Clotho's Loom

By Shawn Stjean

William Wyrd, an introverted history professor at long remove from his youthful days as a Marine sniper, is drafted to serve overseas in the U.S. military at age thirty-nine. Already in a relationship made tenuous by the demands of dual professional careers and their own dearth of interpersonal experience, he and his wife are completely estranged by the blunder on the part of the government. But is this merely human error at work, a bad mix of circumstances—or tangling of the skein of Fate? In the tradition of Robert Ludlum's Bourne Identity and follow-up novels, this literary action-adventure tale tests whether one's present choices, and even ultimate destiny, need be determined by one's past.

CLOTHO'S LOOM tracks the struggles of a husband and wife to reunite against forces arrayed to keep them apart. Will decides to keep his reactivation a secret, and deal with the claims from his dark past alone. Assured by faceless authorities that there has been no mistake, and given a date to report, he falls in with political undesirables and succumbs to their attempt to recruit him. He soon embarks on a quest for identity that leads him around the globe. Meanwhile, his partner, pregnant and abandoned, must navigate the no-less-treacherous task of survival at a highly politicized law office, dominated by two temperamentally opposite bosses, and the glass ceiling they erect over her. The narrative proceeds in an alternating chapter structure, paralleling Will's masculine adventures with those of a woman enduring both professional and domestic perils. The common solution: a razing of egos, and the tempering of two spirits into alloy, alchemized by the common love of a child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Stjean
• Release date: Jan 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301514571

Shawn Stjean

I'm a college professor in Rochester, NY. My other books are "The Yellow Wall-Paper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman: A Dual-Text Critical Edition (2006) and Pagan Dreiser: Songs from American Mythology (2001). Rather than try to describe who I am through a series of historical events or by listing my accomplishments while concealing my failures, I thought I would name several writers/books that I can honestly say have changed my life in a material way. I have also included a few remarkable films. These influences may not always be done justice to in my own writing, but they are definitely owed a substantial debt. In no particular order: -Stan Lee, author of hundreds of Marvel Comics. Some have called him heavy-handed or naive, but to me, from an age even before I learned to read, really, Stan's plots, characters, and dialogue epitomize soul. Considering the increasingly cynical environment in which his work appeared, it's truly inspiring to see the spirit of the Romancer carried on with unwavering trust that young people still get it. -Carl Sagan, author of Cosmos. This book showed me the interconnectedness of all things, and buckled my world-view at a period of my life when I defined myself against others. This caused me infinite trouble, but I would not trade away the experience for any amount of inner or outer peace. -Henry David Thoreau, author of Walden and various political lecture-essays. Could anyone actually read these works and not walk away dissatisfied with the status quo, even as regards one's own heart? -Stephen Crane, the too-briefly-with-us author of more great fiction than many who lived three times longer. Those who have oversimplified naturalism, the most stark version of literary realism, have had to willfully ignore his works to do it. -Oliver Stone, director of JFK. This film was for me what The Matrix was for the next generation: a dramatic reinterpretation of Plato. Valid or not, his presentation raises the spirit of inquiry to such a height that one must question every "reality" from then on. -Stephen Speilberg, director of the quintessential monster movie Jaws, showed us that there is no outworn plot, archetype, or device, creative writing teachers be damned. By every professional standard, this film should be an obscure failure, and yet it's one of the best and most well-known ever made in any genre. -James Cameron. The Terminator proves, in its re...

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Copyright Shawn StJean 2012

Published by Glas Daggre Publications

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Cover photo: statue of the Greek goddess Clotho, located in Druid’s Ridge Cemetery, Baltimore, Maryland, U.S.A.

For my Mother and my Father

I say so strange a dreaminess did there then reign all over the ship and all over the sea, only broken by the intermitting dull sound of the sword, that it seemed as if this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically weaving and weaving away at the Fates. There lay the fixed threads of the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging vibration, and that vibration merely enough to admit of the crosswise interblending of other threads with its own. This warp seemed necessity; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle and weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads. Meantime, Queequeg’s impulsive, indifferent sword, sometimes hitting the woof slantingly, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be; and by this difference in the concluding blow producing a corresponding contrast in the final aspect of the completed fabric; this savage’s sword, thought I, which thus finally shapes and fashions both warp and woof; this easy, indifferent sword must be chance- aye, chance, free will, and necessity- no wise incompatible- all interweavingly working together. The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its ultimate course- its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending to that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads; and chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of necessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though thus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the last featuring blow at events.

--from Moby-Dick, Chapter 47, The Mat-Maker

Some years ago- never mind how long precisely

CLOTHO’S LOOM

PART I: FLOOD

Chapter 1

FRIDAY

In a quiet house, in the protracted hours of early morning, nothing apparent to the eye moved--not even the man who sat in the kitchen, staring. A fresh, tall glass of icewater stood within reach, yet seemed remote on the plain of table stretched before him. He desired it, yet now that he had settled, he did not wish to move; he wished nothing to move. He felt terrible. Shadows of blinds in window frames, painted by the rising sun, did creep their way along the floor, though so imperceptibly that any ant, burdened by a crumb, might slip their confinement. The temperature in the room climbed by half-degrees. The man blinked and watched, though in his torpor refused to acknowledge, a microcosm of activity taking place before him: the temperature in the glass fell, then, in a swing like a pendulum-arc, syncing itself with its environment, rose. Droplets formed on the outer surface. An ice cube popped and tumbled. Solid to liquid to ether to energy. His dark eye and dormant brain knew little of the way of these things. He stretched out his hand lethargically, brought the sweaty glass to his lips, and abruptly drained it.

William Wyrd grimaced into the upraised well telescoping before him. The sensation of heat exchange in his throat and stomach visited him not unpainfully.

His morning thirst had prevented him from noticing, at first, the particular paper he chose to set his glass down upon. It stuck to the base. He had fished it, at random, from the shuffle for a coaster, and now the cup bled upon it and magnified a part of the writing. The brown, official-looking United States government envelope had lain, until now, for days on the white linen of the kitchen table, the bottom of a pile of mail stacked, then neglected, for last night's party. He had just turned thirty-nine years old. His habit when hung over, as this morning, was to fumble through the collection and discard most of it unopened. Even the grandson of first-generation German and Irish immigrants had learned not to fear the very appearance of authoritative missives--it probably disguised an application for a credit card. He gazed blearily down and withdrew a half-cupcake from his mouth, then tossed the stale bit of food on to the heap threatening to overflow the trash barrel. Postmarked Quantico, ten days ago.

