Not-So-Random Writing Prompt 14: The Weaver, Pt. 7

 After his failures with the apes, and then the birds, and then the dogs and cats that the apes kept as slaves, Baetylus decided to stay in the park. The Elders had known what would happen when they sent him to this world. He was sure of it. But he would not succumb to their duplicity. He would exist to spite them. He would weave and he would survive and he would continue to do so every day until the meatform failed him in one of the many ways they inevitably did.

He stayed in the park. He slept on the bench. When the weather grew colder, he bundled himself in layers of jackets and sweaters, discarding the ones that became too threadbare to offer any insulation. He tried to tap into the energies of the people around him, and it worked a little bit, but not as much as he would have liked. He wove for the birds and the dogs and the cats, and when they finally noticed his weavings after many days, he jumped to his feet and laughed so long and so loud that they scattered. Even the apes hadn’t been able to ignore him when he had done that.

It took a few days before the animals of the park trusted Baetylus enough to approach him again. They had even less aesthetic sensibilities than the apes, so they responded more to images of their own kind than anything else. He created a bird and had it cautiously join a nearby flock. He created a flock and the birds came to join it. He made a cat and laughed as a dog pulled at the leash its master had it on, desperate to chase the illusionary creature. He made grizzlars and krinlaks and obsequii in miniature, and when the animals gave no reaction to these weavings, he reminded himself that the creatures of this world were limited by their physical senses. Obsequii existed in many dimensions, but dogs and cats only in four, perhaps five. He imbued his weavings with the scent of the things from his world, with the sounds, and finally the animals noticed.

The planet’s axis tilted back towards its star. The days warmed to the point of discomfort, and Baetylus shed the tattered coat he had crafted for himself like an insect emerging from a chrysalis. The animals gathered around him now, and he tried to take no pleasure in his meager audience, appreciative though it may be. He didn’t think about the weavings at all, performing them with the same instinctive thoughtlessness that the animals used as they went about their existence, until he heard a voice soft and high and happy say to him, “Oh! That’s pretty!”

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