The spider looked affronted. “Who do you think you are?” she asked. “Telling me what to eat! I’ll eat what I choose, missy! It’s no business of yours.”
“It is my business,” Flory said rashly. “The hummingbird’s my friend. If you try to bite her, I’ll sting you. And I’ll stick you with my dagger.” She drew her knife and brandished it fiercely. “Let her go!”
The spider’s eyes gleamed faintly red. All at once, she swung downward, heading for Flory. The black-and-yellow legs swung into action, moving with incredible speed.
Flory panicked. She shouted her stinging spell so fast that she mixed up the magic words. The spider danced closer. Flory closed her eyes. She thought of the spell she used when making cobweb ropes. She imagined a vine spiraling toward the sun, twisting, twisting. The words spilled from her lips.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that the spell had worked. The threads of the cobweb had coiled tightly, snagging the spider in her own web. Ropes of silk fettered the black-and-yellow body. Sticky threads gummed the spider’s mouth shut. Three of the eight legs were folded under themselves. The other five stuck out at queer angles, twitching helplessly.
Flory gave a little gasp. She wasn’t sorry that her spell had worked, but it was clear that the spider was in great pain. It was also clear that Flory had made an enemy. The spider’s eyes bulged with rage.
“I didn’t mean it.” Flory said hastily. “I mean, I meant it, but —” Her voice trailed off as she eyed the spider’s left foreleg. It was so bent and crooked that it made Flory feel a little sick. “Here — hold still. That leg’s going to snap in two if I don’t — Hold still, I say! I’m going to cut the ties.”
She clenched the knife and darted forward, nicking the thread that held the spider’s leg. The leg shuddered back into place.
“There!” Flory said nervously. “Is that better?”
The spider glared at her. Flory hesitated. Then she switched her knife to her other hand so that she could wipe her sweaty palm on her skirt. Her heart beat fast as she cut the threads that bound the other seven legs. When she finished, the spider was still her prisoner, but the eight legs hung straight and free, like the petals of a black daisy.
“Now!” Flory said briskly. “Don’t you feel better?”
The spider flexed her legs, making sure they still worked. Her eyes were still furious, but it was clear that she was no longer in agony.
“I have an idea,” Flory announced. “I’d like to cut the threads around your mouth so that we can talk things over. Only you mustn’t bite me. Promise me you won’t bite me.”
There was no answer. Flory took a deep breath. Then she wedged the blade of her knife under the threads around the spider’s jaw. She tried to keep her hands as far from the great fangs as she could, but she couldn’t cut the cords without getting close. The spider’s fangs were sharply pointed and curved inward, like the horns of a bull. Flory knew that the poison inside those fangs was powerful enough to turn her bones and muscles to soup. Her stomach felt queasy with terror, but her hand did not shake. She sawed carefully until she cut the thread from the spider’s jaw.
The spider opened her mouth and said a long string of bad words.
Flory couldn’t blame her. She waited until the spider had run out of things to say. Then she said, “Here’s my idea.” She pointed to the web, which was dotted with little gray bundles. “You have other good things to eat in your web. If you promise not to eat the hummingbird, I’ll set you free.”
“Why shouldn’t I eat the hummingbird?” demanded the spider. “Isn’t she my prey? Didn’t I work to weave the web that caught her? Don’t I have to eat?”
Flory’s hand dropped to her side. It was true what the spider said: every creature in the garden had to eat. That was the law. The spider had only been obeying it. But —
“You could eat wasps,” Flory said stubbornly. “Promise not to eat the bird, and I’ll set you free.”
The spider scowled. “What if I won’t?”
“Then you starve to death,” Flory said unkindly. She put her hands on her hips. “I can sting you. And I can tie you up. So you have to do what I say.”
The spider shook herself, straining against the ropes around her belly. “I’m not promising anything unless you say you’re sorry.”
It was Flory’s turn to scowl. She had never said she was sorry in her life. She didn’t like the idea of saying it. “I won’t,” she said. “Besides, I’m cutting you free. You ought to be grateful.”