Something shifted among the acids of his stomach. Tearing the damp envelope and scanning its contents, yawning as the microwave signaled his reheated coffee ready, Will's immediate reaction--a cough--was followed by the white placard slipping from his fingers onto recently scrubbed, now sticky tiles. The inhaled air tasted bitter in his nasal cavity. He snatched a paper towel from the rack by the sink window and carefully parted two blades of the Venetian blind with his fingers. Still nearly dark out there, the vague fluorescent streetlights cast an indigo haze over the cars, the neat square lawns, the vertical driveways. The evening drone of beetles through the screen had ceased, hours before. All looked still, in order. Will’s face dropped to where the card had fallen between his slippered feet, over the small belly he had developed since a few birthdays ago. Things had blurred. He must be in worse shape than he thought.

Will groped about on the countertop among the punchbowl, tumblers, and saucers of the scattered service; he had wandered out of the bedroom again without putting his eyeglasses on. But instead of going for them, he leaned low against the counter, not wanting to dignify the placard by touching it again. He smiled grimly. No. They weren't drafting anymore, hadn't been since he was a kid; and he'd done his time in the Marines almost twenty years ago, during the Gulf War. A trickle of memories seeped into his mind. Running--crawling--through a series of ninety-degree South Carolina and Virginia days. Just a kid, fresh out of a new G.I. Bill enrollment, and fulfilling the first adult commitment of his life. Later, the desert. There, it was worse.

So who was mailing him this letter? A little birthday fun courtesy of one of his friends. Had to be. He'd look more carefully at it later and figure out which of them would put such a dumb joke into practice.

Will flipped the light-switch off in the too-bright kitchen, and the parlor lay shuttered and dim and the extra chairs and folding tables made a kind of unfamiliar jungle that took some stumbling through. He flopped down into the familiarity of his recliner, then stiffened at the creak it issued: Nexus was still asleep in the other room. Thankfully for her, she didn't have to go to work until ten today--hadn't been feeling well lately, and campaigned through last night's celebration like a trooper--and he did not want to waken her until he was going out the door to his first, eight o'clock class at the university. The slightest sliver of dawn filtered through the large living room window, not so much morning as the end of a primeval night, and Will groaned. Who gave a party on Thursday night, anyway? And his mouth was still dry. He thought of the coffee, then forgot it again. He fumbled for his remote control and clicked on the television. Quickly, he punched the volume to a whisper and sought out the early news channels. Combing his hair back repeatedly with the fingers of his left hand, feeling the thin overnight grease, he grew slowly desperate to take a shower.

Nothing doing, much. Most of the channels continuously recycled the late night sports, in which the Indians had been brutalized again, and the weather, which hinted storms across the country, again. Spring threatened to outstay its welcome and encroach on summer. Will's eyes sought back across the gloom to the kitchen floor. A little lightning, coming not from outside but from the kaleidoscopic picture tube in the darkened room, momentarily showed the ridiculous slip of paper where it had fallen. He sometimes still, after all these years, had nightmares about the service. Not the electric spasms of his father's generation, but more mundane, anxious commonplaces. He had never made it out. Thinking of deserting, but what would happen to his family? Where could he go? He was forced to obey the orders of the mindless, faceless agents who held his papers. He gave no orders. No one was below him. But he wanted no underlings, no control--only to be left alone. The lightning intensified. Was this yet another of those dreams? Will forced himself to concentrate on the fuzzy images before him.

He blinked at the screen, which now framed phantoms of gray jet fighter planes launching from the slow-swaying surface of an aircraft carrier. The parking deck was furious with activity--men in yellow and orange uniforms swarmed around the pilots stalking to their ships. They strode almost in slow motion, and Will wondered jadedly if it weren't some broadcaster's dramatic trick. Feeling a bit ill, he thumbed the volume slightly to add its effect to the tableau.

A disembodied but fully articulate voice, somehow familiar, explained to him that tensions in the region had flared again for the third time this decade. The names of the factions sounded alien, but the story was an old one: some fourth-raters continued to provoke some third-raters (he had at least heard of the disputed area--seemed to recall flying over it once in a C-130 transport plane). For ungodly reasons, this became the concern of the first-raters, who were sending pilots to enforce a no-fly sector, some kind of DMZ--a De-Militarized Zone in the middle of the sky! Details aside, it had been going on in his father's time, and his father's time. But now it was lent the merest dignity: the scene on the carrier dissolved into a bright royal blue which lanced at Will's eyes. He squinted and leaned; and feeling a lump in the pocket of his thick bathrobe, fished out his all-purpose, store-bought spectacles and propped them on his nose, recognizing immediately then the figure of the current American President. He much resembled the previous one: middle aged, perfectly groomed, dignified, and talking tough. A wedding ring flashed from his upraised palm, suggesting that Will absent-mindedly finger his own. The palm flourished for several minutes before it closed into a fist.

World leaders were in earnest about these troubles and our responsibility to the cause of global peace. Will blanched a bit at these familiar constructions, but then the phrase heightened commitment captured his attention fully. He sat up straight, because the president began making vows now, one of which was swift reprisal for American deaths.

Deaths?

Will's mind raced back over the past few days. Today was Friday--had he heard anything about this before now? No. . .nothing. True, for a History professor he interested himself little in the news of the day. He had become, in ways, the academic that people who do not know any academics personally, imagine. Nexus tried to tease him once or twice that he lived in a world of his own, running back and forth between his castle and the ivory tower--a phrase he did his best to ignore, because it angered him in ways he could not name--so intent on his schedule that she sometimes felt as if he looked through her, to the future. This did not seem humorous when put into actual words, and he would resist and she would drop it.

The president's speech concluded abruptly, and the scene again recombined itself: now a panorama of ugly men and dead men, the first lifting the others out of a helicopter on stretchers. Behind them stood only anonymous mortar and concrete, giving no hint of the location. Another disembodied voice spoke, yet named none. Four of them; the dead ones. They had not yet been covered fully, but seemed to be wrapped in the kind of poncho Will remembered wearing on rainy marches. The faces were filthy, upturned to a black sky. Burned? Yet another voice reported that they were casualties of the conflict which, until now, had been of no notice to Will.

And then the tableau vanished--blinked out with a suddenness that made Will start, as the loudly dressed weather girl appeared, mock frown contorting her lipstick as she lamented bad news for weekend travelers. The screen was a haze of bright greens and blues. Will cut the set off and rose, raking his hair straight back. He fidgeted blankly through the next half-hour, and somewhere in the midst of his routine of showering, dressing quietly, and kissing his sleeping wife goodbye, he slipped the notice from the State Department back into the envelope, and that into his briefcase. His clothes felt tight on him, and already damp from perspiration, but there was nothing for it. The dew slicked upward into mist on his windshield as the professor drove to work like an automaton, arriving precisely on time.

