. “You’re the only one with the touch. No one else could get the work out of her that you have. She’d sit up and beg for you, but none of us can run her without having snags. She’s too tetchy. Look what you’ve done already.” He patted the length of rose-adorned cloth, already three yards long. “See, Dad? We can fix it. It’ll be as good as the day Great-Grandad made it.”

“I am so sorry, Herr Fred,” Aaron said.

“We’ll do what we can to make it right,” Martin added.

Fred waved them away. “She’ll never be the same again.”

Master Blackford came over to inspect the damage.

“Let’s get her out of the way, then, Fred,” he said, with sympathy. “Apart from the broken upright, there’s nothing that can’t be mended.” He looked up. “We can take one of the other looms and put it here in the meanwhile. Come ahead, man.”

“This is what happens when ye try wild ideas,” Master Cedric said, sourly. “The old ways are the best ways.”

“I am very sorry,” Aaron repeated. He tried to help move the pieces of the broken loom, but the other weavers waved him off. He sent Ivy a helpless glance, but she only gave him a sad smile. Her brother directed her to pick up the scattered pieces and put them in a pail.

Together, the apprentices and journeymen hoisted the frame and brought it to the end of the workroom near the open door.

Fred’s son, Samuel, unpegged the splintered piece of frame and examined it. “Ashwood, a hundred years old,” he said. “It’d bend if it was younger, but it just broke under the pressure. I’ll cut a new piece for it, and it’ll be good as new.”

Aaron felt as shattered as the loom. He knew he wasn’t to blame, but he felt guilty.

Miz Margaret was kind. “Keep working on the others, please, Aaron. It’ll be all right. Please. We need to keep going. It was an accident.”

He felt terrible. The Wilkinson family wouldn’t look at him, except for Ivy, who shot apologetic glances over her shoulder. The other weavers, though, were impatient for him to get the rest of the looms updated. Some went to help Fred and his family fix the old loom, but just as many encouraged Aaron to get back to work.

“I want my chance!” Mr. Matthew said, clapping the teen on the back. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when anything new came out of this old barn, and I want my name in the books as one of the first to do it. Ye should be proud, boy.”

The truth was, Aaron was proud of what had been accomplished. Taking a deep breath, he went to put the last connections on Loom Number Three. He turned on the stopcock and ran a test, and the heddles lifted and lowered as they were supposed to. The wires that would control the shuttles danced as if eager to get going. It didn’t creak at all.

“That’s the stuff,” Matthew said. “Just don’t make mine burst apart, eh?” But his eyes twinkled.

Aaron felt sheepish.

Nein, it vill be right.”

“Ach, ye almost spoke the decent tongue! Come now, boys, let’s get her moving!

Matthew’s apprentices helped him load the bobbins into the shuttles. The master weaver sat down on the stool and nodded to Aaron to turn on the aqualator. The shuttles started crossing the warp.

“There ye go, boy. It’ll be right.” Matthew nodded to his journeymen. “Help him take one of the idle looms and put it where Fred’s ought to be.”

The young men went to fetch the nearer of the unaltered looms. Aaron hurried ahead of them to shift all the unused aqualator parts to a corner where they wouldn’t get stepped on.

“Can’t you put these together?” Lemuel, one of the apprentices, asked, as Aaron stacked the loose trays.

Nein,” he said, indicating the broken sections. “Leak.”

“Ah, well,” the boy said. “With eight akalabors, we’d be flying like gulls, and Sir Timothy would be as proud as Lucifer.”

Aaron bit his tongue, unable to explain in make-believe pidgin English why comparing their employer to the Devil was not much of a compliment, but he just grinned, shook his head, and set to work.

Together, they moved a loom into place that had been occupied by the broken one. Aaron took one more look at the damaged aqualator tray. Each of the broken ones had an unusually thick gate close to the drainage hole, which meant that it would slow down the flow into the one underneath it. The crack in the plaque ran alongside it. He’d have to send a message to St. Malo to fix the mold when he got back to Grantville, for when Miz Margaret ordered more. Maybe they could find a local guy who worked in ceramics to make a mold here to cast a replacement?

He shook his head over the rejected pieces. His long suit was programming and software design, not hardware. From Herr Trelli, he knew that clay shrank when you fired it, but how much? What proportions? How, when he wasn’t supposed to be able to speak English, could he explain to a local potter how to make an aqualator tray that would fit into the stacks?

Frustrated, he went back to what he did know how to do.



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