* * * *
4
Doctor Muffet's laboratory was not what Drake expected, but as he had hardly known what to expect, there was no surprise in that. The only workshop he had ever seen that might be entitled to such a name was Tom Digges’ establishment in Greenwich, and that had been more like a jeweler's manufactory than an alchemist's lair.
Muffet, as a physician, was fully entitled to be more interested in potions and powders, and there were plenty of those on display, along with the alembics and mortars necessary to their preparation. What Drake had not expected to see, though, was the great assortment of live creatures mustered in the doctor's outhouses, in all manner of cages and glass vivaria. He had thought the islet he had visited that morning abundantly stocked with parrots and other kinds of birds, but Tahiti itself must have a dozen native species for every one he had seen there, and Muffet appeared to have captured representatives of a substantial fraction of them. It was the large and brightly colored birds that caught Drake's attention first—especially the ones that were not caged, which flew toward them when Muffet, Drake, and Patience stepped across the threshold of the first laboratory.
Patience put up her arm to provide a perch for one of the parrots: a blue and yellow macaw, which seemed even larger than it was in juxtaposition with the slender girl. “Hello, Agamemnon,” she said, gaily.
"Hello, Patience,” the bird replied.
Drake laughed. He had seen a dozen trained birds in the Caribbean, especially among the Cimaroons, although no man in his own crew had ever tried to tame one.
"Is all well?” Patience asked, taking care to enunciate the words clearly.
"All's well!” the bird squawked—and two or three of its companions repeated the phrase, almost in unison; “All's well!"
"Remarkable!” said Drake—but he was already beginning to look past the birds as the macaw left its makeshift perch for a sturdier one mounted beneath the outbuilding's slanted roof. As he advanced further into the room he saw that the first vivarium he came to was occupied by a company of small lizards—but they could not hold Drake's eye for long, when he perceived that the next one was tenanted by half a dozen spiders. They seemed like giants, until he looked at the next vivarium, which held two specimens of even greater dimension.
It was then that he began to look around more rapidly, in frank alarm, as he realized that among more than fifty glass vessels and twenty wicker cages contained in the room—which only constituted a third of Muffet's research establishment—at least forty contained spiders.
Drake had seen large spiders before, in Panama and Peru, but not like the ones that Thomas Muffet had accumulated in his various enclosures. Their bodies ranged in size from the dimensions of a man's closed fist to the full capacity of a man's head, and the length and sturdiness of their legs increased in proportion. Most were colored in shades of brown, sometimes striped with red, but a few were golden yellow and more elaborately patterned with black and blue.
Patience, who had observed Drake's reflexive reaction, was quick to say: “Don't be afraid, Captain. They're very friendly, although the Indians are terrified of them.” She was not merely parroting Thomas Muffet's reassurances, for it was obvious to Drake that the little girl was completely comfortable with the spiders. She moved from vivarium to vivarium and cage to cage, extending her tiny hands toward their various inhabitants without showing the slightest sign of fear or repugnance. Indeed, she was more than willing to take the lids off glass-fronted boxes or unhook the latches of cages to reach into them, allowing specimens that she could not possibly have held in her tiny hands to climb her arms and sit upon her shoulders.
"Hello, Achilles,” she said to one, and “Hello, Hector,” to another.
For a split second, Drake almost expected Achilles to say hello in his turn, and Hector to declare that all was well.
Drake had always reckoned himself a brave man, but when Patience extended one of these huge spiders toward him, offering to let him accommodate it on the sleeve of his jerkin, he shook his head in flat refusal.
"You'll get used to them, Captain,” Patience assured him. “They never bite unless they feel threatened."
"I'd heard that there was no Englishman more interested in insects than yourself,” Drake murmured to Thomas Muffet, making an effort to keep his voice perfectly calm. “I hadn't realized that the interest in question was so closely connected with your medical endeavors."