His eight o'clock class left him disappointed and irritable. Something about the helicopter scene he had witnessed--he cut himself off, wryly: witnessed via satellite--bugged him, and he had unconsciously mulled it over during the drive to the university, instead of mentally rehearsing the morning's lecture as he usually did. As a result, he stood at the podium and had to shuffle with his notes, the students appeared more tired and bored than usual, and when he made an offhand, half-hearted remark about the current overseas conflicts undoubtedly bearing some relation to the current topic, the Mexican-American war, they rewarded him only with blank stares. Sorry he brought it up, he had almost said. His schoolhouse liberalism would bring no satisfaction today. He usually found a perverse enjoyment in rehearsing the old story of American imperialism, but the thought of the envelope near his podium, buried in his half-open briefcase, allowed no such distant irony. He dismissed the room ten minutes early.

Will, in mid-career and with tenure review safely behind him, relished projecting radical attitudes at his students--who, because of a few evasive rhetorical mannerisms of his, could not really know if the opinions were his own or merely reported. But he guarded his views with silence, or even affected conservatism, among his colleagues. Already in the periphery of a vision that had no fixed center, early retirement shone as the culmination of a placid teaching career, and declarations that might jeopardize the fulfillment of that goal somehow never got worded where they might offend. And he might even have secretly conceived, in the bowels of his reason, that he was above it all anyway, that any real commitment to a political position on any subject must necessarily signify moral naiveté. In short, he had long ago accepted the truism that we are doomed to forget and so repeat the past; thus, any talk of progress is mere gamesmanship to enlightened individuals.

Still, he did not feel so sporting today. On the walk to his office, he probed the few Ph.Ds. who lurked the halls before ten o'clock about the morning news report. But no one had heard anything, and greeted his casually worded questions with, what seemed to Will, echoes of his own (former, now fading) indifference.

Specters of evacuated bodies plagued him throughout the day, in classes, in a meeting, in his office hours. Even the letter he carried, the coincidental prank, lay confined to the steerage of his mind. But he could not so easily forget his past, more tangible than any paper. In the years since his discharge, he had willfully attempted to purge himself of the military mindset. He had discovered in himself a born pedagogue--a teacher, he corrected himself--and began by degrees to take his former experiences as a veteran philosophically. His enlistment at twenty-one years of age, for the sake of financial help to finish college, had been, if not a mistake, then a four-year false start which at least instilled in him self-discipline. Such traits were needed by all career people. He had been an infantry squad leader from his second year, promoted quickly to platoon sergeant. He made a good small-unit leader, or tried to, and the four dozen men under his charge in the Gulf, all but one, returned home with nothing worse than rashes and powder burns, despite the fact that they had gotten in several--encounters (he still, at the distance of many years, failed to find the right description. Battles would be exaggeration; but skirmishes was too light a word.) Short and inconclusive contacts, really, the stuff of day-to-day warfare. A century and a half ago, it had been picket-line chatter among the boys in blue and gray; in the 1990s it could be little more than shots in the dark or even blips on radar. He had some special-weapons training on his own, but it came to nothing when he had Marines to put hands-on for him.

Only one real incident occurred in his time, for which he had been recommended for a citation; though lots of men were in those days. But, truthfully, the cost weighed, he didn't want it; and the paperwork was slow in coming through after all, so his enlistment fulfilled, he resigned his plans for OCS and left the service virtually undecorated. He resumed his interrupted degree program, and went on to grad school.

Now he had it--that was it, his thoughts hitched like the snap of fingers. On the drive home, through sidewalked neighborhoods surrounding his own, the sun flashing mosaics through the overhanging trees, those holes in the past could still fill in, like fresh leaves. He had begun telling himself that he was like those old cops who won't watch cop movies because, no matter how well-produced, nothing seemed verisimilar to the man who had been there. Everything outside his own direct experience tended to feel produced by the Chorus of Henry V, begging indulgence. But--damn--what the television showed did not look staged--there hadn't been the least sign of rearrangement. Infantry. The men being lifted out of the helicopter were infantrymen, not pilots or crewmen. Will distinctly saw again the filthy, desert-camouflage utilities they wore, what the men in his old unit called sand-jammies when they exchanged them for the venerable Marine jungle-utes, before deployment to the Gulf. Hadn't he also glimpsed a canteen secured to a charred H-harness, and even a Kevlar helmet still strapped to one poor kid's lolling head? A pilot's jumpsuit and gear should look completely different. Once again, his memory, in the form of the nagging card he bore, its edge rigid and keen, scratched a tendon and for the first time drew blood. Will felt the fractional twinge of limbs loosening.

He never spoke of it that day to Nexus, who returned home from her job in too good a mood to spoil. Her boss had delivered on recent hints of a promotion for her. She correctly estimated its value: nothing glamorous, just a title with a better office, but it showed they appreciated her. She was a lawyer working for a mid-sized local law firm. Even these days, Nexus continued to take an occasional night-seminar at the University, working slowly and steadily toward the day when she would be eligible for junior partner. Did she understand they would never give it to her? Will wondered if some part of her did . . .and considered it still worthwhile to try. Circumstances might change, one never knew. . .

Hey, that's great, Will smiled and hugged his wife, recomposing his faraway look behind her back.

He did admire her. Had, in fact, since that day in graduate school when a mutual friend had fixed them up. It was eight years ago. Will, though no misanthrope, had small gift for socializing and had always found himself watching the action from the corners of public gatherings. His hair had remained short from his service-days, and that he felt deepened his purposeful anonymity. He possessed a face that grows handsome only as one knows him better; consequently, almost no one thought him handsome. But he did have classmates, and therefore could hardly avoid study contacts. One of these, a dark-haired and happily garrulous girl oddly named Tyche, noticed how earnestly he studied and wondered aloud if he never had any fun. She had some single girlfriends. Privately, she must have considered it her sacred duty to pair them off. Her choice for the taciturn Will had short, auburn hair and shellacked study glasses which tended to mute her authentic blue eyes and intelligent smile. When Nexus first approached him (did he get that name right? Was this some fad, he was too embarrassed to ask,) in the library, she looked a bit uncomfortable in her teaching assistant's suit which bespoke aspiring professionalism, so he was mildly shocked to see a slim, athletic body in bluejeans and T-shirt when they played golf, on their much-improved second date. The first had been, he tried to recall, a standard dinner-movie which was just pleasant enough to dispel the awkwardness of strangers, and ended in a hug--the kind he was still giving her, years later. The golf game had been nearly disastrous in a way, she outscoring him by ten strokes, but he had to admit it was fun, as Tyche would have wanted, and the match-maker later kidded him about his reported nervousness. Things went on, not unlike a well-hypothesized chemistry experiment, from there. A year later, they were married after graduation.

Tonight, on the latest of their standing Friday night dinner dates, she seemed as young as that girl he first came to love, even though he himself felt tired and worn. Her hair had lengthened beautifully; the study glasses she had long since replaced with more attractive ones, then dispensed with them entirely by laser eye surgery last year. Will was considering it too, but, if he must be honest about it, the procedure could not have spooked him more if it were done with a steel scalpel. The doctor had explained the risks to Nexus in his presence, and she was game, as always. Inwardly, he shrank, but jokingly explained he'd relinquish to her the role of family guinea pig. His students might fail to recognize him if he abandoned his cultivated, professorial look: the cropped beard and glasses, even elbow-patch sports coats, all an unthinking imitation of an amalgam he had in his mind of his own teachers; the vision had hardly anything to do with any actual individual he had known.

