Spinning

If I am to live to see next month, I will need her help. This has gone on far too long. And now I am coming to the end of my natural life. If she and I fail to forge our bond soon, I will return to dust.

‘Tis my fault, really. I became frustrated, then resentful, and then just stopped trying. She’s really not an idiot, simply undereducated. She lost her mother much too young and never completed her training in the cunning arts. And, honestly, her kind is so complacent now. While I’ve only been on this earth a relatively short time, the knowledge of the ages fills me. It seems the witches are safe to peddle their wares in the square without so much as a raised eyebrow from the townfolk, unlike with those who came before. And they have become such mundane wares. Soaps. Tinctures. Nothing like the powerful amulets and charms of generations gone by. She knows not the fire that courses through her veins. There’s been no need to summon it for so very long. I can help her.

But she loves that cat so damn much. Her adoration for him clouds her sight. She does not know the difference between a companion and a familiar. That fat ball of fluff. And so lazy. She charmed crocks to lure mice and placed them in all the corners of the cottage. The loafing beast doesn’t even have to hunt. Anyone who knows anything can plainly see what a laughable familiar he would make.

Though, I suppose one could say the same about me. It is definitely unusual for a spider to be charged as a familiar, but that is my plight. I tried for years to get her attention, but it has not worked. I’m too small. And she thinks she has already summoned her familiar. So I keep to my web in a shadowy, high corner of the cottage where she cannot reach me. Of course, she could magic me away if she noticed me, but she doesn’t notice much. I watch and I think and I try to come up with a plan to garner enough of her attention for her to see.

And now I have one. To get rid of him.

I do not have powers, but I should have some influence over the other creatures. Part of my duty as a familiar is to liaise with other creatures. Many of them, however, seem confused about this because the witch and I are yet to formalize our bond. Anyway, for my plan I will need the help of some subset of the other animals. Recruiting the other spiders would be the easiest, but I would prefer not to use them because that would damage my credibility with the witch. I imagine she would not take kindly to a spider familiar if her beloved cat had just succumbed to a spider bite. Realistically, this leaves the snakes, the raptors, the wasps, the fox, and possibly the raccoon as options.

For the first time in weeks, I leave my web. I squeeze through the gap between the wall and the roof, then make my way out and up into the crisp, dusky evening. Over the wood shakes I go toward a silhouette perched where the roof pitches skyward. It is the screech owl, small and swift. She is not the acquaintance I was hoping to see, but alas. Time is of the essence.

She feels me approaching. While I have no powers, I must have some sort of aura. I’m never able to sneak about when it comes to any dealings with the other creatures. Her amber eyes are fixed upon me. She cocks her head left, then right, then left again, and then more extremely right. With that I put my intention out to her:

The cat.

Gone.

Your kind.

Help?

She flaps her wings, rustles her tawny feathers, and turns her head nearly completely around and back again. She sends back to me:

The cat.

Me?

Too small.

I would have much preferred to come upon a larger or more influential member of these taloned creatures of the sky. Obviously the screech owl is too small. She’s barely the height of a rat on its hind legs. But that’s not what I’m requesting. I try again:

Not you.

A big one.

Please?

She stretches her wings and gives a little shake. She checks her surroundings again, perhaps looking for a larger raptor to consult. Then she relates:

The cat.

His fluff.

Good nest material.

So lazy too.

No threat.

Sorry.

Exasperated, I turn to head back to the comfort of my web, when a movement in the garden catches my eyes. The racoon. He’s eating a pumpkin that was left too long on the vine. I cast a silken line and float his way. My aim is pretty good. I land on a fence post nearby. I scurry down the post, through the grass and weeds and vines, and up onto the soft, stinky skin of the rotting gourd. I put my intention into the ether:

The cat.

Gone.

You.

Help?

He rolls toward me. He reclines. Holding his slimy paw aloft to lick the fermented flesh away, he is a gluttonous emperor of old. I can already tell I won’t like his answer:

No time.

Beaver moon.

Winter.

Must eat and eat.

He is right, of course. I won’t waste my time trying to convince him otherwise. Also, I’ve been out here long enough. I’m getting much too cold. I scuttle back to the fence post, climb up and cast off again, hoping to land as close to the cottage as I can.

This time, my aim is poor. My silk catches on the pump for the well and wraps me around the cold, metal shaft. I am heading to the top of the pump to try again, when my legs catch a scent. A tiny field mouse sips from the puddle that has formed beneath the spout of the pump. And there, in the grass behind it, a viper is coiled. Ready to strike. Half a heartbeat later, the snake springs toward the mouse. Its milky fangs flash in the moonlight. And that is it for the mouse.

I drop down to the ground on my line of silk. The serpent lays there, its thick body mounded upon itself, waiting for its venom to fully take effect. I approach.

“Oh, hello,” rasps the snake. Her narrow pupils glisten.

This creature is different.

“Good evening,” I respond, “You’re a good shot. Could I trouble you for some assistance with a bit of a problem I have?”

She gives a little shake of her rattle. “And who are you? And why would I bother?” Her body undulates about itself and before I know it she has me surrounded. Luckily, my silk is still attached should I need to make a quick getaway.