“I’m not free yet,” answered the spider, “and I’m not grateful.”
Flory stamped her foot. “I’m not asking you to starve,” she said irritably. “All I’m asking is for you not to eat the hummingbird.” After a minute she added, “Or me.”
“And all I’m asking is for you to say you’re sorry,” retorted the spider. “You hurt my legs and you hurt my pride. So you have to say sorry, and”— a glint of malice lit her eyes —“you have to say it right.”
Flory laid her hand on the hilt of her dagger. “What do you mean, ‘say it right’?”
“I mean you have to mean it,” the spider said. “If you don’t say you’re sorry, I’d rather stay here and starve. I will starve, and it will be all your fault.”
Flory made an angry little noise in the back of her throat. This was all taking too long. The spider was her prisoner, and prisoners shouldn’t tell their jailors what to do. All the same, Flory knew she had met her match. The spider was as stubborn as she was. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine being sorry. It was hard work, almost like casting a spell.
She imagined that she was a spider, a proud and dangerous spider. She imagined what it was like to spin an elegant web, only to be caught in it herself. She imagined having eight legs and having them twisted and trapped and hurt. After a moment, she bit her lip.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice.
“That’ll do,” said the spider. “Cut me free.”
Flory stuck her dagger back in her sash. “You haven’t promised not to eat the hummingbird.”
“I promise,” answered the spider. She gave a low chuckle. “Truth is, I don’t like raw bird very much — but I hate the way birds leave a big hole in my web. I ought to give her”— she jerked one leg to point at the hummingbird —“a pinch and a poison, just for making such a mess! But when all is said and done, I hate wasps more than birds. There’s things I could tell you about wasps that would make your blood run cold.”
Flory thought that her blood had run cold enough for one evening. She said, “I’ll try to free the bird without cutting your web too much.”
“Hmmmph.” The spider tapped the web with one oily foot. “That’s good of you. But if I were you, I wouldn’t cut her loose just yet. Wait until dawn.”
“Why?”
“Look at her.” The spider shook herself, freed at last. “She’s still in torpor. If you cut her loose, she’ll fall. She’s safer in the web than on the ground.”
“But I have to cut her loose. She has to go home.” Flory raised her eyes to the unmoving bird. “How do I wake her up?”
“You can’t,” said the spider. “That’s the thing about torpor. She won’t come out of it till the sun rises and she warms up.”
“But she has to fly now,” Flory said. “She has to go back to her nest, and I have to go home.”
“She’s not going anywhere tonight,” said the spider.
Flory’s heart sank. Night had almost fallen. The green plants looked gray, and the stars were brightening. At any moment, the bats would leave their hollow in the oak tree. It was time to take shelter in her safe little home — but if she left, the hummingbird would be food for any animal that found her.
Flory said slowly, “I can’t stay here and guard her —”
“Nobody asked you to,” said the spider. “What I say is, every creature has to take care of herself.”
Flory agreed. She had taken care of herself ever since she was three
days old. She thought of her lily-leaf hammock and how tired and scratched and sore she felt. Then she remembered the baby hummingbirds. She had kissed them and promised them that their mother would come back.
“Oh, all right!” she said furiously. “I’ll stay.”
“Suit yourself,” said the spider. “I’m going to eat that wasp. Do you want a piece?”
“No, I don’t,” Flory said firmly. “I don’t like wasps — not even to eat.”
The spider began to pick her way up the web. She turned back. “If you’re going to spend the night in the web, you should know that the cross-threads are the sticky ones.”
“Thank you,” said Flory. She meant it.
The spider shinnied away. Flory was left alone. She climbed up the juniper bush and settled down close to the hummingbird. A dog barked in the distance. Flory had an odd sense that something was missing. Then she knew what it was. The birds had stopped singing. They were roosting for the night instead of leaping from branch to branch.
Suddenly the night was alive with shrill sounds. It was the moment Flory had been dreading. She gripped the juniper twig until her fingers ached. She heard leathery wings beating the air and saw the jagged shapes of bats against the sky. But they did not come looking for her. Bats hunt in the air, not close to the ground.