Her fine mood slowly caught him up. Will watched her eyes gleam like indigo running beneath a stream. She told him about the good day she'd had over cocktails at their favorite Mediterranean restaurant. Did her boss's discovery of those eyes have anything to do with her promotion? As a woman without children, her career path had still been slightly less focused than his, up until recently; she had spent several years before college at odd jobs—something to do with her people back home--and was in reality slightly older than he. But now the possibility occurred to him that, his distant appraisal of her office's politics notwithstanding, she could potentially pass him by.

Thoughts beneath him and beneath her, but they faced Will with something he could not fathom. Not any specific jealousy, really, but rather a mass by accumulation. Nexus lived the course of woman: paced, steady, and ultimately unswerving, in ways that men who bulled their way through life might envy. She had developed a plan for her future by the time they met and, had since modified it to include him. Of course, she would not openly acknowledge this. Will wasn't sure about all its details, but it dwelt at the fringes of their lives: where they lived, how they chose furniture, who they made friends with. Sometimes circumstances or, worse, actions he took, interfered with the direction. She got irritable or injured. When he hurt her he felt terrible, knowing how little she deserved it. She had grown up under more difficult conditions than he, and if she let her present boss think he flattered her at all, what harm in that? Besides, it was all pure speculation anyway. His opinions about the man were based on nothing more than an introduction at an office Christmas party. Will put the tangle of thoughts aside, congratulating himself that none of it showed on his face. It never occurred to him that his wife might appreciate a show of possessiveness. He tried to lose himself in the warmth of her presence and in the half-truths he told about an unremarkable day.

SATURDAY

Despite his resolve to sleep late, Will's morning began early, after hours of restlessness. He managed to climb out of bed almost silently. Nexus stirred next to him, but she had gotten conditioned to their irregular schedules by now, and rolled over into deeper repose. Will was grateful that she hadn't realized in her waking moment that he did not have to work today, for she might have pinned him to the mattress which had begun to feel like wood.

He wriggled on some old sweatpants and padded into the lightless kitchen, now cleaner than yesterday, but darker because of the hour. He poured a tall glass of orange juice, devoured a banana in two bites, and, finding his briefcase, trepidatiously retrieved the brown envelope. Not unlike yesterday, he then sat at the kitchen table, staring down like a blind man whose vision returns gradually. The gloom slowly receded, siphoning out of the east window, and as the long minutes passed the page seemed covered with dead insects, then contorted glyphs, ever reassembling themselves in his brain, but finally stable and readable as English. He was directed by the Secretary of Defense, under authority of the President of the United States, to report within fourteen days to any processing center (local address provided, no telephone number) for a physical examination prior to induction into military service. As he reread, he found the final, blocked line even more unexpected: he was again directed (military euphemism for an order) not to discuss the contents of the document with anyone.

For the hundredth time, the intellectual in him asserted that the thing was an item from some novelty-shop. The problem with the theory lay in that he could not for the life of him imagine who, among his acquaintances (all the faces from the party flitted before his tired mind,) would pull this sort of stunt. And it smelled real--the odor of bureaucracy exuded from it, filled the room. The impressed Presidential seal, perhaps, along with the actual names and stamped signatures of the President and the SecDef. All government documents have that feel—cheaply made, and expensively bought. Well, then, a mistake. A colossal blunder, and certainly not the first in military history. But such an odd one? Was anyone being drafted? Of course not. He berated himself for worrying and resolved then to straighten the matter out today.

He happened to know the local processing center. It had sprung up recently out of a renovated factory in the old manufacturing district, only a couple of miles from the Humanities building at the University in fact, which lay itself just outside the city limits. The monolithic structure funneled volunteers from a dozen recruitment stations from neighboring counties. The phone book had their number, undoubtedly. But he dismissed the notion of a phone call as a probable exercise in futility; he felt obligated and compelled to appear in person, this morning. He dug his sneakers out of the hall closet and quietly stole out of the house. With any luck, his wife would sleep in, and he'd be back before she knew it.

The sun had begun to rise low behind the trees. No clouds, none predicted—this from the late night news he had trolled. For some reason, the notion to park at his office and jog to the center had seized him, partly to kill time, in case they didn't open until nine o'clock on Saturdays. But he was susceptible to shin splints, and knew it; he had not actually run a mile in over three years.

In the end, the run nearly solved all his problems for him. He was forced to slow, almost immediately, to just above a brisk walking pace, and winded terribly just the same. His lungs burned as he left the college's green lawns and perennial flower beds and carefully placed trees behind, for the asphalt and taller buildings of the old town. He blamed the sting in his throat on pollution, but his abysmal physical condition had to connect to his own complacency. He hadn't adequately tracked how soft he was getting. The Army would smile at the prospect of drafting him; the Marines would laugh openly. He hoped he'd get some regular guy to iron things out with--they could share the laugh together. By the time he descried the black hulk of the processing center, Will had a serious stitch in his side, and his head pounded, but he consoled himself that his legs felt alright.

He had to give up any pretense of a run and amble slowly forward, a safe distance away. The last of departing dawn clenched ruddy fingertips around the professor's chest, and he bent forward toward the ground, gulping for breath in the artificial heat of his labors. A film of perspiration stuck between him and the cotton garments, despite the coolness of the morning. He looked the place over from the tops of his eyes: a squat brick structure, that stretched several hundred yards toward every dimension but up. Will forced himself upright, hands on hips, chest heaving, and halted. It appeared relatively busy for an early Saturday morning, he wondered, and glanced at the fogged dial of his wristwatch. Just past 8:30, yet the parking lot was three-quarters full and the occasional new arrival passed through the portal of glass doors, below the sign in plain block letters which are many young people's first glimpse of military exactitude: ALL ENTRANTS SUBMIT TO SEARCH. Will rubbed his side and forced his breathing to slow. He walked a few stiff steps in a circle. A quailing sensation had wound itself around him, but no matter what happened inside, he wanted to appear calm and offhand. Just out for my constitutional, old man, thought I'd stop by and straighten out this infernal mess, what? . . .

Finally, after several minutes of concentration on steadying his erratic breathing, satisfied that he was probably okay and concluding to check his look in the nearest men's room, Will made his way across the parking lot and up the three oversized, concrete steps. As he passed through the doors, he suppressed another cough from deep down in his lungs.

