arachne: a twist in the tale

There is a loom resting in the corner of a house. It throws shadows upon tiled walls as the sun dances across the sky. A woman threads her fingers through strings of multifarious coruscating hues that hang limply from the beam. They tangle together like vines, riotous colors clashing, baring teeth at one other. These colors are bold, so different from the pale, insipid ones commonly used throughout Lydia. Those ones lack lustre, lack life. Women have resigned themselves to the dullness of the esoteric art that is called weaving. Often, they sit each with their kalathos and tiredly weave the yarn, a vacant look in their eyes. They operate robotically, their movements reluctant, automatic.

One girl, however, blooms with color. It spills out of her, filling up her house and the fields outside, stretching across the city, soaking into the wet soil, brimming till the tips of the world. She cradles the fleecy cloud now, crooning under her breath as she coaxes life into it. Vibrant shades of royal purple marry softer tones of emerald, colors that shine like glitter on the tips of green leaves and purple cabbage. Blushing, rubescent ruby speaks sweet susurrations to a blue that graces the depths of the oceans. These colors mold themselves around each other, waltzing along to a tune only they are able to fathom.

Her face is unlined, her shoulders loose and happy. She is an unruffled pond, bereft of ripples. She is the vespertine silence that hangs in the air beneath the moon. An idyllic song, a halcyon dream. Her fingers whip across the beam. An image is slowly forming within the threads. The curlicues in a maiden’s hair. The violent gleam in the eyes of an empyrean anthropomorphized figure, a god by design. He wears a black tunic, a crown of obsidian. The shades of spring swing by him, laughing. It is the tale of Hades and Persephone. The kidnap and the resentment, ultimately giving way to love and forgiveness. With time, even the deepest wounds can heal. They scab over. They leave a scar which never leaves. Superficially, all is forgotten.

Subcutaneously, however, all is remembered.

She pulls on a thread of titanium white. Persephone’s face, pale with anger. A thread pulsating with the metallic sheen of blood is looped within. A terrible battle, an abysmal war waged between the divine. A scintillating tint of silver string, sharp and deadly. The springy scent of lightning that stings the lungs, the stormy eyes of the god of the sky. Her adamantine resolve prevails. In the end, the god of death has been broken down, beaten to the knees. She is bleeding the sap of the gods, the golden ichor that laps languorously like waves against the shore. She stands before him, fatigue etched into the lines of her body, replacing the rage that once burned a hole through her very soul. He vanishes, his convalescent body pulled back to the depths of hell to heal. She watches his evanescent figure, collapsing to the earth. A bright burst of orange to paint her triumphant ululation, her howl of joy.

This final thread is tied into a knot the size of a dot of ink. Shears snip at loose ends - there will be no fraying cloth here. This is a story of revenge. A story of meting out justice where it is apposite. There is no uncertainty, no incomplete ending. All stitches have been exacted with precision and diligence. Punctiliously. There is not a single careless thing about this tapestry. It is vibrant and animated, prodigious in size and detail. Persephone’s sylph-like features curling delicately, her muliebrity a giddy aphrodisiac, a thing to get drunk on. Hades watching her lascivious figure with barely-contained avarice. The Underworld, various tones of gray perfectly encompassing the crepuscular gloom that extends incessantly, interminably, to the ends of the universe. The vanquish, the victory. The vivid verisimilitude is tangible, the bright bitterness of rage that blooms on the tongue, the heavy, hanging desolation felt in the labyrinthian maze of hell.

The woman steps away from her work. She scrutinizes the weaves, brushes her fingers gently across the threads pulled taut. It is her best work yet. Charming, raw, and filled with such brute force. She has never made one like it before, one speaking so openly of the power of female wrath. She wants to create something that stirs the hearts of her kin, that spurs in them the burning desire to live. She no longer wishes to see their eyes glaze over, unseeing, as they cook, or weave, or indulge in pleasurable activities. She no longer wishes to hear the forced politeness they summon forward when they chatter away at the market, piling their baskets high with bread, fish, and olives. She no longer wishes to witness the oppression faced by them on account of their sex of which they were born, branded like a mark upon them. Weaving is going to be the stuff of the gods again.

She demands it.

Now, she hoists the tapestry on her shoulder and walks out the door. Her feet bare, she treads the baked earthen ground. Children run through the courtyard, shouts of laughter echoing in the cool air. Small stalls selling cheeses and grapes are lined up at the boarders. Arachne makes her way to the center of the courtyard and drapes her tapestry over a large patch of a colorful mosaic of Poseidon, kingly and wielding his three-tipped trident. The noisy chatter surrounding her dwindles as pedestrians notice her. Ignoring them, she straightens the heavy cloth, brushing away stray leaves and mud. She urns on her heel, and walks back in the direction she came from.

She hears their gasps over her shoulder, and tips her head to the side. Her smile shines a mile away.