Once they had flown away, Flory began to breathe again. She caught a glimpse of gleaming white between the trees. The moon was rising — the beautiful moon. Its light did not dazzle her or make her eyes water. She could look at it as long as she liked.
A tiny green light appeared above the grass. Then another. The lightning bugs were rising. One by one they lit their lamps and floated toward the sky. Flory gazed at them, rapt. All at once she realized how homesick she had been for the night. She was not sleepy. She had been up since dawn, but she knew that she would have no trouble staying awake. She was, after all, a night fairy. This was her time.
Hours passed. Flory swung back and forth on the juniper twig and gazed at the moon. The night breeze tickled her sweetly. The fireflies blinked on and off, now green, now golden. From time to time, Flory heard the faint shhhh of the grass moving and saw long shadows cross the ground. The earthworms were leaving their burrows, coming out to breathe the moist air.
A curious chuckling sound caught her attention. Flory held her breath.
A raccoon was drinking from the fishpond. She could hear his tongue as he lapped the water. Noiselessly, Flory got to her feet and peered through the darkness. She saw the grizzled hump of the raccoon’s body. He was combing the water, searching for goldfish. Flory prayed that he would catch one and eat his fill, but her hopes were dashed. He looked up, eyes gleaming, nostrils twitching. She could almost feel him smelling her.
He came straight toward the juniper bush, his claws making a faint click-click on the patio. His eyes flashed yellow in the dark. Now he was close enough that Flory could see his dark mask and the weird prettiness of his face. “Who’s there?” he barked.
Flory didn’t move a muscle.
The raccoon came closer. The long, ringed tail swung over the grass like a fat snake. Flory gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and stung.
The raccoon stopped in his tracks. “Ow,” he said in an annoyed tone of voice. “What are you?”
“I’m a night fairy,” Flory said with dignity.
The raccoon opened his jaws, licking the roof of his mouth as if he tasted something bitter. “I don’t eat fairies,” the raccoon said. “I ate one once, and it stung me. It didn’t taste very good.”
“Then you’d better leave me alone,” said Flory. “I sting very hard. I practice a lot.”
“All right. I won’t eat you,” the raccoon answered glibly. He sniffed again. “I smell something good to eat. Is it bird?”
Flory’s hand stole to the hilt of her knife. “You’d better go away.” She knew that her words, like her threats, were idle. The raccoon was huge, sleek, and muscular. If he made up his mind that he wanted the hummingbird, she would not be able to stop him.
The raccoon chuckled. He had seen the bird. His claw shot out and nabbed the hummingbird, snapping the threads of the spiderweb. Flory stung as hard as she could.
The raccoon gave a little yip. He dropped the bird and put his paw in his mouth. “Would you stop doing that?” He licked the bottom of his paw. “Oof. I hate cobwebs.” His tongue swept the edges of his mouth. Then he bent down and picked up the hummingbird in his jaws.
“Let go!” screamed Flory. She grabbed a thread of the spiderweb and swung to the ground. She yanked her hand free, so angry that she didn’t feel it when the web ripped off a layer of skin. “You stop! Let go of that bird, or I’ll stab you!”
The raccoon cocked his head. He loomed over her, and his bright eyes twinkled. He was ten times as big as Skuggle and thirty times as heavy. But Flory was too furious to care. She darted forward and slashed the raccoon’s forepaw with her dagger. When she pulled the knife free, there was blood on the tip.
“Stop that!” snarled the raccoon, shaking his paw. Flory thrust again. This time she missed.
“Silly fairy,” said the raccoon, “You can’t fight me! Leave me alone, or I’ll have to hurt you!”
“I won’t!” screamed Flory. “Go away, or I’ll kill you!”