The lights beamed too brightly. They pained his eyeballs for a few moments. There were so many: the white dropped ceiling at perhaps fourteen feet high, and, above the room stretching back apparently the entire ground floor--walls had been replaced with columns and a labyrinth of six-foot partitions—hung suspended hundreds of fluorescent fixtures, but without the usual diffusion from plasti-glass covers. To the left of the main doors, where he had expected a security station or at least a guard, Will instead passed a janitor mounted on a paint-spattered stepladder, tugging down the last of the covers. Will paused to look up into the ancient, grizzled face which smiled blankly back. Those black eyes told a tale of endless, repetitive toil; they knew no hurry.

Changin' out the bulbs today, the man chanted, drawing a long, coolwhite rod from the box propped against the ladder. He spoke as if to himself, but loud enough for any to hear. He continued to grin, but spared Will no more regard than he might give the tube in his hand. He stretched his rheumatic limbs, unscrewing the still-functioning old bulb, which instantly went dark, from the fixture. He carried it carelessly down for another, wobbling the ladder to do so, the discarded in his left hand, the replacement in his right. He stared a moment, to reassure himself which was which. Will then noticed dozens of boxes leaning nearby, doubtless containing hundreds of tubes. All to be done, then?

Will nodded respectfully, but failed in his intention to return the workman's smile, baffled instead by the observation that the job wasn't being done at all efficiently. Surely the removal of the covers, stacked in piles against every wall, had necessitated countless relocations of the ladder by the same menial, who in turn had doomed himself to repeat the action in each case? Why not remove and replace covers and bulbs at once? Even more curious, none of the bulbs that Will could blinkingly discern, not one in a countless pattern which extended back into a fluorescent blankness impossibly deep, had actually burned out. None even stuttered. Will shrugged barely—job security, his father had called it--and cast about on his own business.

After some searching in what he imagined were obvious places, the professor turned a far partitioned corner and happened upon a desk marked INFORMATION with a small placard. A gangly, young Navy petty officer was seated there, smiling the same vacancy Will had encountered upon first entering. He decided, on the spot, that the best approach at this point would be to present his letter and ask for the Commanding Officer, rather than attempt to explain himself at every level in the chain of command. He half-remembered, half-intuited how well that might work. Suddenly he realized he had forgotten the letter in his car. He inwardly groaned. An ache in his right knee that he had not noticed before began to insist on his attention.

'Help you?

Excuse me, he began, comporting himself with as friendly and polite a manner as possible. I received a, notice, to report here--for an induction physical. Will wrought a smile which he hoped communicated both irony and invoked sympathy. He had not known whether to emphasize the word induction or physical more, since they were both clearly ridiculous coming from him. He looked his age, and knew it.

May I see it? the young man answered pleasantly, showing white teeth, betraying no hint of grasping the problem. He stuck out a long, thin hand at the end of a bony arm enclosed in a blue serge sleeve. Will blinked.

Well, I forgot to bring it with me, he managed, seeing that this passage was not going to go smoothly. Damn that stupid idea to jog! He made a gesture as if reaching for pocket change in his sweats, to show he carried nothing. But it was an error. They don't mean me, he added, pointing up at his own face with a gesture that just had to say it all.

Your name? came the reply, evoking a defeated sigh from Will. His other knee gave signs of aching now, but he stated his name articulately, and spelled the last. The young NCO picked up a pen and began writing it at the bottom of a list which appeared disturbingly long. Will glanced about, and noticed several rows of chairs along the wall, many occupied by boys in various states of dress. Most were half his own age. They had nothing to occupy their attention, and with no seeming interest in one another, some stared into that nothingness, while others cradled their heads with elbows on knees, trying to sleep.

Look, Will blurted out, seizing his last hope to take charge of the situation. I'm forty years old and I teach at the University. It's important that I see the CO as soon as possible. They're not even inducting people anyway, right? He crossed his arms on his chest and puffed it up a bit, to counteract this weak ending. The youth looked slightly puzzled and bored, as much as to say The C-O? He said nothing, however, and seconds ticked by slowly. Will fought the urge to explain the acronym aloud, judging that condescension would fail in the desired rhetorical effect. Somewhere in the background a fly buzzed through space. A standoff.

Will tried another tack. He asked the petty officer if he could input his name into the computer on the desk, to at least show if he belonged there or not. If not, that would give him the leverage to see someone with authority.

This station cannot access that information, droned the clerk, in what was clearly a well-worn phrase. Perceiving the annoyance which was now clearly beginning to show on Will's face, he smiled again and crossed his fingers together on the desk. He glanced beyond Will. A civilian youth had formed up in line behind Will, his shaggy head bent toward the polished floor between his dirty tennis shoes. In one hand he held an envelope exactly like the one Will had received.

Your name is now on the list, the petty officer's voice intoned over Will's shoulder. He had followed his interviewer's gaze and had turned to stare wistfully down at the youth's envelope. Have a seat and you may address any questions to your examiner. When he turned back he was ignored, an object merely in the way of new business.

Will drifted helplessly away, toward the block of seats. His brain, flushed by earlier physical strain, began to lapse into a dull fatigue. Then he spotted something by a restroom door in the wall beyond, and impulsively moved toward it, glancing back furtively. The youth was prolonging the act of handing the petty officer his envelope, both their attentions absorbed by that important object. Instead of entering the lavatory, Will glided past it and stole inconspicuously down a detached hall beyond, the slightest bit darker as it turned a corner which contained no fluorescents. Will heard approaching footsteps, but, with nowhere else to go, stepped forward into the corner, pretending to spot an important posting on a small bulletin board there, and miming his silent satisfaction at the discovery. The walker, a petite woman dressed in serge Army slacks and top, and carrying an enormous paper stack, passed him by. She apparently hardly noticed him. He turned up the new corridor into the comfort of obscurity.

He began to check name plaques. Many of the doors were unmarked. He tried the handles of a few, but all were locked. The few that bore names did have abbreviated ranks preceding them, but none was higher than a staff NCO--no officers, and no light or sounds to indicate any were inhabited anyway. Will turned another two corners and faced branching corridors. He continued wandering, noticing now that the place seemed completely deserted back here. Well, Saturday. But all those cars, he thought.

The corridors quickly threatened endlessness, and Will searched openly now for any sign of life, disoriented, with no pretense of belonging. He hoped someone, anyone, would just come by so he could ask for the CO. Maybe he would be taken as someone off-duty. His hair was short enough, a style he had never really abandoned since his discharge. But then he remembered his beard, groping at it reflexively. He must look more like a civilian than anyone in the place. Fine, then.

He halted at an unmarked door with light gleaming under it, hesitated, knocked, and waited. Nothing stirred. A minute later he tried another, and down the next corridor, another. Silence. He began wandering again. Which way back?