"Spiders are arachnids, not insects,” Muffet told him. “They're entirely distinct, not merely in the number of their limbs and the articulation of their bodies, but in their modes of nourishment. All spiders are predators, but they're only able to consume their food in liquid form. They have no larval stages, as insects have, and the silk they produce has very different properties and uses. The so-called silkworm produces fiber to make the cocoon in which it awaits metamorphosis into its adult form—fruitlessly, when human cultivators intervene—but spidersilk is a versatile construction material used to build cable-like strands, complex webs and exotic funnels. We humans may think all crawling creatures much alike, but from their own viewpoint there's as much difference between insects and spiders as there is between insects and men."
That struck a chord in Drake's mind. Although he had not been present when the incident took place, he had been told that Walter Raleigh had been attacked by a spider on the moon. Digges had mentioned in relating the incident that the multitude of insects and molluscs, which made up the populace of the stars, seemed to look upon spiders with the same horror and repulsion that many humans did.
"Is that creature not poisonous?” Drake asked, unable to prevent his unease becoming manifest as he watched a particularly repulsive specimen crawl out of a capacious cage and along Patience's welcoming arm.
"Not dangerously so,” Muffet said. “It's true that many hunting spiders use venom to paralyze their prey, and that humans sometimes react badly to such injections, but in functional terms, spider venom is no more akin to the crude stings of wasps or the toxins secreted by snakes than the species themselves are. Most natural venoms are defensive weapons, but spider secretions need to be a great deal more versatile than that. They have not merely to immobilize their prey but to transform the various flesh of many different species to prepare it for ingestion in liquid form. It's a kind of alchemy of the flesh, whose potential extends far beyond mere murder and digestion."
The monster was sitting on Patience's head now. She moved her head slowly from side to side, her eyes taking on a quizzical expression much like those worn by the parrots that were studying Drake and the spiders, equally warily, from the safety of their perches. Drake felt a sudden and rather absurd sense of fellow-feeling with the birds—who must, he supposed, have had plenty of time to get used to the company of their fellow guests, but seemed not to have taken the trouble to become very closely acquainted.
"Are you saying that some spider secretions might have curative value?” Drake asked.
"There's no might about it,” Muffet replied, serenely. “Is that so surprising? There are a thousand plant species whose juices have curative value, as well as a much lesser number that are deadly poisons. Galenists and Paracelsians alike use leeches to draw blood. Like the chemical realm whose treasures were exposed by Paracelsus, the animal kingdom is a vast untapped resource of medical science, which might produce abundant rewards even if one were compelled to explore it blindly, with no other method than trial and error."
Drake knew little enough about Paracelsian medicine, but there had been controversy in abundance when Muffet had initially been refused entry into the Royal College of Physicians, and every educated man in England—not excluding playwrights, choristers, and marine officers—had heard something of the manner in which Paracelsus had determined the propriety of his new chemical cures by means of occult analogies. All occult scientists—alchemists most of all—were holists, who considered that the universe was host to many secret patterns of analogy and influence. If suc
h patterns could be identified linking human illnesses to the new chemical substances that were inflating the traditional lists of metals, salts, and essences, similar patterns could presumably be found linking the same illnesses to different animal species and substances. Drake inferred that Muffet was on the track of some such guiding pattern.
"They say in the Caribbean and Panama,” Drake observed, drawn into a tangential train of thought, “that the natives were perfectly healthy until the Spanish came, importing diseases that became terrible plagues. The Cimaroons gave elaborate testimony of their ravages—but I'm told that there are rumors of a different sort in every port in Europe, which say that sailors returning from the Americas brought back plagues of their own."