The raccoon laughed so hard that the hummingbird fell out of his mouth. Flory slashed at him with her knife. This time the raccoon struck back, smacking her with such force that she tumbled headlong over the grass. Flory sat up and uttered her stinging spell. She was amazed by her own strength. The raccoon winced as she stung again. Her spells were small wounds, mere pinpricks under the raccoon’s fur. But it was Flory’s time, a little before midnight, and her magic was at its strongest. Though the stings were small ones, they came one after another, pelting the raccoon from all sides.
The raccoon was losing patience. He had been stung all over his body, and the pad of his front paw was bleeding. He lowered his head and crouched down, growling.
A bat squeaked. The cry of a bat is a common sound at night, and the raccoon paid no attention. But Flory threw down her dagger and covered her head with her arms.
The bat streaked toward them, coming within an inch of the raccoon’s head. The raccoon ducked, and the bat zigzagged back. His mouth was open, showing needle-sharp teeth. The skin wings jerked and rippled. No sight could have been more terrifying to Flory. She burrowed into the grass.
The bat’s squeaks grew softer, then louder — Flory felt the wind of his wings — then softer again. When Flory dared to raise her head, she saw that the raccoon had scampered a few feet away. He sat back on his haunches, a baffled look on his face.
Little brown bats are insect eaters. They do not attack raccoons. But the bat swooped down again, shrieking curses.
Flory began to understand that he was not after her. He was tormenting the raccoon. She watched as he drove the raccoon across the patio and past the fishpond. The raccoon dodged and ducked, spinning in circles, but the bat would not leave him alone. At last the raccoon slunk under the garden fence. The ringed tail vanished.
The bat chittered with triumph and circled back toward Flory. He flopped down on the grass less than six inches away. Flory was so frightened that tears filled her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” the bat said gently. “Don’t you see? I came to help.”
Flory’s mouth was too dry to utter a spell. Her hand went to her side, seeking her dagger.
“Your knife’s by your left foot,” the bat told her. “Only please don’t stab me. Or sting me. I don’t blame you for wanting to, but please don’t.”
Flory picked up her dagger and got to her feet. She stared at the bat.
He was really rather a small bat. His wingspan was huge — like two large pinecones set end to end — but now that he was close to her, she could see that he wasn’t much bigger than she was. He was mouse-size, with a pushed-in snout and enormous ears that were set wide apart, like moths’ wings. He lay belly-flop
ped on the ground with his elbows folded up like jackknives.
Flory’s voice shook. “What do you want?”
“Well,” said the bat, “I don’t want to hurt you. Or your friend.” He nodded toward the hummingbird in the grass. “How did you come to make friends with a hummingbird? They’re not friendly birds, you know.”
“I know,” Flory said with feeling. She thought a moment. “We’re not really friends. I was hoping she would let me ride on her back one day.”
The bat opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something. But Flory went on speaking. “That’s how it started. The first time I saw a hummingbird, I knew I wanted to ride on one. I didn’t care whether they were friendly or not. I just liked the way they looked.”
“Who doesn’t?” said the bat. “They’re beautiful birds. Amazing fliers. Of course, bats are good fliers, too —” He paused, once again as if there was something he wanted to say. But Flory interrupted.
“I hate bats,” she said.
“I know,” said the bat humbly. “It’s my fault.”
Flory gasped. “It was you?”
“I was younger then,” the bat said pleadingly. “Try to understand. I was asleep for the winter — I’d found a nice little attic for my home. Then one night, the door opened and the giants charged in. They had bright lights in their hands, and they were shouting — you’d think they were afraid of us! Luckily I got away through a hole in the roof. But of course, it was early for me to be out, and I was half-asleep and terribly hungry. I saw you and I thought you were a luna moth. I ought to have known better — luna moths in April! — but I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“I see,” Flory said slowly.
“I’ve been sorry ever since,” the bat went on. “And I’ve wanted to tell you so. I looked for you night after night — I thought you must have dropped down close to this garden — and I called out to you, but no one ever answered. Then tonight I heard a fairy screaming. I came closer, and I listened for the echoes, and I heard that the fairy’s wings were jagged and torn. That’s when I knew it was you.”
The Night Fairy Page 4