* * *
After school the next day, Cory rushed into the house, dropped his book bag, grabbed a handful of cookies and then hustled back outside to explore his usual haunts. First, he went over to the burrow of the trapdoor spider, which he had days ago set off by a strategically placed configuration of rocks. But after ten or fifteen minutes, during which time there had been no activity from the hermit-like arachnid, and he had been unable to find an insect to offer as sacrifice, he moved on.
Next, he traipsed over to a low eave on the east side of his house, where he had noticed the day before a big garden spider meticulously laying out it’s web like string unspooling from a high-flying kite. Now, the black and yellow spider sat snugly in the middle of its domain, patiently awaiting another victim as evidenced by the already hollowed-out shell of an unfortunate grasshopper tangled in the sticky tendrils at the very top of the two-foot high web. Cory played with one of the filament-like silk strands, gently tugging on it to gauge the spider’s reaction, but the resolute spider merely rode out his playful antics as if it were being buffeted by several gusts of wind.
Quickly tiring of the game, Cory wandered off to the far reaches of his yard, hunching over and inspecting the short grass and scrub that fought for purchase in the still-cold, hard soil and denoted the extent of their property.
Within a few minutes, he spotted what appeared to be a small wolf spider sprinting through and atop the grass. It was brown, and if were indeed a wolf spider, then it had eight eyes and a bite that could produce quite a bit of discomfort. He kept his distance, knowing from his Internet research that they didn’t like to be provoked. Regaining his feet, he headed back over to the trapdoor spider’s den.
Crouching down close to the nearly invisible entrance, Cory wished the spider would at least make an appearance before he had to go inside. Every time he thought about the technique the trapdoor spider employed to capture its prey, he shook his head in amazement. Practically a foolproof method, he believed, unless the prey proved to be too big for the spider to handle. But he thought those instances were rare. Besides, he knew from his extensive online research that the trapdoor’s bite was quite painful to humans, even causing death at times in the elderly or the infirmed. So, to his way of thinking, it would likely be more than enough to deter any oversized insect that stumbled across the spider’s silk tripwires from retaliating in kind.
Cory discontinued his surveillance of the trapdoor spider’s home after fifteen minutes. The spider was a no-show, and he was disappointed. It was his favorite. He thought he could watch its movements (at least when it was active or hunting) for hours without getting tired or becoming bored. Now, as he roamed almost aimlessly about his backyard, prowling for some other insect or spider to study, he was getting antsy.
He looked back at his house; the late-afternoon shadows draped across it like a shawl, the warm, inviting kitchen light shining through the window like a beacon. No doubt his mother was busy inside, preparing their dinner so it would be ready when his father came home from work; he could already smell the rich, mouth-watering aroma of some cut of beef sizzling on the stove and riding the chilly gusts of wind. Then he frowned, and wondered again why his mother had lied to him the night before, when his grandmother had already confided to him that she had most definitely used physical punishment on her and his uncle when they had misbehaved as kids. By her own words, she had even beaten them on occasion.
Cory was confused. Scared, even. Why would his grandmother confess to something so horrible? And why would his mother deny it ever happened? Who could he trust now? Especially when his grandmother had been acting so spiteful and abusive to him lately, scolding him for the littlest things and smacking him on the shoulder or pinching his ear if he didn’t answer her right away or do something she had asked him to do immediately. And, boy, she was fast! He had recently learned that her whole bed-ridden “handicap” was a sham—she could certainly move around if she wanted or needed to. He’d already seen her scramble out of bed on more than one occasion, coming after him like some huge, hungry arachnid to mete out some form of punishment. Perpetuating her infirmity was simply a ploy on her part to be the center of attention, to toy with his family’s feelings and make them care and feel sorry for her. Fortunately, for him the discipline she’d administered had been mild thus far, but he figured that was how it had started for his mother and her brother, as well. Uneasily, he wondered how much worse it would get in the long run.
