A Spider Comes Calling

by Vered Ehsani

  Despite its slimy appearance, the surface of the serpent was rough enough that I didn’t feel myself in any danger of slipping. Nonetheless, I followed Burr’s example and sat down.

  “Don’t abandon Yao!” he squealed.

  “Come on then, you miserable wretch,” I said in a less agreeable tone.

  With some cajoling on my part and impatient clicks on Burr’s, we coaxed the Adze onto the serpent’s head, where it was now crowded.

  Once on board, Yao gripped my arm so fiercely that I suspected I’d lose all blood flow for the remainder of the day. The serpent shifted about and slithered across the river to the bank. Yao leapt to shore and flung himself, arms wide, to the ground, as if to embrace the entirety of the planet.

  Determined to retain some semblance of dignity, I strolled off our scaled ride and waved to Burr as she dove into the water. Its mission accomplished, the serpent slithered to the remains of the bridge, butted its head against the splintered wood until the structure was pulverized into nothing, and vanished beneath the waves.

  “So much for my excursion,” I said and glanced down at Yao who had not risen from his prone position and was kissing the grass. “Are you going to continue groveling at my feet or shall we return home? I hear a teapot whispering my name.”

  Yao glanced up at me, his muddy face a picture of astonishment. “Miss Knight, you can hear teapots? I had no idea pots could talk.”

  I shook my head and began the long trek home, glancing about in the hopes that a certain fat little horse would magically sprout out of the ground or drop from the sky. “I hope Nelly’s all right,” I said, wondering if even a flying horse could’ve escaped the torrent of water that had carried her away with such force.

  Despite his preoccupation with his own near-death experience, Yao scrambled up from the ground, flicking mud off his chest as he ran after me with reassurances. “Nelly is a tough creature, for a European,” he said, his customary buoyant nature returning as the river receded behind us.

  “While I’m sure you mean well by that comment, Yao, I don’t much appreciate your derision of Europeans,” I said although with little temper.

  He shrugged, his exposed chest and back muscles rippling with the movement. “You are correct, Miss Knight. Nelly isn’t European at all. Horses originated in Central Asia.”

  How he could know such a piece of trivia was beyond me, and the conversation surpassed what patience I had remaining. My mind instead settled on another topic: the condition of my attire. I was exceedingly grateful that Mrs. Steward wouldn’t see me in this state, for I was a bedraggled mess. My wet skirt had collected an assortment of brambles and leaves, some green slime from the serpent and a coating of mud along most of its surface. She would’ve chastised me fiercely, and I couldn’t blame her. My only consolation was that I hadn’t died in such a miserable state of dress, for that would simply not do at all. I utterly deplore a messy corpse.

  The thought of corpses naturally suggested the next topic for consideration, and I surprised myself with a few tears and the realization that I would miss Nelly. “She was a brilliant horse,” I sniffed. “Lazy and rude, but loyal.”

  “And fast,” Yao added in a cheerful manner, as if unaware of the appropriate tone of voice one should use when discussing the deceased. “It’s unlikely you can find another flying horse, isn’t it, Miss Knight?”

  I frowned at his jolly mannerism. “I suppose not, although that’s not what I’ll miss the most.”

  “Yes, what a waste of a lot of blood,” Yao said, mournfully shaking his head. “What a great waste.”

  I held my tongue, and we continued trudging along. The distance seemed far greater without a horse, and I’d never appreciated how many spiky plants grew underfoot. My skirt now carried a menagerie of plant parts that refused to drop away when I shook the fabric.

  Determined to avoid sinking into a morbid state, I said in as chipper a tone as I could, “Well, at least it’s not raining.”

  As if to make a liar out of me, the heavens unleashed a rumble of thunder and a downpour soon followed. While the heavy raindrops couldn’t loosen the hold of the burrs and spikes attached to my skirt, they did soak me thoroughly and transformed the hard packed dirt into sticky clay within a few minutes.

  Yao glared at me. “Yao hates water.”

