The Weaver

Jeb was a professional. He knew what to do, how to do it and when to do it. When others had questions, Jeb was the one they sought for advice. He gave it. "Helping a fellow is helping yourself", as his late mother used to say. Bless her lovely heart. Plucked right out of her web — by some eye-licking lizard — in the middle of a meal she was. One moment she was feasting on one of those fancy winged flies. Next moment, gone! A good way to go in the greater scheme of things, Jeb supposed, but he still missed her dearly.

She had taught him the ins and outs of the spider business. Proper spider business, that is. Where you build great webs that shine like a weave of finest pearls in the early morning dew. Not like those ground-digging excuses for a spider who liked to crawl up under some leaf or rock and wait for whatever poor sod comes across their path. Ambush tactics, waiting under a rock like that. No finesse. No, proper spiders build proper nets at proper locations, and that's that!

The trick, his mother taught him, was to weave them on an east-west plane to catch the sun as it rises. Looks marvellous when the tiny droplets, resting on thin silver threads, are illuminated by beams of warming sunlight to create a weave of pearls and diamonds, shining through the rising morning mist like dawning stars. Besides, the heating is simply more efficient that way. Jeb shuddered at the thought of walking over cold threads in the morning. The chill would travel straight up his little legs and take root around the patella — his third kneecap. Way to ruin the start of an otherwise perfectly fine day.

"Jeb!" a tiny little voice called out from beneath. "Jeb, sir! Down here... Down here, sir!" the caller repeated over and over. Waving two fuzzy front legs frantically over his head while nervously skipping from one foot to the other.

"Yes, Sim, what are you howling at?" Jeb shot back at him abruptly.

"Just reporting in as you asked, sir!"

"That's all right, chap, at ease! Go ahead then. How are we proceeding?"

"Doing quite well, sir, quite well indeed. The sisters have covered the north corner already, no ins or outs that way, sir. The eastern passage should be completed as we speak by the Babsi Boys, full corner coverage, light source configuration and airflow adjustments in place, sir."

"Glad to hear it, good work! What about the south-western vectors then? Did Jackson and Bob get things in order?"

"Yes, about that..." Sim hesitated, searching his mind for the right words. "We had a bit of an incident, sir. A mantis. Miss Swanson, I think." Sim rapidly tapped his tiny front claws together, glancing at the floor for something to rest his eyes on. "Jackson and Bob are, well, I don't know how to put it, sir. They are being breakfast as we speak, sir."

"Blasted fools! I told them not to build too far towards the patio; that's Miss Swanson's hunting grounds." Jeb scratched his mandibles, considering the options. "Nothing much we can do for them now, I'm afraid — horrible way to go, though. We'll have to make sure their next of kin are told they died like heroes, fighting the good fight. Brave lads!"

"I'll see to it, sir, top of the list."

Jeb dismissed his lackey with a gesture and retreated to his contemplation corner. The setback at the south-western vector was significant, but not a complete failure. The webs Jackson and Bob had built, before walking into the claws of Miss Swanson, would still hold the area free of infestations. For a time. A beam of sunlight had begun a journey over Jeb's back legs, continuing over his sternum before finally reaching his eyes. Jeb looked up and shaded himself against the optical intrusion — dawn was finally here. And with it, insects! Millions of them! Swarming, buzzing, humming, and whining insects that would invade and crawl into spaces they had no business in. Always getting stuck between windows, curtains or the blinds while causing a ruckus as they try to get back out. Or falling into the juice on Master's table, flopping around like it's the Sunday swimming pool practice. Useless, the lot of them.

No, Jeb would have none of that. Not today. Not any day. He and the master of the house had a well-functioning system, a gentlemen's agreement, really, and Jeb would make damn sure to uphold his part of the bargain; Master would move Jeb outside when it was time for the weekly purge, or when the screeching woman became upset about something. In return, Jeb made sure the house was protected with state-of-the-art anti-insect systems. It was a win-win situation. Jeb got well fed, more than he could handle, to tell the truth, while the house was kept free from pests. Jeb — being the professional he was — made sure to stay out of sight, working from the dark nooks and corners of the house to keep out of Master's business. 

Jeb took in the view from his corner right above the kitchen entrance. He felt a deep satisfaction and pride this morning; the house was perfectly webbed up and better protected than ever! Hiring a handful of henchspiders to cover more ground had paid off. Expensive and with some unfortunate casualties, but they knew the risks and the results spoke for themselves. Jeb took a deep breath; if spiders could have smiled, he would have been grinning right now. A vibration in one of the threads revealed that the first catch for the day had found its way into Jeb's net. A pesky little fly, from what the tremors in the line were telling him. He headed out to take care of business; this was going to be a good day indeed.

Mrs Parkins did not have a good day. The car came to a slow stop on the driveway. As the engine shifted from its "Help! I'm internally broken" rattling and rumbling to light tinks and pings when it began to cool, she leaned back into the driver's seat, closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths to calm her racing pulse. At work, Susan had, as always, turned what should have been an email into a two-hour meeting, and in the parking garage someone had kindly rear-ended her car. Superficial scratches, but it wasn't so much the damage that bothered her, but rather the masterful act of self-sacrifice and snarky comments her husband would keep dropping for having to spend a few hours over the weekend polishing the scrapes down. Now she just wanted to get home, have some delivery food and sign out for the weekend. After a few deep breaths, her pulse reached normal levels, and she headed for the front door.

The lock clicked open. Purse hung on the coat rack. Kicking off the shoes that had been murdering her feet for the last three hours. Something sticky clings to her hand, thin tendrils twining between her fingers. Breath goes shallow. A quick turn towards the bathroom door just to have more of the same clingy fibres stuck over her face. It gets in her hair as she starts brushing it off, pulling more of the threads across her eyes and mouth. Mrs Parkins would have been bothered by her undignified staccato of spitting, puffing and curses if not for her increasingly panicking thoughts — exploring ideas of blowtorches and arson instead.

Then she feels it, a small little 'thump' in her hair, tickling feet moving over her scalp making a run for it towards the nape of her neck. Curses turn to high-pitched screams. In hindsight, Mrs Parkins felt almost impressed by the interpretive dance moves a woman her age and stature had no business attempting. But at the time, her single most important goal in life was to reach the safety of the cleaning closet. Vacuum cleaner. Purgatory to all eight-legged horrors who dared to invade her home.