Pulling himself from his morbid musing, Cory decided to call it quits for the day. He trudged back to his house like a prisoner walking the green mile, his thoughts conflicted and anything but pleasant. A cool breeze ushered him along.
He entered through the kitchen door, his nose twitching from the various savory smells swirling about the small space.
“Does Nana need anything?” he asked tentatively.
“As a matter of fact, she does,” his mother said, turning from the stove and wiping her hands on a nearby dish towel. She grabbed a tray boasting a handful of sugar cookies, a cup of steaming tea, and cream and sugar and nodded to him toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s take this up to your grandmother together.” She winked at him.
Smiling at his mother, he shadowed her up the stairs and into his grandmother’s room.
In bed that night, trying to get to sleep, Cory reflected on the noticeable change that had washed over his mother and grandmother like a pleasant spring shower, setting things to right and virtually clearing the air. Nana had treated him so much nicer before dinner he felt as if someone else had invaded her body. Of course, his mother had stayed with him the entire time, acting as his “second,” so to speak, but the three of them nevertheless had actually enjoyed a nice thirty-minute visit together. Apparently, the two grownups had talked earlier in the day about him, and his mother was simply ensuring that whatever truce had been drawn up actually took effect. His father had even snuck in a little later to chat with him for a while as he was busy completing his homework assignments. All in all, he liked the new arrangement and hoped that it would remain the status quo for the duration of his grandmother’s stay.
* * *
The next several days passed by almost without incident. Cory’s grandmother honored the truce as best she could, but toward the end of a week she lapsed into her old ways on a couple of occasions: a random snipe at one of his responses and an isolated tug at his upper arm to favor him with a smarting pinch. So, as the calendar page was flipped to May, he found himself again spending less and less time after school with his grandmother, and more and more time scouting out his backyard and other hangouts to keep occupied.
He always came back to his favorite pastime though: observing and studying the small, brownish-gray trapdoor spider that had fascinated him for weeks now. It had been more active of late, as though it had been graced with a renewed store of energy, and he had seen it incapacitate quite a number of hapless victims, some of which he had nudged in close proximity to its hideout. A few of the bugs had been rather large in comparison to the tiny, but voracious spider. It made him wonder: How much bigger prey could the spider actually subdue?
* * *
Finally, with barely a week to go before his grandmother left them to stay with her sister for a while, the proverbial “shit hit the fan” after school one afternoon as Cory visited with Nana. Their odd relationship had gradually eroded once again, like the ocean constantly worrying away at the sandy shore, and if his mother had any inkling whatsoever of the slow deterioration, she did not mention it to him at all. But that day, as Cory bent closer to the bed to assist his grandmother in rearranging her pillow, she suddenly clutched his upper arm like a bird of prey, gripping hard with her thumb, index and middle finger—all of them long-nailed and ragged—and twisting viciously. He had no idea why she struck out at him so violently, but could only guess that perhaps he hadn’t moved fast enough in complying with her request, or more likely, he decided; she had simply had enough of thei
r stalemate and could no longer rein in her mounting rage any longer.
Surprisingly, he did not cry out at all, and merely stared at the angry, darkening welt encircling his bicep like a handcuff before directing an unusually hostile gaze at her. He knew now that she was undeniably crazy, but she wasn’t stupid. She had purposely refrained from gripping him with her entire hand because it would have left incriminating finger marks on his arm; now, there would only be a circular red bruise that could easily be explained by his everyday hijinks in the backyard and woods.
Still glaring at her, his bruise smarting like a mild burn, he noticed that she appeared so smug and confident, meeting his eyes without blinking, absolutely certain that he would never tell his mother about it.
And she was right—he wasn’t going to say anything about it to his mother.
He was going to get even.