  Chapter 7

  BY THE TIME I arrive home, I was beyond bedraggled and bordering on disrespectfully filthy. My sunhat was all but disintegrated, the feather I always placed on one side tattered by the heavy rain. My hair and every item of clothing clung to my skin in a thoroughly unseemly fashion, and yet despite that, the mud was if anything thicker than before, impervious to the water gushing over me from the heavens.

  Yao accompanied me most of the way, slowing his pace considerably to match mine. I was grateful and pleasantly surprised at this token of genteel behavior on his part, considering how he’d been willing to sacrifice me on the bridge to avoid being eaten by the serpent. Only once the cabin was in sight did he dash away toward the cover of the forest. The walk back had taken considerably longer without Nelly and with thick mud clinging to my every step. The sky was dark even though it was mid-afternoon, and a melancholy inspired by events and deepened by the weather settled over me.

  In a pitiable state, I thus arrived, pausing to peer into the barn. Nelly wasn’t there. All my hopeful sentiments that I had nursed were flung away and my heart was heavier than my clothes when I approached the cottage. Gideon and the baby monkey were gone, so I surmised the mother had returned for her abandoned offspring. I smiled at the memory of Gideon hovering protectively over the little hairy primate.

  I entered through the kitchen door, reluctant to traipse water and mud all through the cottage. The kitchen was warm and only then did I realize how I was shivering. Grateful that Jonas had fired up the stove, I called out, “Hello?”

  There was no response, but a shimmering movement from near the stove made me pause. A little bundle of something huddled under the appliance and Gideon floated nearby.

  “Good gracious,” I muttered as I wrangled off my boots. Chunks of mud plopped about me as I did so. “Is that the simian? Hasn’t its mother come to collect it?”

  Gideon shook his head. “After Mr. Timmons departed, I lured the monkey inside.”

  “How did… Never mind.” I tossed my useless hat to the ground and peeled off my sodden socks. “Where did Simon go?”

  Shrugging, Gideon replied, “He didn’t deign to inform me. He was in a heated rush though.” Grinning, he added, “That’s probably for the best, given your current appearance. What a mess.”

  Unimpressed by his comment, the disappearance of my husband and the reappearance of the monkey in my kitchen, I set the kettle on the stove and rubbed my hands over the heat emanating from the stovetop.

  “You’re going to keep the baby, right?” Gideon asked, his bright, brown eyes both fierce and imploring. “You did say you would, if the mother didn’t return.”

  I huffed at the reminder. “In that case, we’d best bathe the little beast first. I shan’t tolerate fleas in my home.”

  Gideon beamed at me. “I knew you had a heart somewhere under that sodden mess.”

  “Sh, don’t let anyone know my terrible secret,” I advised him while pouring some warmed water in a basin. As desperate as I was to shed my heavy, wet clothes, I decided there was no point in drying off only to be soaked by a protesting animal having its first bath ever.

  Kneeling on the rough stone slabs, I plucked the bundle of fur and bones from its place under the stove and unceremoniously dumped it into the basin, with Gideon hovering protectively over it.

  “You’re hurting it,” he yelled as the bit of fur protested my attempts to de-flea it.

  “It’s just a monkey,” I retorted, one hand holding it down while the other reached for a bar of soap.

  “It’s a baby!” he screamed.

  I stared at Gideon, all astonishment. His translucent form was quive
ring with emotion, his eyes burning with anguish as he watched the monkey struggle against my grip.

  “I’ll be gentle, Gids,” I said in a quiet voice and wiped soap suds away from its eyes. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He sniffed and said, “She.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a little girl monkey,” he clarified. “Not an it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, mystified by his reaction. While we hadn’t been able to conceive a baby, he had never mentioned any interest in the matter, and that had satisfied me very well. Perhaps floating about as a ghost had meddled with his emotional state.

  “Done,” I said as I wrapped the mewling baby in a dishtowel and deposited her under the stove to finish drying.

  “She’s hungry,” Gideon stated, still eyeing me as if uncertain regarding my fitness to care for an animal.

  I flung up my hands. “What does the little beast eat? Milk? Bananas?”

  “I’m hardly in any position to answer that,” Gideon retorted.

  “And I am?”

  “You’re a woman, aren’t you?” he demanded. “Don’t women just know these things? Mother’s intuition and the like?”