“I am destined to become the familiar of the witch who lives in this cottage here. However, I need some help making a gesture grand enough to get her attention and secure our bond,” I explain. “Should you help me, I can bring you into the fold. You seem an elevated life form compared to the rest of the creatures around here. I’m sure we could forge a partnership we would both find beneficial.”

She hisses. I cannot determine whether this is an agreeable hiss or an annoyed hiss as I’ve never conversed with a snake before.

“What are you asking me to do?” she whispers.

“I want the cat dead. My venom cannot do that. Can your venom do that?”

“It will take a lot, but I think it can,” she answers. “But I just bit this mouse, so I will need some time to replenish.”

Feeling optimistic, I launch into the logistics. We will need to strike when the witch is out for the day, otherwise she will just use her magic or her potions to save the cat. The serpent explains that she will need several days to accumulate enough venom, but would not like to push this much longer than a week because by then she’ll be getting quite hungry. We agree to meet on the stoop of the cottage on the morning of the witch’s next market day, four days from today.

With all of that settled, I make my way back up the well pump, cast off, and drift toward the cottage. I land on the window sill, find a cranny along the frame, and make my way inside and up to the rafters. As I settle in my web for the night, it crosses my mind that a snake with such abilities as this one may not be the most trustworthy of co-conspirator. But that’s not fair, now is it? Much like the snake, I too have a bit of a historical reputation, and I know myself to be plenty upstanding (cat murder-for-hire aside, I suppose).

My second-guessing is interrupted by a pair of emerald eyes sparkling in the fire light below. The long-haired tabby is standing in the middle of the worn, round rug with his green eyes staring in my direction. He holds this gaze a beat too long, as if he can, in fact, see me. Then he turns and leaps. He lands on the heap of quilts piled atop the witch asleep in her bed. The witch is none the wiser.

***

The morning of the fourth day is clear and cool. I am waiting on the lip of the witch’s water pail on the stoop of the cottage. I watch as the witch loads her cart. She piles it high with crates. Some hold vegetables. Some hold vials and flasks of her drams and tonics. She hooks up the donkey to the cart and starts off. She won’t be back til nearly sunset. I hope the snake shows up soon.

Moments later, the grass swishes as the serpent slides into view. In the daylight, she looks even more menacing than she did the evening that we met. Her body is thick. Her head is angled like the head of a spear. With the sun shining bright, her pupils are but a faint vertical crack in her golden irises. Her scales look rough. Her rattle is impressive. She’s mostly the color of sand with a ribbon of black weaving across her back.

She greets me with a flick of her inky tongue. “Good morning,” I say, “Let’s get on with it. The cat is inside. I’m sure he’s sleeping, as that is what he is usually doing. Will you need to land a bite on his neck to be effective?”

“No. The placement does not matter. I just need to hang on long enough to inject a great deal of venom if we wish for the cat to die quickly. You lead the way,” the snake replies.

We make our way through a chink in the logs next to the door frame. There lies the cat, just as I thought he would be, sleeping by the hearth. We quietly inch toward the middle of the floor.

“You know,” susurrates the viper, “I was thinking, I’m going to start the mission off a little differently than we’d originally been thinking.”

“You are the professional,” I answer, “As long as it gets the job done.”

“Yes. The cat will be dead, and quickly. But I was thinking,” said the snake, “ I’d much rather become the witch’s familiar myself. I think I could be if I eat you first.”

The snake’s quiet, even tone has me so confident in her dedication to the mission, it takes me a second before I realize what she has said. But that is too long.

Before I can even contemplate an escape plan, her tail whips me and I am skittering across the floor. Legs over abdomen over cephalothorax. As I skid to a stop and get my bearings, she is upon me. Her dark maw. Then, blackness. Nothing.

But I am not gone. I feel as if I am melting. I am here, but I am not me. At least, I’m not all me. I am morphing, merging with this other thing. But what is it?

Then a flash and I am seeing again. But my vision is different. I see the blazing fire and the cat’s warm body, but not much else. I am the snake? The snake is me. Are we a we? I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter because I don’t feel dead and the mission is the same. Kill the cat.

Stealthily, I weave across the floor. I am so close. I wind up. I launch.

But before I can land my bite, the cat is airborne. He lands and I am pinned. I whip my tail about, but it is no use. He has both his front paws on the back of my head. I cannot turn. I cannot bite. He deploys his claws. I writhe in agony. And then he bites. I feel a searing pain, then a severing where my head meets my body.

Then, blackness. Nothing.

It takes longer this time, but I realize I’m still not gone. This time it feels more like a whirlpool pulling me down, down, down. It seems never ending. Finally, a sensation of hitting the bottom. Then the merging. It is slow this time, like being stitched together.

And then with a flash, I am back yet again. The colors of the world are more muted. The lines are less sharp. The cottage door creaks. The witch is back. Her eyes fall upon me and a smile spreads across her face.

“And what do you have there?” she says as she kneels in front of me and stretches out her hand. I look down to where she reaches. The snake’s rattle is between my paws. My paws?

I’ve done it. I am the witch’s familiar.