* * *
The next morning at breakfast, Cory’s mother noticed the angry-looking bruise ringing her son’s right bicep and, deeply concerned, questioned him about it. He simply told her that he had hurt it the previous afternoon, catching his arm on a low-hanging, whip-like branch while running at the edge of the woods that bordered their backyard. As his mother stared at him in mild disbelief, the look on his face must have spoken volumes to convince her of his sincerity. She merely shook her head in puzzlement and resignation as he finished his cereal and headed out the front door to meet his school bus.
* * *
When Cory returned that afternoon, he raced into the house like a man on a mission: he dropped off his book bag, and then rushed into the kitchen, where he rummaged around for a minute or so in the cabinet beneath the sink. Finally finding what he had been looking for, he slipped the small item into his jacket pocket before once again setting out for his backyard.
* * *
A half-hour later, Cory snuck quietly back into the kitchen as though guilty of some dark deed, his hands and the knees of his jeans dusted with dirt and stray bits of grass. As he made his way by his mother, who was sitting at the table poring through a thick recipe book, she glanced up at him with a frown.
“You’re back early,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, still edging through, trying not to make eye contact. “I got a surprise for Nana.”
“Hmph,” she said, somewhat puzzled, setting the book aside. “Well, you go on and visit with her for a minute. I’ll be right behind you with her snack.”
Cory quickened his pace and swiftly headed up the stairs.
He knocked on his grandmother’s door and without waiting for her response, shouldered his way into the room.
“Cory,” she said, struggling to sit up in bed, “what are you doing in here? I didn’t say you could come in.”
“But I have something for you, Nana,” he said calmly, pulling a medium-size glass jar from his jacket pocket. A small patch of grass and dirt nestled innocently at the bottom of the jar. Like a flare of sunlight, a spark of fear flitted across his grandmother’s features as she rearranged herself to face him.
“W-what is it?” Her voice trembled noticeably in the still, stuffy confines.
“I’ll show you.”
Cory casually sauntered up to the foot of her bed, all the while slowly unscrewing the perforated metal lid of the jar he now held in front of him like a macabre present.
“W-what are you d-doing?” she said, her fright a constant companion now, cruelly distorting her face.
He quickly tugged the bed sheet off her bare legs before carefully releasing the small trapdoor spider from its glass prison. It landed squarely on top of her mottled and leathery right shin, along with a handful of dirt and debris.
“Oh, Lord!” she cried as the tiny spider scuttled up her leg, only to be provoked by her wild shaking and kicking into biting her several times as it either clung tenaciously to her skin or scrambled across her loose flesh.
Watching her ordeal, Cory knew his grandmother had a distinct disadvantage. She was quite old and not in the best of health. Nevertheless, as her screams drowned out his mother’s heavy footfalls ascending the stairs, he wondered, with a sly smile, now that their roles had been reversed if his grandmother would fare any better trapped in her own room than he already had.
The Hognissaga
By Avalon Brantley
So as I was singing, black Hogni sat at board
Flanked by his most fearsome kin and faced by Queen and Lord.
Queen, she of cream-hued skin, spat across that space a stare
Which held his only eye in her grim and grinding glare.
How Hogni lost his eye, by serpent’s sting or skirmish,
I free admit that I wot not, nor would I wish
To know it. But see how Queen Guthrin leans aside
And bids her son to go to do the deed whereof he died.
Her babe Ortlieb was brave, that child of five kind years,
Eyes great and green. She gave a dare into his ears.
Bid by her he crossed the hall toward Burgundians’ seats,
And ’cross the face of Hogni tall, his frail fist he flails and beats.
Sudden Hogni takes his stand, his chair clatt'ring behind,
Unsheathed Balmrung in hand, black fires in his mind.
Over voices in the hall Balmrung’s blade, a hissing tongue,
Whispers through the air to fall on Ortlieb whose skull is slung.
The boy beheaded stood in stance as though of shock,
Bubbled blood as though it could have found a face to talk.
But instead his head had found the feet of Nephilungenmen
‘Neath their table, on the ground, theirs and the Burgundians’.
Cut as corn his body came collapsing to the floor.
Where in Earth or even Hell could horror have been more?