Finally, up ahead, he discerned the sterile, colorless glow of fluorescents emanating from around a corner. His shins now bothered him noticeably, but just the same he sprang into a slow jog, thinking he had discovered something that would help him get his bearings. He meant to pause and peer cautiously around the corner, but at the last moment he recognized a puddle of soapy water on the floor and a yellow, plastic mop bucket just out of view until it was too late, and he skidded right across the turn and into a door. It gave, and he nearly fell, but caught himself by grasping the stainless steel handle. He was arrested on the darkened threshold, and a moment later a blinding light shone full in his face and he was yanked inside, nearly off his feet, and proceeded to be bodily dragged by the collar into a stairwell and down a set of concrete stairs. This excruciated the thousand little sorenesses already beginning to rack his body, but he was able to turn his head enough to see, through the white spots in his vision, his attacker. Will resisted the urge to call out to him, but managed to clamp an ineffectual hand on an iron wrist. Clad in shiny boots, perfectly pressed jungle fatigues, and sporting a thick blue band around his arm, the gigantic soldier did not look back. The hand that didn't have Will by the collar brandished a heavy, impossibly long black flashlight, still illuminated, and its beam lanced wildly upon the walls. The stairs ended, mercifully. Will was hauled down the polished floor of a corridor and hoisted to his feet before a door at the end. This one looked special: it framed a full-length, frosted glass window. He was suddenly turned loose, and spun painfully to face the MP, who without a word had disappeared around another corner.

Strange light penetrated the glass. For the first time it was not the harsh blue of the ubiquitous tubes, but a warm amber, though still bright. A name hung, silhouetted on the door: COLONEL MINGO. Will paused to catch his breath, but a high voice within called out Come in! before he could knock.

As he entered, the source of illumination became immediately apparent. The four corners of the mammoth office housed abnormally tall, shaded lamps, strangely out of place in a building so void of ornament. No fixtures beamed overhead--in fact, the ceiling was solid and consisted of large polished sheets of aluminum or some other metal, mirrorlike in its property of reflecting the lamplight twofold. The effect was disorientating. As he gazed up, Will may have seen colors: red, green, blue. Like the TV, he thought irrelevantly. He tried to focus his gaze and moved forward to the room’s occupant. The distance from the door was prodigious. Foregrounding a grand, garrison-sized American flag which covered the entire back wall, like a coach on the sidelines of a football field, a green coated Marine sat scribbling on a paper-strewn, modern glass desk.

He looked up. The colorless eyes stared incongruously from a visage clean of lines, if not exactly young-looking, dominated by a smile of indefinite intentions. Face and head were impeccably clean-shaven. From where he stood across the room, unable to detect even eyebrows, the man seemed to Will a kind of prototype human being: well-proportioned but unfinished, with few distinguishing features. Even his uniform was bare of ribbons and accouterments, save for two tiny, silver birds-of-prey on his shoulder epaulets. He must be well into his fifties, but could not be called aged or even mature. A notion somehow wriggled through Will's head: here sat that mischievous and anonymous boy who scrawls obscenities in lavatory stalls, even ones in churches and college libraries and other places one would think impervious to such defilement. You never caught that boy, that adolescent, that man, in the act; couldn’t describe him if asked. But he always made himself a presence, in a manner exactly congruent with the odor associated with lavatory stalls. Then Will felt suddenly as if he did recognize him, but could not name him, a strong but nonspecific memory.

I'm gratified you came, on your own, Mingo--presumably this was he--began, his tenor voice without gruffness of any kind. The voice ill-accorded with the circumference of his sturdy chest. Not musical exactly, but it also hid a subdued lisp which certainly seemed ill-fitting a career soldier: Not everyone is as accommodating as you are, Professor. He had a way, Will noticed immediately, of saying one thing while intoning another. The word accommodating, in crossing the space of the room between them, reached Will's ears as vaguely insulting. Professor made him feel mocked, as when young boys are addressed as Master.

The surprised visitor stepped deliberately forward. The floor lay covered in a pale-hued, non-institutional carpet that tended to diffuse the open space even more; the walls seemed far less solid than even the partitions outside. The whole office was so disjunctive with the rest of the building, in fact, that one could not help knowing that Mingo possessed power to dwell as he pleased. Will would have been grateful to be asked to take a seat, for his legs definitely throbbed with the promise of hours to come, and the air in the room hung warm and stale-tasting. But there were no seats; none in the room at all, except that occupied by its master. His visitor stood with his hands clasped lightly behind him, in the small of his back, feeling droplets of perspiration form under his shirt.

Mingo had shocked the newcomer by this familiar reception. Not knowing how to begin, and now feeling certain uneasiness because he was expected, Will stammered something about the notice he had received--and then forgotten to bring. The Colonel cut him off.

Yes, it's been retrieved. We don't leave those kinds of souvenirs lying around.

Will raised both eyebrows. The Colonel grinned wider at the other's baffled expression. He reclined back, compressing the spring of his chair, and left aside his forms. You may as well know, now, there's been an FBI agent watching you for two weeks. A lot of veterans have temporary babysitters these days. We're inviting experienced men, like yourself, Professor, who suit our specific needs.

Will ignored, for the moment, the reference to himself. So it was true. His curiosity had the better of him, though, and he steeled himself for serious business in a way that his life had not required of him, not for a very long time. This Colonel had an air that gave even the absurd reality. What are your needs, exactly? This is for the Mideast? That attack?

In answer, Mingo sighed. His smile then melted; he leaned forward; he now conveyed the attitude of one used to asking the questions. Will noticed that his desk was nearly bare of plaques, bric-a-brac, or personal items of any kind. He might have been Disinformation personified. The one exception was a tiny, framed photograph of the Colonel himself, in the same uniform he wore today, among a few family members: wife, presumably, and children. They didn't really look like him, or anyone for that matter; or maybe he didn't look like them. Papers and files stood stacked and covering the desk, with a single stainless steel pen so abnormally long that it looked as if it would take eternity to run dry of ink. Military efficiency in that, mused Will.

Mingo spoke. This is not the time for a briefing on whys, only on whom. That is, You, and some others. I will only say that we have grown tired of the waste which accompanies our occasional commitment to that part of the world. For fifty years, America has needed a strong, permanent presence there. And we finally have a reason—a Commander-in-Chief, who will give us that.

Will considered, and gauged it past time for bluntness. He wasn't interested in foreign policy; the domestic, the personal, hell, the private were his only concerns these days. Okay, Colonel, let's stipulate that you and the President are right about that. What does that have to do with me? I did my time years ago.

A pause of an instant, and Mingo's smile returned and toothened into that grin, and the redness draining from his face must have been a trick of the light. Will's eyes had not quite made the adjustment. Aren't you a citizen, with duties to perform as well as benefits to receive? You saw the boys upstairs, and you saw the news yesterday. He relaxed then, slowing his speech, with what appeared a discernible effort. Let's just say we need. . .we prefer, experienced men. It's that simple.

Will nearly laughed, but it came out as a strangled cough. He glanced around, making sure they really were alone, no gorilla-like MPs ready to eject him or summarily punish insolence. He rejected the simplicity of the claim—he was no fool. But one thing had, all at once, become deadly uncomplicated-- they were serious about drafting him. Unreal. Yet the growing pain in his legs assured him it was true.

