A Messenger from Nephelokokkygia

That First Ingredient at Last

Chapter 26: That First Ingredient at Last

Can you spin it out of gossamer

From the ceiling to the stair?

Can you let the wind blow through it

So it sways but doesn't tear?

--Shel Silverstein, "The Weavers"

The forced march to the prison cell never made it to the part of the girls' brains where memories were stored. Their feet took over, moving like wind-up toys. If Grace could have thought at that moment, she would picture how close this must feel to being a zombie. 

One rabbit guard stopped to rub a wall of orange cheddar. A large slab melted away, but only momentarily. After being uncuffed, the girls were shoved in by a mass of rough paws. The wall re-solidified. There were no windows or lanterns to illuminate the room, but mold covering the hard, stale cheese glowed. At least they would not be left in darkness.

She complained about not being a phoenix. Then she would have had fire, instead of just sweat. Fox claimed her stones could carve an exit, but whatever magic was in Ostara's snap made her powerless for the time being.

With no chairs, benches, or couches, Grace sat on the floor. The cell was narrow, but tall. Four sharp corners drew past the height of the tallest adult (and then some) to shadowy rafters. The closest to a clear thought Grace had in the square room was that she had come full circle.

She, Diana, and Fox were in the same position as when they first met. While the people responsible for the Ambrosius Institute were now either themselves imprisoned or turned into a plant, it seemed there were always new jailers willing to take the Director's role. Grace remembered—however vaguely—a time when speaking to birds was a way to make friends, like Mrs. Tatters, instead of gaining enemies eager to exploit her for it.

"Four corners," Fox pointed out. "Perfect place to imagine a box, y'know, like Sch...someone showed us." Though it might have worked, none so much as considered that solution further. It felt like disrespecting their murdered friend.

Diana halfheartedly floated the idea of creating illusions, like cloud clones. This was providing they already found a way to break out. Any guards checking in should be fooled long enough to allow a search for Goldtalon, Bennu, the cure ingredients, and reliable means to escape the moon.

"Even if you left this cell," said a thin voice from the rafters, "No illusions work here. I've tried. Glamours are only really effective with humans, anyway, or those with a humanoid mindset."

"Who are you?" Fox shouted the question. "The bunny said we might get drained of blood here. What are you, a vampire?"

"'Who' or 'what.' Which would you like me to answer first?" The voice in the rafters became a bit louder. 'What' entails going into my species, genus, family, order, class, phylum, and kingdom, which'll take a while. Not that we don't have lots of free time. 'Who' is much simpler to answer. I'm Anansi."

"Nancy?" asked Diana. "Isn't that a girl's name?" The speaker from the rafters was male, though he was no man.

Drifting from the ceiling on a silk cord (really more resembling a piece of multicolored yarn) came a spider. Like most spiders, he had eight legs. Unlike most, the back six wore yellow rubber galoshes. The front two, which possessed hands, juggled a silver thimble between them.

In proportions, he was half Grace's height, but just as wide, and twice as long. Most of him consisted of thorax, where his yarn originated. In the space between his spinnerets and head, he wore a tan raincoat. His face was mostly obscured by a pair of toy glasses with a plastic nose and mustache mimicking the appearance of the comedian Groucho Marx. Two eyes gazed at the friends through fake lenses. An extra six maintained different perspectives.