  I stared at him, aghast. “I’m not its, or her, mother, Gideon. I wouldn’t know the first thing about caring for a human baby, never mind a monkey.”

  He harrumphed at this acknowledgement of my ignorance. “She’s very young, so try some milk.” He gestured to a glass jar on the counter, the contents of which were courtesy of the Hardinge’s cow.

  “Fine,” I muttered as I poured some into a small cup and squatted beside the hairy baby. Its dark brown eyes peered up at me, a mournful and disturbingly human expression on its little face. “Here, you little flea bag,” I said but gently as I held its head to the lip of the cup.

  Unsure as she was about my intentions or the manner in which to use a cup, the creature was hungry enough to overcome these limitations and managed to lick and slurp all the milk, after which she burped with great satisfaction and promptly fell asleep.

  “Satisfied?” I asked Gideon but my gaze remained on the little slumberer.

  “Very,” Gideon said. “Although Mr. Timmons might need to be informed regarding his wife’s deplorable maternal instincts.”

  “In the meantime, I am in need of dry clothes and a cup of tea,” I said, ignoring his derogatory although accurate description of my mothering skills. I wondered if I could transform as Lilly appeared to be doing. If so, such an alteration on my part would be the ultimate proof of the existence of magic. Then again, a certain condition of pregnancy would first need to occur. Thus far, I remained childless despite two marriages.

  This doleful series of thoughts led me to ponder Nelly’s fate and I couldn’t help but sniff, although from unshed tears or cold I couldn’t say.

  Gideon lowered himself to my level and whispered by my side, “I didn’t mean it, Bee. I’m sure you’ll make a stellar mother. Consider this as your opportunity to practice.”

  Despite the ludicrous notion, I failed to smile, which caused a certain degree of alarm on behalf of Gideon. “What is it?”

  “It’s Nelly,” I said and almost sobbed before chastising myself for such sentimentality. Still, my voice hitched as I explained what had happened.

  An uncharacteristic sobriety befell Gideon, and his arm twitched upward as if to embrace me before he realized the futility of the effort. “You should know though that if any creature could survive, it’s Nelly. That noisome nag has a propensity for surviving the impossible.”

  That elicited a smile from me, slight as it was, for the truth was that Nelly did have a habit of navigating the most difficult encounters unruffled and with nary a scratch.

  Before I could reply, the back door was flung open and Mr. Timmons arrived, all flustered. At the sight of me, he stomped across the kitchen, tracking mud across the stone slabs in the process, leaned over, grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me upright. “You’re a sight and a sorry one at that,” he stormed.

  Astounded, I stared at him, barely able to maintain a grip on the shivering that now racked my frame. “Now what have I done?”

  In lieu of a response, he grasped me to him, unconcerned by the cold water that leaked from my clothes and onto his. “You’re alive,” he breathed into my ear.

  Gideon snorted, and I leaned away from Mr. Timmons. “I apologize if that offends you,” I said, somewhat tartly before detecting the lines of stress around his eyes. “What’s happened?”

  “Why haven’t you changed into dry clothes?” he demanded, refusing both to respond or to release his grip.

  “I had to bathe and feed a monkey,” I replied as if the answer was obvious.

  His distraction was such that he merely nodded without a trace of surprise or curiosity. “Lord Hardinge arrived here a couple hours ago, having seen Nelly being swept down the river. Fearing the worst, we raced along the riverbank and found the horse grazing not far from here.”

  “Nelly’s alive?” I asked, my mood shifting abruptly to relief.

  “Yes,” Mr. Timmons said with less enthusiasm.

  “I told you she’d be just fine,” Gideon said, although without any smugness.

  I squinted at him and said, “Ha! You had your doubts, didn’t you?”

  “Never,” he said while placing a hand over his heart, his expression aggrieved at the accusation. “I had absolute faith.”

  Before I could summon a suitable retort, Jonas entered the kitchen, his ragged clothes plastered to his small, wiry frame. “Why’s Nelly covered in serpent slime?” he demanded as he cast an accusatory stare in my direction.

  “Never mind the horse,” Mr. Timmons barked. “What happened to you?”

