When the stranger decided to take a stroll through Astolat, it was market day and bustling with locals and tourists alike, the latter seeking out gifts to take back to loved ones beyond oceans of land, sea and sky.
Stall holders called out, advertising their wares, all in the most excellent quality, rare, but at bargain prices. Barrels, recently painted in ancient trade names, wood and lettering carefully distressed, were sold as the genuine article. Handcrafted long dresses, spun with wildflower designs, hung alongside skirts and shirts, and bedspreads to brighten distant winter dreams.
Shawl butterflies floated high from metal bars, stretching fringed multicoloured wings in welcome. The ice cream sellers did a roaring trade in the sweltering heat. Face painters sent forth human cats with painted whiskers while, nearby, young girls had their long hair plaited with ribbons.
Hawkers hawked, clowns tumbled, musicians strummed, and the storyteller ended each scene with a ripple of her harp.
Guy pushed his way through the crowds, careful to keep his hand in his pocket next to his wallet. He’d arrived in Astolat the previous evening, tying up his narrowboat under a gold and lilac sky. The shimmering waterway had led him here, a road paved in liquid crystal and fringed green, a place to float dreams as delicate and wistful as paper boats.
“There’s a market every Saturday,” the man at the canal-side pub had told him. “But the big ones, they’re on holidays, and around the quarter and cross-quarter days. You know, May Day, Halloween, the Solstices and such. They go on for a week. So you’ve come at the right time.”
It was almost Midsummer and hotter than Guy could remember. He was encased in a bodystocking of moisture, a liquid skin that once wiped away only grew back again, springing up in droplets that ran and merged like mercury. He longed to immerse himself in cold water and considered escaping from the crowd to the cool shade of the nearest bar when he saw them: two long stalls draped in tapestries of jewelled colours, shot through with silver and gold.
And standing on top of one of the stalls, below the sign that proclaimed ‘Gobelin Market’, a dwarf called to the milling crowds, pointing to the milkmaid of a girl behind the counter, introducing her as his wife, Guy noted, to the smirks of one or two of the male tourists.
One man lifted his camera, freezing the miniature hawker forever in a sweeping bow.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the stallholder cried. “Have you ever beheld such magnificent work as you see before you today? You madam.” He pointed to one of the tourists. “Would I be right in saying you’re from the other side of the great pond?”
Guy turned to see a woman shielding her eyes and nodding with a smile.
“From Minnesota,” the man beside her shouted out.
“And as fine a place as Minnesota is, have you ever seen such tapestries as these in your home state? Such craft, such workmanship. Look if you will, ladies and gentlemen, these needlepoint canvases are no amateur effort. You won’t find these designs in a kit, no indeed. Each one is an original. That’s right, an original. And one of them could be yours.” He clapped his hands as more people stopped before the stalls.
Guy’s gaze passed over the intricately stitched flora, fauna and fruits until his eyes fell on the long tapestry depicting a series of scenes centred around a black-clad knight. Each scene was enclosed in a circular stitched frame.
“Now,” the market seller continued, “you may be wondering if I or my wife are responsible for these beauties. Well, I wish we could claim credit for that, but my talents lie elsewhere.” At this point he swaggered across the stall, his booted heels scraping the wooden board.
Guy laughed and the crowd roared.
“And my lovely wife here, she has her talents too, though not with a needle.” He winked. “No, the lady in question, the lovely lady I may say with no disrespect to my wife here, is not with us today. A bit on the shy side, she is. Prefers to leave the business side to me.
“Now this lady, Elaine of Astolat she’s called, lives in a tower house. That’s where she does all her work. And it’s old, that place. Over six hundred years old. Drafty too, if you ask me, and a bugger to heat. Pardon the French, ladies. Now I can see you’re all trying to picture the place, so let me elaborate. There’s a tower that extends out of the main house on each side of its four sides. Call it a cruciform shape – a cross of towers on a square.
“And in the centre of each tower, there’s a large window. Huge they are. And right before these windows, oh, a good few feet back, she has these great round mirrors. Bigger than she is and mounted high enough to be level with the bottom of the window. All four rooms have stone walls covered in great tapestries. Done by her own mother, God rest her soul. And there’s a chair by each window, with plush red cushions. And she sits there, at whichever window she’s working at, with her tapestry frame in front of her. And everything in her canvases, all the pictures, they come from what she’s seen in her mirrors or her dreams. But never, never ladies and gentlemen, does she ever venture out of doors with a sketch book or take any inspiration from what isn’t visible from her dreams or her mirrors.
“Now what do you think about that?
