Once upon a time there was a fierce and feeble woman – no longer young, but not yet old. She carried inside her a silver chest, and lying inside it on a black velvet lining was a warm and pulsing wound. Like the hearer of the tell-tale heart, she never escaped the background thrum of its secret pain. At times during her travels the silver chest became too heavy and black a load to bear and she needed to open herself up cleanly, surgically, bloodlessly, an autopsy of her inner chambers, and remove the silver chest. Sometimes she was alone then, and terrible storms would ensue. She would be battered by gusts of loathing, and loss, and doubt, and fear, and most of all a deep revulsion of her own inner chambers and all that resided within. Sometimes she removed the silver chest in the presence of a very trusted companion. She was fortunate. No one [no one but the first one – but that is another story] -- no one leapt back in disgust. Some couldn’t see the wound but would listen to her description. Some couldn’t hear the wound, and the sight of it would make them nervous – deaf as they were to the pleas echoing below. Some saw it and heard it and saw the pain it caused her and tried to help her with the load. They coached and trained and lifted her up when she stumbled exhausted and spent – all so that she could grow the muscles and strengthen the spine that would help her follow her path and carry her load.
Many times the woman felt she could go no further. That it would be kinder, righter, to remove the silver chest and lay down in the warm waters and sleep.
What kept her on her trek? Why did she rise in the mornings with a cold heart touched with dread and emptiness, and still continue? Oh, there were moments of such beauty, such grace, such loft that she knew – for a moment – that it was good to breathe and witness and feel such things. But for the most part her days had been accommodation.
And then the woman built a family [as women are wont to do]. And the family became another reason to stay on her trek. At times it was the only reason.
Today the woman entered a castle tower. It is important you understand just exactly what kind of castle tower this was. It was round and made of soft grey stone, cool and velvety to the touch with oases of green moss tucked amongst them. The stone was not cut with sharp edges and right angles. Instead the masons had allowed each stone to keep most of its gentle, meandering profile, and strove to slip it into the exact space to suit it.
When the woman entered the tower, she did so from above. That is, she began at the top of the tower and wound her way down the spiral stone interior. There was no railing, so she leaned a bit on the tower wall while she made her way down slowly, a careful step at a time.
At the bottom of the steps was a small round space, the exact interior diameter of the tower. But in one corner [aha yes, I know the space is round – but it feels like a corner] there was a rounded bit of wall extending into the room as if a blister or air pocket had developed against the interior wall of the tower.
And she approached.
And from above that wall peered an enormous spider. Larger than herself by twice at least. Furry and dark. She had no desire to approach or touch it, but it did not scare her as much as she thought it should. Unsettled her surely.
And she did not want to know this, but slowly she did. It was the spider she had come to see. Whether the spider would be an agent of pain, hysteria, even death she did not know. But she knew her trek had brought her here.
She sat on the cool soft grey stones and spoke to the spider. Not aloud – at least she didn’t think so. The woman thought to her. For by now, the woman knew the spider was female, though how she knew, she couldn’t say. The spider did not reply. It did not make a sound, and try as she might the woman could not gather even a passing thought that might have been a message from the spider. So the woman curled up on the cool soft grey stones and fell asleep. And the spider was with her. And the spider did not talk but it did point, gesturing with its legs to pictures. Pictures of the woman long ago. Long ago. Longer ago than the woman really felt she should have pictures of. And for a brief moment, the woman was brave enough and strong enough to look at those pictures. To enter those pictures. To feel the little girl she had been. Must have been. But the moment was brief and she woke, shaken and aching. With the desire to talk about what she had seen. What she had felt. What she had been. When she rose to her feet she realized the spider was still peering out at her in exactly the same position it had been. And she realized something else, she had new pictures to look at in her head – pictures she did not understand but knew were messages from the spider.
Behind the wall, behind the spider, nestled in the curve of the tower wall she saw something small and glisteny and light. A seashell? A pearl? A fragment of some delicate porcelain? She couldn’t focus on the picture in her head to know more. And another image. And image of the spider filling the tower interior with web. Frantically spinning and spinning. Rolling some things into tight little balls of spider silk. Spinning bridges and ladders amongst the matter [debris? treasure?] collected in those opaque balls.
The woman shook her head. She needed water. She needed sunlight. She wanted answers.
As the woman climbed the soft grey stones towards the sunlight, she noticed. She was quiet. For the 20 lovely steps to the top of the tower, and for a dozen or so steps after along her path, the silver chest was quiet and she could hear herself breathe.