  Weary from all the delays to my much anticipated cup of tea and change of clothes, I flung up my hands and provided the briefest of descriptions: “We were crossing the bridge. It collapsed. Now may I be excused?”

  Mr. Timmons puffed out his cheeks. “How is it possible that an inoffensive walk transforms itself into trouble when you’re involved? And what’s this about serpent slime?”

  “Hold that thought,” I said, using my sweetest tone and most innocent of smiles, and maneuvered past him to the bedroom.

  When I returned several minutes later in a drier and warmer condition, I found him sitting at the table, two cups of tea set out, and his head in his hands as if he was contemplating how he had managed to marry the one woman destined to drive him to an early grave with all her misadventures.

  I sat beside him and wordlessly imbibed that elixir of heaven, that most noble of beverages, and gave fervent thanks to the powers that be for the existence of tea in my life. “It wasn’t my fault, you know,” I finally broke the silence.

  Mr. Timmons lifted his head from his hands, let his arms fall onto the table and sighed. “Of course not. What is Gideon doing down there, apart from invading our home and denying us privacy yet again?”

  I glanced over to the stove. On one side, Jonas leaned against the counter while stirring a pot of stew. On the other side, the ghost sat cross-legged. “He’s babysitting a monkey.”

  “We should name her,” Gideon declared.

  “And what should one name a monkey?” Mr. Timmons asked.

  Jonas couldn’t see or hear Gideon, but he caught the drift of the conversation. “Anything but Jonas,” Jonas said, his mirth as rich as the whiff of kerosene and hay that wafted from his position.

  “We most certainly should not,” I replied to Gideon.

  Both Gideon and Mr. Timmons looked at me with mirrored expressions of astonishment, while Jonas chuckled.

  “If you’re going to be keeping her, why ever wouldn’t you name her?” Mr. Timmons demanded.

  “Exactly!” Gideon exclaimed.

  “Really, Simon, you puzzle me exceedingly. Surely you can’t be serious,” I said, flustered by the thought of having to provide care for a baby of any species.

  “The mother never returned
,” he pointed out, the calm logic in contrast to his earlier unhappy demeanor.

  “And she’s not likely to now,” Gideon whispered.

  “Oh yes, Miss Knight,” Jonas added, a mischievous twinkle glinting in his dark eyes. “Keeping a monkey, it’s very good practice for you.”

  “Speaking of monkeys, I believe we are invited to your dear aunt’s for early supper,” Mr. Timmons pointed out and hid his grin behind his teacup.

  “I should think the whole lot of you would be perfectly suited to living in a tree,” I cried. “How you torment me so.”

  “Shelby,” Gideon said. He glanced up at us. “I’ve always liked that name. Let’s call her Shelby.”

  Mr. Timmons tossed back his tea as if he were consuming a liquor and rose. “So be it. Beatrice, we should prepare to leave, particularly as the rain has subsided somewhat.”

  “Who’ll take care of Shelby while you’re away?” Gideon asked, his countenance one of perturbation.

  “Jonas will,” I said with finality.

  The man in question drew himself upright and reminded me by his piercing stare that he had been once upon a time a mighty warrior. “I will be driving the wagon,” he said with equal firmness. “Caring for babies is woman’s work.”

  “You can’t abandon her,” Gideon yelled as best he could while springing up, his head almost vanishing into the ceiling. He glowered at me. “She’s an orphan.”

  “Well, I can’t very well take her with me,” I said, stung by the indirect reminder of my own orphaned status.

  “Why ever not?” Mr. Timmons asked, smirking at me. “I think Shelby will fit in very well with your family.”

  Fuming, I was preparing a counterargument when I glimpsed Gideon’s desperate expression. Sighing, I capitulated and instead said, “Jonas, fetch me a basket at once. Shelby will be joining us for supper.”

  Chapter 8

  BY THE TIME we set off, the rain had ceased, and the two wheels of the wagon miraculously refused to become mired down in the mud. Even though it was not much past six, the sun was beginning to set in a brief splash of red and orange hues. In the resulting coolness, the darkening sky was clear of clouds and a moon hung low before us, promising to provide ample light.