She is well aware of what they call her: enchantress, queen, even goddess. Why, they say, Arachne’s skills could rival those of the grey-eyed one, the mistress of crafts, Pallas herself! Arachne wishes they would not speak such things. While she is good, quite possibly even the best, comparing her talents to those of a creature of the heavens will surely bring trouble upon her head. She is not some highfalutin royal bragging about her glory. She is simply the meagre daughter of a purple wool dyer, who sees beauty in art.

A few hours later, there is a banging on her door. An old woman stands behind it, face sweet and wrinkled, resting her weight on a gnarled wooden cane. She mentions the tapestry, lauding its florid design and brave story. However, she says, people are talking. Comparing your work to Athena’s. The goddess will not be pleased to learn of an upstart mortal claiming to be better than her. Arachne sighs. She knew this would happen. I am not an upstart mortal, my lady, she says. All I want is to enjoy my art. The people will say what they say - I cannot stop them. But I take no part in it. She says, If Pallas hears of this nonsense, she can descend to the realm of the living and put an end to it. Show everybody why she is a goddess in the first place - because she is all-knowing, and more powerful than one could imagine.

The old woman gazes steadily up at the girl. Do you really not believe that you are a better weaver than the goddess?

Arachne says tiredly, Maybe I am. I do not know. I do not care. I know that I am good at what I do, and if it is so that I am better than a goddess, so be it.

Immediately, the old woman straightens. The cane drops from her palms. Her eyes darken, grey clouds forming within. The wrinkles on her face recede, replaced by smooth, golden skin. Her white hair turns black as ebony, straight as a pin and shining. An eidolon, descended from the empyrean world above. She carries with her a shield, painted with the egregious visage of Medusa, the cursed gorgon.

Her voice thunders. You dare claim to be better than I at my own craft? Arachne’s pulse flutters at her throat, like the wings of a bird. She knows the appellation of this entity, but she does not utter it. She swallows her fear and says, My lady, I never claimed such a thing. I simply never disagreed with it. I am a good weaver. Even you must admit that. Whether I am better than you or not must be put to the test.

Pallas considers. She is irascible at the mere idea of Arachne being the superior craftswoman between them. A contest! She decides. A competition, to determine the better weaver. Arachne pales. She steels herself, standing tall over the surreptitious trembling of her hands. A battle of the weavers. It is done.

Over the next few days, the gossip spreads like wildfire across the town of Lydia. Young and old, big and small, strong and frail, brave and weak - all gather to watch the two weavers at work. Athena sits on an ornate wooden chair, a tunic the color of cream billowing at her feet. Arachne settles herself on a stool, loom at the ready. The two lock eyes. The clock strikes 12 o’ clock.

It has begun.

The goddess spins a story around the majesty of the gods. Their accomplishments and victories. Their august exploits. Their altruism. Arachne paints the canvas with their mistakes. Their erroneous ways and flaws. Their hubris. Their humanity.

The two go at it for days, with little food or drink, foreheads beaded with concentration. Finally, they are done. Fingers numb, bones aching, eyes shot through with red. Their tapestries are revealed. Athena looks over at the girl’s creation and gasps. It is pulchritudinous in its intricacy, in its egregious portrayal of the heavenly. And yet.

You have made a mockery of the gods, she bellows. In her rage, she tears the cloth to shreds. The townsfolk gape at the tumultuous scene. Arachne, stunned and crestfallen, rushes home. She grabs a piece of rope and hangs it from the wall, intending to use it as an exit from the wonderful thing called life. She thinks bitterly, There is no point in living. The gods despise me. I have lost.

Athena rushes in, and with a flick of her wrist loosens the rope around her neck. The rope begins to change shape, undergoing some strange metamorphosis. It becomes thin and limpid, stretching and sticking to the surrounding walls. Its deceptively delicate structure is webbed and geometric, symmetrical shapes interlocking.

Pallas turns her eyes towards the girl. Arachne gazes at her body in horror, watching as her limbs elongate, grow black and hairy, increase in number. Her jaws tighten, mandibles protruding. Her back hunches, becoming curved and rounded. Tiny beady eyes dot the slope of her small, spherical abdomen. The only things that remain the same are the two that lie at the center of her belly. They are bright with tears, swimming with confusion. The goddess looks upon the arachnid, gaze pained and pitying. Your kind, she whispers, will forever be the masters of weaving. Nobody will ever attempt to thieve that title from you again. Pallas walks out the door. She doesn’t come back.

Arachne crawls out of her home, feeling voided. Empty. She climbs up a tree, and settles on a branch. From her perch, she sees the townspeople milling about outside her house, wondering at her absence. Tears slip from her eyes. She swings across the branch, feels something shoot out of her. A web. She swings onto a different branch, extending it, creating a pattern. After a while of swinging and shooting, she settles, beholding the sight of a glimmering design. It is nestled between a few branches, and reflects the dying rays of sunlight on its surface, dripping with dew. It is beautiful. She sighs, a puff of air exiting her small body.

This is alright, she thinks.

It is alright.