Spiderkid (2 page)

The headache subsides, and I feel my body relaxing, going through the transition from wakefulness to sleep. But then my skin crawls with goosebumps, my nose and ears get maddeningly itchy. I'm about to scratch when I feel something move across the palm of my hand.

I fling the compress from my eyes. There are spiders all over my body. Common house spiders crawl into my nose, my ears, my mouth. And there are more of them on the bed, converging on me. Soon, I'll be entirely covered in spiders.

I've loved spiders my entire life. Nevertheless, I scream. More spiders crawl down my throat. My arms lie still, refusing to obey my frantic commands to swat away the arthropods.

There's a loud banging at the door. My landlord shouts: “What's going on in there? If you don't open up, I'm going to unlock the door and come in.”

The spiders scurry away. I stop screaming, and I have just enough time to pull the sheets over me as the landlord bursts into my small apartment, wide-eyed and anxious.

My breath is laboured, my throat parched. I try to talk, but the words won't come out.

The landlord's face flickers between embarrassment and irritation. He looks around, and says, “What's with all the cobwebs? Don't you ever clean this place? Fucking students.”

Finally I say, taking deep breaths between each syllable, “Just a nightmare. Sorry. I'm so sorry.”

When I start crying, he leaves without another word.

I take down my website and email the lawyer to inform him that I've complied with his request. Then I forage for spiders, and I gather them into a plastic container. I let them loose in the backyard. I fill up a bucket with soapy water, and I scrub the whole apartment carefully, getting rid of all the spider webs.

Marie doesn't call.

She doesn't call the next day, either. Nor the day after that. Nor . . .

I finish my history paper barely in time, although I had to miss a few classes. There are notes online, so I should be okay as long as I keep up with the readings. I immerse myself in schoolwork.

I try not to think of Marie.

It's been almost two weeks since that night.

Someone's knocking at my door, firmly but not too loudly. I glance at my alarm clock. It's 2:00 a.m., but I wasn't asleep.

I barely sleep at all anymore.

I pull on some shorts and a T-shirt. I open the door. It's Sam.

“Hey,” he says.

I don't say anything. I shiver, and then I nod him in. I turn on a lamp, one that's not too bright.

He slowly walks through the apartment, peering at everything, running his fingers on the spines of my spider books, smiling at my Spiderkid merchandise, frowning at the scrubbed walls.

I stand immobile, watching him. He's wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a jean jacket. He walks with grace and strength.

Finally he sits down at the kitchen table.

I say, “Want some tea?”

“Sure. That would be good.”

We don't speak while I make the tea.

I get a fresh lemon from the fridge and cut it up in wedges. I put the wedges in a small bowl, and I put it down on the table. I take out two mugs, two teaspoons, a jar of honey. Then I bring the steaming teapot over to where he sits, and I sit, too.

While the tea steeps, Sam says, “Marie was moved that you're still wearing the necklace.” He reaches out toward my throat, and I make an effort not to flinch. He presses his fingers tenderly on the effigy of Nyiko. I realize now that I've haven't taken it off since the night I met them, since I saw Marie again.

He says, “Nyiko. Spiderkid. Arachne. Anansi. They're all degraded memories of God. Of the primordial Spider who wove the universe into being.”

Suddenly, I'm impatient and irritable. I ask, sharply, “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Right. It's Marie. She's been a wreck. She can't sleep. All she can think about is you, and you stay away. Don't you love her?”

“But she hasn't called me. I left my number. I wanted — ”

“The way you snuck away . . . and that cold, impersonal note. Marie's afraid that you're not sure if you want to be with her anymore. If you're going to toy with her . . . fuck. I don't know whether to drag you back or scare you away.” I look down at his hands, and I see his fists tighten in frustration. “She admires you. She's always wanted to be together with you again. But she was afraid that you'd moved on after that mess with your families and wouldn't want her anymore. Her whole life has been upended. She needs you to be clear about what you want.”

I meet his eyes, and I see how much he cares for her. Something breaks inside me; I know that I'm beginning to love him.

We've got a bottle of wine going. The three of us are packing up my stuff; the process is neither efficient nor rapid. There's a lot of laughter, kidding around, kissing, and groping.

We began early Saturday morning. We finally get everything into boxes as the Sunday morning sun rises.

We go out for breakfast, and then Sam leaves to get the rental truck, so we can move me into their apartment. Our apartment, Marie corrects me.

Marie and Sam sit across from me on the floor of the living room. We're all naked. I stare at the spiders tattooed all over their bodies. Between us, there's a sealed clay urn decorated with a painting of a giant mesothele spider.

It's not quite dawn yet, and there are candles burning. Marie's eyes are closed; she is chanting softly, almost humming. Sam stares hard into my eyes while he talks solemnly. I don't want to be nervous, but I can't help it.

“God the Spider devoured the previous, dead universe, and then wove this universe into being. God has no name and no gender. Its memory lives on in degraded form in human folklore. Some peoples have not forgotten that Spider created the universe, and they gave God a name, made up stories based on their primordial memories but filtered through their cultures. Around the world Spider is worshipped as creator, in either male or female aspects: for the Akan of West Africa, Anansi Kokuroko is the spider god of creation; in the Congo, the name is Mebege; the Kiribati in the Pacific refer to the creator as Nareau the spider. In the Americas, the creator is remembered as Spider Woman: Koyangwuti to the Hopi, Sussistanako to the Pueblos, Teotihuacan to the Aztec. For comics fans, God has become a superhero called Spiderkid.”

He cracks a smile, and I relax.

I straighten my back, and I nod at Sam. I'm ready. He nods back.

Marie is still humming.

Sam leans forward and takes the lid off the urn. Marie's mouth opens wide, and now she's chanting a high note that conveys joy, anticipation, and awe.

Two mesothele spiders crawl out of the urn toward Sam and Marie. They climb onto my lovers' toes and move upward. The spiders reach Sam and Marie's open mouths. Sam and Marie extend their tongues, and the spiders crawl onto them, then disappear down their throats.

Sam is chanting, too, now.

For a while nothing happens. Then Sam and Marie fall silent, their eyes bulge, and their bodies convulse.

Legions of mesothele spiders file out from Sam and Marie's tattoos. The primitive spiders crawl toward me, subsume my body.

I feel their jaws dig into my flesh. The pain is delicious. I welcome the creator.

Claude Lalumière (
lostpages.net
) is the editor of eight anthologies, including
Island Dreams: Montreal Writers of the Fantastic
and the Aurora Award-nominated
Tesseracts Twelve: New Novellas of Canadian Fantastic Fiction
. He writes the Fantastic Fiction column for
The Montreal Gazette
. Claude is the co-creator, with artist Rupert Bottenberg, of Lost Myths (
lostmyths.net
).

“Spiderkid” first appeared in
Reflection’s Edge
#22 (February 2007).