Ordering they move their legs aside from what they’d seen,
Clasping the child’s head by hair, Hogni hurled it at the Queen.
Guthrin’s gowns of snowy white, silken Arabesque she wore
Reddened grew, a gruesome sight, as births embrued by gore.
Out her mouth a sickness screeched with grief and mad guffaws,
Tearing came it through her teeth to harrow through the halls.
Buffet those there dining, batter at the rafters,
Whilst over all her pining lofted Hogni’s laughter.
Guthrin’s husband King Atil ordered in his agony
All the Nephilungs be killed and all that host of Burgundy.
The minstrel finished the strophe of the episode that preceded the famous battle and laid aside his citole quickly yet carefully, covering its four strings with calloused fingers to keep them from braying indecorously. From a pocket, he produced once again his three-holed willow pipe and peppered a lithe leitmotiv over his audience, then allowing the notes to swirl and then slow, gradually lower on the mode until he reached a mellow minor cadence that hovered in the middle of his little flute’s range, dwindled, and then was gone with the last of his breath.
The singer seemed to glance quickly over the crowd before him, assessing them. This unsettled them more than the gory story that he told them in song. Just as so many great bards, just as Homer king of the bards before him, this singer was blind. His uncovered eyes were white as grubs, half-lidded, useless.
While he had played, the food had long before grown cold beneath their rapt eyes. One man, however, licked greasy pieces of goose meat from arthritic fingers and then wiped them on the billowing gown near the shoulder of a pallid girl with puffy cheeks and a very pocked forehead. She did not notice. Like the others, she stared at the minstrel, enraptured and horrified by his tale. Clearly, she had never heard the like before.
The singer saw similar expressions on all the young faces before him, save for that of a young boy of perhaps twelve years. He simply stared, enthralled at the performance, for he had never heard nor seen anything like it. Oh, he had seen minstrelsy before, but nothing even approaching the skill of this
magnificent pale-faced meistersinger, capable of playing so quickly, effortlessly, flawlessly, fingers fairly flying, even whilst out of his lips and lungs, jowls, and tongue, trickled and rushed a Rhinesworth of song. And his proliferate instruments! There had been the citole of course, and the pipe he played so skillfully, but also there had been the small drums that fit within one another, each with a slightly different sound, and the fiddle too, which he caused to comb through passages of honey-sweet tones, now gladsome, now saddened, now pensive, and now swiftly imposing the slings and arrows of implacable wrath!
Oh, the lovely hearts that would be mine, thought the boy. If only I could sing and play that way—in the town, in the country, and most of all, whilst courting merry maidens of the court!
The old man with the now cleaner hands put them together and giddily clapped. “Very good, vagi, very good singing!”
“Is that his name?” demanded the pocked girl, turning toward the ancient. “Do you know him?” She looked disgusted by even the notion. “Is his name Vagi, then?”
The blind minstrel was prepared to tell her that coincidentally it was just that, but instead remained silently deliberating whether he had already gone too far in singing the old saga the way he had learned it so long ago, giving little consideration to the sensibilities of the new courtly generations. These youths yearned instead for tales of dastardly love and chivalry, ludicrous pomp and knightly flair, full of rich apparels, and all the other flimsy trappings of this cloying age. They knew nothing of the hardships of their heroic forebears or of the carnal realities of love and life in their time. The silly trollop beside the old man had destroyed her forehead with plucking it, and then filled that pimply head up with modish foolishness, but the old gent, now he knew a bloody good story when he heard one.
“Neh,” the old man denied. “That’s just what we used to call the good ol’ vagabonds that wandered about the country collecting and singing the tales of better days than ever you’ll ever know. I haven’t heard this saga done right since I was as little a lad as wee beheaded Ortlieb, but five winters in the world and then sent bloody-headed back again, back to where the fair queen’s legs meet!” He cackled, heavy spittle flying from his toothless mouth.
Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology) Page 6
