Carpets are mythical. They hide in the background of all your favorite folklore tales. Whether flying over ancient towns or hiding Queens of Egypt, their intricate patterns have a history of wonder within their threads. The three bears must have stood on something.
And yet today carpets are mass produced and banal. If you need a new one, you drive to a retail park, and pick from a selection of processed, monochrome colours. The salespeople are dressed in off the peg suits, and talk in clichés as lukewarm and corporate as the coffee next door.
But I refused to believe that all that magic had disappeared. That a symbol of wealth and prestige for millennia was now so pedestrian. There had to be more to the carpet shops. Imagine walking into a lamp shop, and not making a wish.
I drove to the nearest shopping mall at sunset, and found the most clinical local carpet emporium. The kind with squares of samples in big floppy books, and rolls of magnolia offcuts that smelt of office corridors.
The saleswoman asked me twice if I needed any help during my imaginary checking of prices. I declined with a broad grin, and continued attempting to draw out forgotten energies deep within the core of weaved fibres.
We reached the last hour of trading, the moon full outside. I trudged to the exit, head bowed in defeat, too dejected to notice I was totally alone.
Something moved in the far corner, at the point where the glass of the shop windows met the red brick wall. The carpet sample books rippled in an unfelt breeze.
I tugged on the door handle, but the carpet around the frame was loose and ridden up, blocking the usual smooth action of the fringes. The second tug was just as unsuccessful. I crouched, and grasped the ruffled textiles.
Many things made many snapping noises. Fireproof threads latched around my fingers and both my shoes. They did not take long to snake up my limbs in a handcuff tight grip.
Now I understood. What was important was that this carpet touched the ground, and soaked up something from the centre of the Earth. The exact science was foggy, but it was something to do with how they all joined together. How they lay in wait within peoples’ homes.
Carpet tastes like burnt toast if it wraps around your tongue.
Line: The kind with squares of samples in big floppy books, and rolls of magnolia offcuts that smelt of office corridors.
