I am the spider that the main character of this story barely sees as she scrunches a sodden tissue in her hand and discards it, dismally, on the floor. She is at the deep end of her crying, fluid streaming from her eyes and nostrils, and the box of tissues is nearing its conclusion. She knows she can’t go on like this; yet it is completely beyond her to change. It’s the old story, in – what shall we say, six words? Love, betrayal, hope, heartbreak, death, light. We are at the heartbreak stage. The death may be mine, so I am glad there is a little more story to be told first.
Inching up the paintwork behind her, I have to weave and spin as she flings a mug against the wall, narrowly missing leg number seven. I scuttle behind Little Dorrit, one of my many homes in this house, along with the dark lid of the stained windowsill, the silver-striped lampshade, the widening crack from above the door to the cornicing that she is too anxious to do anything about. That’s a good spot to hide babies.
Babies is what caused this flood. He didn’t, she did, she accepted his decision, he admitted (after the discovery of a pink hat, no bigger than a lime leaf, softer than the throat of a yawning cat) that he had, with someone else. And wouldn’t you know, he found he quite liked being a daddy after all.
OK, I lied. Five words. There is no room for hope in this story. She went straight from betrayal to heartbreak. It’s easier for arachnids, and I suppose mammals and reptiles and insects and the whole vast wonderful animal kingdom. To procreate is to be; there’s no ethics, or can we afford it, or what about overpopulation. We just do it and lay as many eggs as possible, hoping that some of them survive and are not swatted or eaten or hoovered.
She’s turned down the radio to make a phone call, but I’m spinning right above one of the speakers. The vibrations, even softened, make my legs pulse and quiver. I think she’s ringing him and I think that’s a bad idea. It’s the lovely Georgia Mann on Radio 3, and her Slow Moment today is Virðulegu Forsetar by that tragic Icelander Johann Johannsson. What a wonderful name; like climbing up the Keilir mountain. Or a bookcase. And what a magical place Iceland is. Shaped like a cobweb that’s served its purpose and begun to drift in the east coast breeze.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. That’s as high as I can count but she keeps going, popping out the pills one by one and lining them up on the arm of the sofa and along the back. Her legs are curled up underneath her and she’s dragging blankets over herself. Beside her is a large bottle that smells sharp and unpleasant, like the cleanliness of the bathroom where I sometimes holiday. The screen of the phone glares green on the sofa near her feet, and a voice is calling out from it.
We are clearly still at the heartbreak stage, and it’s going to last a while, so let me tell you about the Great Outdoors. Spiders are incredibly quick travellers. I started life at the western red cedar in the front garden. It’s still standing, the inner pine leaves tending to brown at this time of year. From the summit there’s a view of a thousand lands but I don’t stay up there long. Immensity is overwhelming isn’t it? Leaving the pine scent behind, I can fly from walnut to lime; lime to cherry and over to the rowan in less time than it takes you to drink your coffee. I make long gossamer trails held in place by invisible fairy hands; the trails that suspend a leaf in the sky like an unexplained mystery and kiss your hair as you make haste in the woods on an autumn day. And I make the Wassily Kandinsky webs, circles upon circles upon circles. Imperfect and of pattern impenetrable, as I race like a prisoner around a yard. These ones catch the light at sunrise and give you a glimpse of heaven. They’re purely practical but I’m glad you admire them.
She reaches forward and mutes the phone, then uses the remote to ramp up the radio again. A tarantella. Now, the venom of the Taranto wolf spider is seldom deadly to anyone with a hint of an immune system, but it can produce a feverish, almost hallucinogenic excitement, although I’ve always suspected the dance simply imitated the behaviour of most people when they see a large spider, like myself. Did I mention that? I’m a good seven inches diameter. It’s unlikely that I’ll get close enough to bite her, but I can probably induce a tarantella in her if I’m at my most sinister and energetic, to distract her from the stepping stones to oblivion dotted around the sofa that she has already started on. And I need to do it now, unfearing, else she’ll be hitting the death stage herself.
Like a spaceman that’s forgotten something, I plummet down to ground level right in front of her eyes and the scream she releases carves another crack in the cornicing. She leaps up on the sofa and falls over the arm, hurling books and cushions at me. I scuttle around the floor and jump up to join her on the sofa, making her hop around like a witch on hot coals. She reaches for the broom and scuffs, slams, smacks, crashes the brush end down … on … my … legs … one … by … one … they … crumple. Broken, I cling to the bristles and am swept outside into the … light.
PR Woods is a writer living in London. She has been published by The Manchester Review, Litro, East of the Web and Mslexia. You can find PR on Twitter at @Pudsk.
Photo of Keilir by Sigurdur Fjalar Jonsson on Unsplash.