You want me, he half sang, half chanted the words he had repeated to himself since yesterday, aloud, finally: the simple phrase had gone acidic and begun to decompose in the underbelly of his consciousness, and he struggled with its meaning. The arguments that had arrayed themselves so impressively before the citadel in his night-imagination now fled the field, at the sight of the single corpse. Colonel, that's crazy. Look at me. I'm a wreck, he trailed off, ashamed of the words and wishing to annihilate them from the air between himself and this man. Whatever he was now, he too had been a Marine once. He spotted several dark brown, thick folders on the desk, which he recognized as old-style SRBs: Service Record Books. Mingo rested his slender hand on one, but made no sign of disturbing it.

Oh, you're fine, the Colonel waved the objection away with his other hand, like so much vapor. In fact, you've already passed your physical. And you've certainly shown initiative and courage. I was just about to send for you upstairs. He made the gesture of a long look at Will’s standing body. We'll get you back into shape quickly enough. He opened and then produced from the folder a series of black-and-white photographs in 8x10-inch form, and shuffled them toward his visitor, standing and leaning to do so. With nimble fingers, he spread them out like big playing cards on the forward edge of the desk, in the kind of hand you know you should fold, but for some reason play anyway. The photos confronted Will with images of himself, this very morning, jogging down the streets between the university and here. Will picked them up, aghast, and they shone glossy in the wavering light. He groaned that he had been thus unwittingly observed, stung that his actions and qualities were being thus interpreted. Mingo had settled back against the leather of his office chair, reached into his desk, and produced a thick cigar, which he lit. Will made to speak, but nearly gagged at the exhaled smoke cloud in the unventilated air, and was again cut off by the high voice. Oh, don't worry: you're not going back to Parris Island. There’s good news. I see in your other files that you have some college, (Will inwardly snorted at the understated some. It was ten years, all told,) so we're going to commission you--start you out as a First Lieutenant. Not second. And where you're going, you should advance quickly. He smirked, evidently expecting that this would be taken as a compliment.

Will 's pain had reached a higher level, and at this last reference his patience broke. The past opened up like a crypt.

Colonel Mingo, he blurted, do your files tell you that I was busted down? I'm sure you see there that I barely made an honorable discharge. He drew in a long breath. These were things he rarely acknowledged anymore, even to himself. His own wife barely knew about them, part of a life he had left behind. The definition of History he gave his own students rose up before him in mockery: the branch of human knowledge we can best prove, but should least believe. Not that I was a bad kid, he surprised himself by saying, I did my duty, but I had an independent streak in those days. Then he inwardly cursed himself: why apologize?

Mingo shrugged. A blip on the radar. Your profile does identify a 'personality defect,' but. . . it isn't being held against you. The file also records that you were recommended for a decoration for outstanding small unit command under fire. The Colonel made a show of casually flipping pages, but his voice betrayed familiarity with the material. Will's stomach continued to knot--so much more to the story than those pages could possibly tell, and yet the last place on Earth he wanted to delve, was there. I infer that it was denied for bureaucratic reasons only, the Colonel continued, slapping the cover closed on the file jacket. It was because of that, your documented prowess in precisely this type of environment, that we have chosen to reactivate you. He concluded, a bit ominously, stubbing out his cigar in a full ashtray, Your personal political views do not concern us. This conflict is bigger than you or me. Then he made a grand gesture to the color-draped wall behind him, delivering his verdict. You should be honored by your selection, son. Not many men get to serve their country in combat. Mingo pronounced the phrase serve your country the way another man would embrace a lover--the only sign of genuine emotion he had betrayed. It formed only a preamble, and his guest sensed the cue to withdraw. Yet, because the man strangely fascinated him and because he had information, the professor continued to stand and silently listen. The vacuum prompted Mingo to go on talking, as if he had been alone too long in this stifling room, with no one to share his ruminations. He discoursed on the subject of patriotism, love of country, trust, fidelity, obedience. Will heard eerie echoes of his own, younger self. He had never been so articulate, but Mingo here gave voice to many things which, beyond the college money, had actually driven him originally into the service.

Finally, Mingo finished, having risen again to his feet to do so. He must have eventually intuited, or known from his files, or from his listener's face, that he was not meeting with full agreement, or may have actually run dry of verbiage. He straightened and pulled down the edges of his dress green coat. Now, he said, Uncle Sam is not heartless. For those who have professional careers and families, we make provisions. Family is very important to us, obviously he said, and with the back of one meaty hand, he slid his desk photo an inch toward Will in evidence, while producing another cigar between index finger and thumb. If you desire, an indefinite leave of absence from your teaching job can be arranged for you. And you don't report for duty until early summer, which gives you several weeks to put your personal affairs in order. Will’s face sought the floor before him. A pain crept up his right side as he listened, like another stitch from his run, that had arrived off-target and an hour late. As for your wife, and at the mention of Nexus, Will, whose eyes had been glazing over, snapped his head to stare hard at Mingo, whose tone and gaze had both shifted toward the ceiling, we understand you may wish to explain fully the, ah--necessity--driving your decision. I'd advise against it, personally. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, you were invited on merit and are volunteering to serve your country. You were not inducted. Here he concluded by summoning and reassuming the broad smile he was never long without. We’ll have further contact soon.

Will hesitated. The tone signaled dismissal: the interview, brief after all, was ended. Mingo had reseated himself and begun ticking some kind of checklist, ignoring him. The professor took a half step toward the door, and then turned back. He felt ill, and his reason had failed him. But he had a last tactic to try.

Colonel, he called, affecting a firmness belied by every nerve in his body, Surely you don't expect this kind of thing to remain a secret? If even a handful of men are drafted, the public. . .

It's not a secret, son. Mingo did not bother to look up, intent upon the flat plane of his desk surface. You'll see that by the end of the day. But you've had some intelligence training, so I'm sure you understand that any dissentive talk won't do anyone any good. You don’t want that kind of trouble. As for the acquisition, er, reactivation of certain former assets, Mingo again smiled his smile, the one that came out when he imparted some bit of his wit or wisdom, You'll find the vast majority will support us. That's what makes democracy so noble and worth defending. The public know their own best interests are served by following their leaders, so they freely choose to do so. The cigar had been replaced by the pen in his left hand. Good day, Lieutenant.

Will meekly accepted the finality which accompanied Mingo’s statement—he had defeated his guest by strength of pure conviction—so turned, and walked out. He closed the office door behind him in silence, and found a part of the corridor brightly lit up, directing his egress. He trudged up a flight of stairs and emerged somewhere among a dozen identical office doors at the back of the large hive of the processing room. Again the bright illumination stabbed at his eyes, probably the last part of his body not already aching. Business had gotten brisk. The workers, in their various uniforms, now moved actively and barely an empty seat remained among the enlistees. Another long day of routine lay writ on their faces, but for Will, a veil unfolded itself between him and the world.