“And before you ask if she’s agoraphobic, the answer is no. She is an artist. And behold, these are the sights that have passed before her mirror. Observe the circular frame on each canvas. Done in ornamental stitching. Gobelin stitch, byzantine, florentine… names to stir a fancy or two, eh? And this here, that’s tent stitch. Very common that one, but not the way she does it. Look at this gold thread weaving through. Mark the juxtaposition of colours, like jewels in a treasure chest.
“Yes, she has a fine eye for landscapes but is just as good at people. Look at this one here, the lady with her head turned away and the ball of wool in her hand. See the way the thread hangs loosely here to the floor and winds its way out of the picture? But look here, a spider’s web stitched in the same colour. Could the lady be Elaine herself? I’ll not be the one to tell you that.
“Now these children playing in a barley field… you can almost feel the wind swirling through the sheaves. And look at the way she has captured the rippling of the water here. That’s the canal that runs near her place. And that’s my wife, Sarah, taking in the sun. But it’s for art, ladies and gentlemen. My Sarah’s a shy girl mostly. Aren’t you darling?”
The woman in question put her hands on her hips and let out a belly laugh.
“Is she single then?” one man asked.
“I told you already, she’s my wife.”
“No, Elaine!”
“Ah.” The hawker assumed a solemn expression. “Crossed in love she was, once upon a time. Tied a love knot in her hair when he went, she did. Well, she thought he was coming back. She was leaving it there for him to take out. But he never returned. And she hasn’t combed it out since. I mean, she combs the rest of her hair, on a regular basis, I do assure you. Hangs right down to her waist it does. Beautiful dark hair. Now there’s something for you gentlemen to dream about. No, no! I’m only referring to the single gentlemen, ladies. Hand on heart.”
A man next to Guy stepped forward. “Would you have her telephone number by any chance? Vital statistics? Email address?”
“Email? She doesn’t have time for that nonsense. No, she’s a hard worker is Elaine. Speaking of which the girl has to feed herself. And this is where you good people come in. Because for an unrivalled quality and an unrivalled price, you could be going home today with one of these tapestries. Imagine it, ladies, hanging up there on your wall, above the fireplace. There for all to admire. You there, madam. I can’t help noticing the way you’re admiring this one. Here, I’ll take it down for you. There we go. Feel that quality. The superior finishing. Her own sweet hands did that. How much? A pity we must bring up the subject of filthy lucre in the midst of such artistry. But we must. So ladies and gentlemen, let the sale commence!”
Guy watched as hands reached up, pointing to various canvases. Sarah wrapped a cash belt around her waist. At that moment, two tall menacing figures stepped around each end of the stalls, planting themselves, arms folded, like harem eunuchs. They smiled at the crowd, daring anyone to make off with the goods without paying.
“It’s madness,” a woman nearby remarked, “selling something like that here. You’d think she’d sell them through a gallery.”
“It’s not exactly oil painting though, is it?” another said. “I mean it’s good, don’t get me wrong. But it’s more craftwork.”
“If it’s that good, it’s art,” the woman declared, before stepping forward to point out the long canvas featuring the black knight.
“Ah, madam, it grieves me to turn down a customer,” the hawker told her, “but that one isn’t for sale. A few are display only. This one and four of the others. The lady with the ball of wool, the lady winding her hair around the knight there – catching him in her net, she is. That’s one of my favourites. I’d be sorry to see that one go. The one where the hand is coming up from below to feed him with a pomegranate. You might say they’re part of a series.”
“They tell a story?”
“You could say that. But look here, we have dozens of other canvases for you to choose from. No reason why you should go wanting. Lots of beautiful work for sale by a most talented lady.”
“It’ll be that Sarah, more like,” a voice commented. “Bet there’s no lady. Bet she’s an invention. All part of the sales pitch. Probably a bunch of housewives on piecework. I mean, that’s a hell of a lot of work for one person to do.”
“You’re wrong. Elaine exists.”
Guy turned to see an older man standing with his hands in his pockets. He had a local accent.
“Have you seen her?” a tourist asked.
The man stared into space. He had a faraway look in his eye. While others waited for him to elaborate, he stayed silent. After a few moments, they lost interest and wandered away or moved closer to the stalls to get a better look at the canvases.
Guy tapped the man’s shoulder, drawing him from his reverie. “If you’ve got the time, I’d like to hear what you have to say about this Elaine.”
The man eyed him assessingly.
“There’s a drink in it for you. What do you say?”
“All right,” the man replied. “You’re on. The name’s Rob. I know just the place. I’ll meet you there in two hours.”
The next part is here - Gobelin Market - Part Two.
Art by Waterhouse. Not sure how many parts there will be or how long it will take to serialise. Likely four or five parts, but not certain. Current length is around 10K but that could change. I still need to sort out the ending since the current one isn’t quite right.
I'm enjoying this. The reference to the Gobelins is clever.