Conversation with the Anariarch's Spider

Conversation with the Anariarchs Spider

They knit their webs well, funny little creatures of the Vine. Predators to some, nutrients to others. With grace and eloquence they knit and weave; some even glare in the sunlight. Yet despite this, I often find myself entangled in their webs. My attempts to take careful steps often go ignored; many a time I’ve had to entertain one of these majestic beings. Their webs allure and distract; with perfume and art do these learned arachnids seek their prey. Thankfully, I am allied with my Gardens insects, perhaps more to my benefit than theirs. Still, as annoyed as I am to find myself entangled in a clever web, my heart is gladdened when the webs keeper appears and begins to spin silk about my mind. For these webs ensnare the mind, and through it, paralyze the body.

And very clever it is indeed.

I lay here upon the keepers string, and bask as the flood of emotion fills my veins. Were I a lesser being, I’d be frozen in terror as one of these predators would weave my final casket. Had I been an insect, I would already have passed from this world. Fortune favors me, I think, as my brother arachnid weaves a web sprinkled with nectar, just for me. The cool liquid permeates my skin and I am placed in Peace’s grace.

This is the third time this Month, the spider speaks to my mind; our bond made stronger by the webs and nectar. I muse silently and distracted, the euphoria filling my body and mind.

Had you not made your webs so alluring, I would not find myself trapped in them. I reply.

My friend Araneae simply stares deeply into my eyes and disappears into the foliage as if scoffing at my response.

I am now of the mind that this many-legged creature placed her web directly in my path with amicable intent; my mind has been wracked as of late. Thoughts of darkness and insanity have clouded my eyes and ears with images and sounds not of this world. My only escape often lies in intoxicants and brews made from sweet dew found throughout my Garden. I placed a fermentation machine against a tree so I would always have an ample supply. Even so, I grow tired of the common brew and have been known to ask a scorpion or a centipede for their venom to better slake my hallucinations.

This month however, I’ve discovered that the webs woven by my Arachnid inhabitants excrete a drug I find most pleasing. Such an odd, unique sensation; it comes in waves like a soft burning fire, raising temperature yet maintaining a calm emotion throughout the body.

I disentangle myself from the trap and throw myself upon the blue grass. I spread my limbs out and soak in my new found calm. I muse about giving pause to my consumption of tonics and clandestine herbs, yet quickly dismiss the thoughts. My altered states allow me to commune with Nature, both within and without.

At what seemed to be a summons, my female spider ally returns and hangs herself from a branch at my left hand side. She begins to sway in the wind, back and forth, west to east and back again; I am hypnotized by her movements. She moves softly, quietly anchoring her web to nearby twigs and leaves. She begins spinning her silk close enough to ensnare my whole vision, yet a such a distance as to have her work appreciated. Her movements are a thing of dreams, each appendage producing motion found only in symphonies.

And this is key.

As she moves around her web, laying down white silk as she goes, I begin to hear the sound of strings stretched on wood.

Perhaps a violin, no, the sound is too profound, mayhap a cello, or viola.

The sound is low, it quakes my ears to the silence of the Garden around me.

I am not the only one who hears this sound.

The sudden stillness is ignored as the majestic arachnid rubs her limbs against the chord of her web. Around and around she steps, each movement producing a harmony only matched in quartets, played by life-long musicians of skill and grace. The pattern of the web is not intricate, a simple circle hovering above the ground. Yet I feel great pride in its construction; the music stemming from the strands causing an elation of spirit and joyful thought. She is pouring her soul into this piece, her art; she is as the muse who indulges in her own inspiration. Each twang her legs produce against her strings is carefully tuned to a sound that could only be of cosmic origin.

This Art is truly rare and I am reminded of why I built this Garden.

Only here could such beautiful creations live and play and create even more eloquent works of Art. Her web is nearly finished, and a breeze strikes the masterpiece as a conductor waves his wand madly, yet with purpose. The entire Garden hears this awe-ful crescendo, a peak so high, yet so smooth that it staggers the mind at its mere existence.

She moves to the center of her masterpiece, ending each note with a flurry, then a pause, then with a soft chord. I see the critter rotate in place, placing her legs on the appropriate stand to intone the proper sound for her symphony.

I quake.

Thus did the spider speak to me, with song, verb, and dew; the spiders art is a clever one. I am freed of my thirst for intoxicants, and from this day forth only imbibe for recreation, not for escape. I am a better being, with many thanks to my Garden, a being in itself. The song I heard is forgotten, as are the best of songs. Yet I remain changed by its influence, so much so that I began:

to knit my own webs.