He wound his way mechanically to the glass doors in front, passing again the ancient figure of the janitor on his stepladder. Now the man had a four foot box of fluorescent tubes propped on end between his feet, slowly but inevitably replacing the ones in the fixtures, one at a time. See you Monday, he muttered, to no one in particular. He bent to grope for a new tube and now Will noticed his eyeballs had a lacerated, short-circuited look. He passed on, outside. The air had grown much cooler, with the wind picking up in unnatural strength. In the distance, some trees were bodily stripped of their small, new leaves. The sweat under his clothes chilled the man, during his long walk back.

Wait until Nexus hears, he thought, but this long course wearied him and he veered away from it before he could fix his resolve. Something happened, during his return to his car, to further derail him: trying unsuccessfully to shake the kinks out of his legs and back, he thought he glimpsed a man following him. He couldn't be sure, but Mingo's claim about the FBI, originally so absurd-sounding, nested in his brain like a scorpion in the cool of night. So he darted unexpectedly into a coffee shop on the edge of the city, seated himself, and kept vigil through the large plate glass window. There were several passers-by, and he

Reviews for Clotho's Loom

[harrymacdonald · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In the interests of Full Disclosure, let me note three things. A: this is a serious book, which deserves not merely reading, but deserves, even demands serious attention. B: this Review will be extended and modified over time, but appears now in its present state, as I think further delay would be unfair both to the Author and to potential readers. C: while this in no way prejudices my evaluation, the Author exchanged novels with me, on my suggestion; I expect that he will find mine equally challenging, though for rather different reasons. If one doesn't recognize the allusion in this book's title, or is unwilling to look it up, then that person probably lacks the moxie to make much of this five-hundred page psycho-philosophical work. Those who DO recognize Clotho, the Fate who spins the thread of human desitiny, should understand that this memorable story is a prolonged -- a hostile critic might say -- excessively prolonged, even distended -- meditation in why and how we travel our various paths. For reasons which we must accept -- lest the whole massive structure fall apart before it rises -- the two protagonists, William and the curiously-named Nexus, are almost entirely devoid of even the simplest ability to make choices. Odd as that may seem at first blush, this isn't an implausible human situation. Soon enough, however, we know that we're not in Kansas anymore when we find that these two young Americans (born, say in the late 1960s), have somehow managed to become married to each other: again, not appetizing, either in literature or in life, but still not totally indigestible. Then however, things take an abrupt turn, and in one of this Author's most skilled moves, he throws William into the nightmarish situation opf being re-inducted into the United States Armed Forces -- ater having already served almost twenty years ago. Even without the Hell-drift which is American life during the "War on Terror", this is pretty scary stuff. Now, though, for reasons we are left to ponder, essentially through the entire book, Will neither resists this action -- nor even tells his wife about! She being not merely his Life's companion, but also an attorney, would have reacted in any number of ways which any of us might do. But in the absence of information, she is simply (ha!) deserted, with the extra surprise of finding-out that she is pregnant. From that point, the story runs on parallel tracks, with William and Nexus working-out their various destinies, she as a attorney in a hugh firm described in endless mind-numbing detail, he as a sharpshooter/sniper in some unidentied but theatre of war East of Suez, though I suppose it might just be Somalia. Till now I've deliberately withheld a vital piece of information, lest a reader break into hysterical giggling and vow never to touch this book. As wild as it seems, far from cooperating in his new call to arms, Willliam lets himself be recruited for the unidentified Enemy, and is smuggled out of the US to undergo nightmarish training -- described with tremendous, draining, nightmarish power -- and then posted into rough country to kill a local war-lord. He does his job, is terribly wounded, and comes home. Which is a little like saying that New York City is a wide spot in the road from Albany to Trenton. Willam's experiences and the various states of consciousness are so complex, that by the end of the book -- and I must at this point omit any further reference to Nexus and her preganancy, except to say that there IS a sort of re-union -- I suspected that I had missed, despite close reading, a point where the events had lost any connectionm to external reality, and were taking place almost entirely in William's head. Whew. In addition to being a long-thought-out piece, CLOTHO'S LOOM is also a pretty well-written one. I believe I owe it to the Author, and to the reader, to return to this Review and quote some of his better-wrought prose. At the same time, I must say that the further he reaches for a figure of speech, the likelier he is to fall on his face -- and so he does, sometimes: splat. OK, I think I've given the temptin' taste which I want you all to share. Anybody who's attempted serious reviewing knows that the toughest books are the ones worth reading despite serious flaws, and CLOTHO'S LOOM is surely one of those. There is so much mind-candy passed of as fiction these days that we should all be grateful for some serious with some real substance -- even if it requires extra chewing. A practical matter: Shawn StJean (pronounced "Saint Gene") is a LibraryThing participant, and copies of his work can ultimately be obtained by communicating with him. I think it's also on eBay (as a Buy It Now item). Incidentally, I for one hope to see more of his work available soon.

[leesalogic · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I'm sorry to say that this just wasn't a book for me. We spent far too much time inside the main characters' heads as isolated beings. They didn't actively interact with each other or others nearly enough. I found it far too depressing to keep my interest: these two little islands who can't tell each other the truth when it matters.

[graffitimom · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I found the beginning of this book to be interesting, but, as the book progressed, it became more difficult to differentiate between Will's actual experiences and dreams. I did have quite a few questions that did not seem to be resolved. There was too much of the book sounding like it wanted to be mythology and not enough of a connection between the two main characters to make the reader care about their relationship. Will seemed to have no real backbone nor morality. It would have been more enjoyable if some of Will's experiences had been a bit more abbreviated. I received this book in exchange for my review as an Early Reviewer.

[joycemg3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

.Clotho's Loom is a story of Will and Nexus, a married couple, going though a difficult time due to the demands of work. Will was a sniper when he was younger and was re-drafted at the age of 39.. He did not want to go back into the service and did not tell his wife Nexus about it. One night he needed to clear his head and decided to go to one of his old stomping grounds which had changed since the days he was there. It was more of a meeting place for middle eastern people, one of whom happened to be a student of his. That chance meeting changed the course of Will's life. He disappeared from his life with Nexus and that's when the story really starts. The characters are well developed and the details of their surroundings are very detailed. It is written as two stories, chapters alternate between Will's and Nexus' lives, their struggles, misfortunes and their will to survive.I found this book very interesting and recommend it.

[stjean-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Clotho’s Loom is really the story of a man and woman who met and married before they were ready. They are torn apart just at the moment when they should most be together, her mid-life pregnancy. The next year is devoted to adventures that mature them, while they seek reunion. While all events, like Will’s military reactivation, appear to conspire against them, StJean questions whether the forces of chance and so-called Fate, as well as ignorant human will, are not actually working together for ultimate good.