"Including the one for which Paracelsus pioneered the mercury treatment,” Muffet said. “We've had an opportunity to see something similar ourselves. The Tahitians appear to have been relatively free of disease before we arrived, living an idyllic existence in a land whose bounty is more closely akin to the Garden of Eden than anything else on earth—but, after our arrival, sicknesses began to spread. Some among the tribesmen are inclined to blame us for that, although our own people were as healthy as anyone could expect when we arrived here. I've had a good deal of success in treating the sicknesses, and I'm developing new cures at a rapid rate, but the Tahitians’ gratitude is understandably dilute. They have much the same attitude to spiders as Englishmen have, and the good example my daughter sets has no more effect on them than it has on you—for I can see that her familiarity in handling my allies adds to the discomfort of your attitude rather than soothes it."
Drake was, indeed, very glad to see Patience divest herself of the huge spider that she had been entertaining for the past ten minutes and replace it gently in a cage whose latch seemed quite secure. He found that his enthusiasm to see Doctor Muffet's laboratory had waned considerably since he had crossed its threshold, and that an insistent desire had slowly accumulated within him to leave and not come back. “I'm sorry,” he said to Muffet. “This is very strange to me, and there's a great deal to take aboard."
"Of course,” the doctor said, suavely. “I believe that dinner must be ready by now. Shall we rejoin Sir Humphrey? We have plenty of time, do we not?"
Do we? Drake wondered. He had not yet had time to think about remaking his plans, now that his ambition to be the first European to reach these islands had been thwarted. He had no idea where he ought to go next, or when—but the Austral continent still lay to the west, and two islands in close proximity, each larger than Tahiti. They, at least, might still be awaiting a first visitation by ocean-borne adventurers.
As they went back into Gilbert's house, however, Drake was struck by another thought. “I can understand why you didn't go to the Caribbean or Brazil in search of exotic spiders,” he said, “if those which live in England are too small to be of much use to you—the Spanish and the Portuguese would not be good neighbors, no matter how peaceful your intentions. But how did you know that there would be material to suit your purposes here? Even though you knew about the island's existence, you might have found it utterly devoid of spiderkind."
"Spiders are very efficient travelers,” Muffet told him. “They're far more widely distributed than you can probably imagine—and in the tropics, they very often grow to generous proportions, as do the insects that provide their primary prey."
"What other kinds of prey do they hunt?” Drake asked, since the question seemed to have been left dangling, and because all sailors had heard travelers’ tales about giant spiders that preyed on humankind.
"The largest species can trap small birds and mice,” Muffet told him. There was a slight hint of amusement in his voice, which testified to his familiarity with the same travelers’ tales. “Nothing bigger—so far as I know."
* * * *
5
The feast proved too much for Drake's stomach, although he could not help over-eating after such long privation. If he had confined himself to drinking water—as he knew full well that he ought to do—he would probably have kept his appetite in better check, but he was readily persuaded to try some palm wine. Once mild intoxication had taken hold he became too self-indulgent—though not as self-indulgent as the crewmen who were eating in the open air, around a group of cooking-fires, amid a crowd that included numerous young Tahitian women.
As he watched his men through the wide window of Gilbert's dining-room, it occurred to Drake that the natives might have more reasons than their new-found vulnerability to fevers to have taken a dislike to the invaders of their island, but the combination of drunkenness and the gripe soon drove all such serious thoughts from his mind.
In response to polite requests, Drake and Hammond told tales of their adventures in Panama, in which all their fellow guests seemed very interested. No one took the risk of asking him about the far more dramatic adventure he had experienced after the ethership's ascent, even though they had already told him that they did not agree with those who thought the experience delusional. Drake was grateful for that, although he was aware of the apparent inconsistency. Ashley—who had not sailed with Drake before this present expedition—willingly took on the burden of recounting their recent capture of the Peruvian port, and waxing lyrical about the treachery of the natives of Chile.
Patience Muffet, who was sitting next to Drake, asked him whether he had encountered any monsters like those described in myths and travelers’ tales. She seemed sincerely interested.
