The Weaver and the Faerie Princess
Once, when the road between the mortal world and Faerie was clear, there lived a man who wove carpets.
In most respects, the man was unremarkable.
He was kind, generous, and intelligent, but not in a way that might draw the attention of the Faeries who drifted through the marketplace, collecting treasures.
His carpets, on the other hand, were extraordinary. They sparkled like the wings of beetles, drawing in crowds wherever he went.
One day, a beautiful woman appeared to the weaver, requesting one of the stunning carpets praised throughout the market.
The weaver was immediately smitten with the woman, whose beauty was unnaturally bright.
For her, he selected his finest fabric. A rainbow of color reflected on her face as she took the carpet.
The weaver was enchanted by the sight, planning his next design before the carpet even left his fingers.
When the woman opened her purse to pay, the weaver waved her silver away. “You have given me inspiration. You do not owe me anything else.”
The woman smiled and was gone.
That night, between the moment when the weaver laid his head down to rest and when his dreams should have started, a jolt ran through him. He opened his eyes to find that he was in the Court of the Faerie King of the Deserts.
The woman was there, with the weaver’s most beautiful carpet laid out before her.
“You offered me this beautiful gift, weaver,” she said. “In return, I offer you my hand in marriage. I am the Princess of the Sands, and all the beauty of the desert from which you draw your inspiration will be yours.”
Shocked, but more than happy to accept the princess’s offer, the weaver took her hand. She drew him close, as though to press her lips to his.
Before they could touch, the princess said, “I must warn you: Should I die while you still live, we must be buried together. It is the tradition of our kingdom.”
The weaver agreed to this. After all, the life of a mortal man was bound to be shorter than that of a Faerie princess.
The weaver and the princess were married for many happy years.
Across the desert, the weaver captured his designs and funneled them into his loom.
He could paint the night sky with comb and thread, and his greatest achievement was a carpet that trapped the light of the sun rising over the dunes.
The princess delighted in his work, and his designs began to decorate Faerie-blessed houses and castles throughout the mortal world.
When ten mortal years had passed, the Faerie princess fell ill. She was pregnant, and pregnancies are difficult for Faerie women. The weaver stayed by her bedside at his loom as doctors and sorcerers from across Faerie tended to her.
At her weakest, she called him to her side and whispered her child’s name into his ear. Then she spoke no more.
Before he could protest, the weaver and the princess’s body were locked away in the darkness of royal tombs. The princess’s Faerie servant, a tall, dark-haired man who was more shadow than flesh, pressed the weaver’s loom into his hands before locking him in the dark.
The weaver was not sure if the Faerie servant’s action was kindness or cruelty.
Trapped in the shadows, the weaver thought and thought and thought some more. He loved his wife, but he did not want to die of starvation with her body. As he thought, he weaved, and soon he had produced a carpet that shone like the sun.
His fingers had cut through the turmoil of his thoughts and provided his salvation.
He slung the carpet over his shoulders. The fabric lit his way through the tunnels. Soon, he came across a door in the wall inscribed:
Speak, and I will open.
In the shadow of the door, the weaver thought and thought and thought some more.
He spoke some of the magic words he knew from his time among the Faeries and from tales he heard as a child, but none of them worked.
This time he was out of thread. He thought of his wife and of his baby, whom he had not had time to grieve.
Softly, he spoke his unborn child’s name.
The wall rumbled, and sunlight flooded the tomb.
But the weaver did not leave. He went back to his wife, laying the carpet as bright as the sun over her and placing his loom at her feet.
Wrapped in the shadow of his grief, the weaver thought and thought and thought some more.
Then, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and left. He never touched a loom again.
I first discussed this tale with Threadneedle after he observed a mortal funeral. It is a fine example of the “magic word” tale type, where an impossible trial is solved with a magic phrase or saying that has some significance to the protagonist.
There have been many references to the practice of mortal husbands being buried alive when their Faerie spouses die, but Threadneedle says that it is not common in his own kingdom.