"The tales that mariners bring back home of terrible islands inhabited by cunning monsters, head-hunting savages, and avid cannibals are mostly lies intended to amuse,” Drake told her. “I've never encountered cannibals, or savages who make human sacrifice of all unwary visitors to huge monsters they worship as pagan gods. There's no need, mind, for such fancies as that to express the danger of a seaman's trade; it's a fortunate ship that returns home from an ocean crossing with more than half its crew alive and well. Disease and deprivation claim more lives than violence. The world isn't as hospitable to humankind as we could wish, alas."
"Why do people bring home such terrifying tales, if there's no truth in them?” the girl asked, in a manner whose maturity belied her frail appearance. “Why make the world out to be worse than it is?"
"Travelers exaggerate,” Drake said. “In making the world seem stranger, they seek to increase their own apparent importance and bravery."
"The world is a sore trial to humans because we're doing penance for original sin,” Gilbert's chaplain put in, having been eavesdropping on their conversation from the other side of the table. He seemed to disapprove of Patience's curiosity—or, at least, of her choice of an instructor.
"If that's so,” Drake opined, with reckless honesty, “we're paying very dear for a trivial error. Dante claimed that there was no land in all this ocean but the mount of Purgatory, but you've proved him wrong, haven't you? Another strike against papism!"
The chaplain was not a Puritan of John Field's stripe but a broad churchman. “It might be,” the chaplain opined, “that Dante guessed wrongly about the shape and extent of Purgatory."
"You'll find that Tahiti isn't Paradise, Captain Drake,” Patience Muffet said, “but it isn't Purgatory either.” The judgment seemed bizarrely ominous, from the mouth of such a young child.
"No,” Drake agreed. “It's just an island, where there are neither head-hunters nor cannibals nor pagan savages. Even the monsters are friendly, and your father is hopeful that their bites might work benign miracles."
This time it was Muffet who interrupted to say: “There's nothing miraculous about it, Captain Drake. It's merely science."
He would undoubtedly have gone on, but Gilbert put a hand on his arm. “Tomorrow, doctor,” he said. “Tonight, let's rejoice in a fortunate meeting of friends and countrymen.” He raised his cup as if to signify a compact.
Drake raised his own readily enough, knowing that he had already drunk too much to pay proper attention to, or make pro
per sense of, any discourse on the technicalities of alchemical medicine.
The feast continued in a hearty mood; even the chaplain relented in the expression of his disapproval.
Drake had no idea what time it was when he took himself off to bed, but darkness had fallen some time before. His hosts would willingly have carried on drinking and chatting for at least another hour, and the party outdoors went on for some while longer, the cooking-fires having been fed further wood in order to serve as central sources of illumination, but the captain was exhausted.
He fell asleep while there was still a great deal of noise and flickering light outside. That did not assist his troubled sleep, which was shallow and dream-filled from the very start. By the time his belly finally settled, however, silence had fallen and the fires had burned down to a sullen red glow that seemed impotent to penetrate the darkness of the tropic night. His stomach's quiescence was, alas, soon displaced as the center of his internal attention by the development of a fierce headache.
There was a nightlight by his bed, so Drake did not have to blunder around in search of the water-jug, but he felt very clumsy as he groped for it. He drank deeply, but that only served to increase the magnitude of yet another problem.
He got up again, wishing that he had paid more attention to the exact position of the latrine that was situated some distance behind the house, not far from the fence, when he had used it in earlier in daylight. He did not bother to put on his jerkin, but he was careful to pull on his boots, not knowing what dangerous creatures might be swarming on the ground behind the house.
He made his way outside, and was glad to find that there was light enough to enable him to find the raised rim of the latrine-pit without overmuch trouble. He still felt rather unsteady on his feet; when his immediate discomfort had been relieved, he moved away from the stinking trench to lean against the bole of a tall palm, intending to gather himself together before he returned to his bed. He looked up at the sky, although he did not expect to find any sense of stability or promise of peace in its celestial majesty.
Asimov's SF, March 2007 Page 15
