The Spider Goddess

by Tara Moss

  It was only then that I spotted the emergency exit, and the fire hose folded behind glass beside it. I sprinted to it without hesitation, across the grim, seething carpet of arachnids, my ankles becoming ever heavier with their number. Before I even had time to think of what to do next I had pulled the fire alarm, smashed the glass, hauled the end of the fire hose out and turned it on.

  The water came on in a powerful gush.

  Too powerful.

  Within seconds the emergency fire hose threw me off my feet with a violence I had not bargained for. I hit the concrete floor hard on my tailbone and screamed out, but by some miracle I still had hold of it. I gripped the wide head of the hose with white-knuckled determination and straddled it as it propelled me forward across the wet floor, pulling my shoes off, sliding sideways, wriggling and bucking, the projection of its spray hitting the tops of the standing creatures first, toppling their unnatural balance and dispersing them across the floor of the factory along with the racks of clothing and cardboard boxes blown sideways in the water blast.

  For a confused minute I rode the fire hose like it was a giant, angry anaconda, and when I finally let go I was launched off it, stumbling to my knees before narrowly gaining my footing on the slippery floor. I sprinted barefoot across the factory floor as the hose arced wildly, all the time fearing the very real possibility that it would flick backwards and knock me out – or worse. In the confusion I had barely noticed the water coming from the sprinklers above me, and the ear-splitting sound of the alarm.

  I threw the heavy fire exit door open and ran down the concrete stairs, flicking off ever fewer spiders from my jeans, my coat, my satchel. Thirteen floors later, I was water-soaked and oxygen deprived when I hit the open air at the alley behind the building.

  I doubled over, held my knees and sucked in air.

  My god. The spiders.

  I ripped Celia’s coat off, flipped it inside out and stomped on it on the ground, killing the last remaining creatures that clung to its outside. A final, poisonous black widow spider rode the edge of my jeans leg, and I flung it off with a yell and a full body shiver that would have seemed hysterical to anyone watching.

  I was out. It was over.

  From now on Pepper could get her own bloody quotes, I decided.

  I looked like I’d been dragged under a subway car. Through a lake.

  I emerged from the mouth of the narrow back alley on to 37th Street, barefoot and dishevelled, looking every bit like one of Manhattan’s many homeless people. Celia’s coat was damp and streaked with dirt and the remains of a lot of eight-legged dead things I didn’t want to think about for the moment. I was red faced from exertion, and my mascara had run in smudged streaks. My bones ached. Especially my tailbone. My feet were soiled and wet.

  I was not going to go back for my ballet flats.

  I still had my satchel, though I doubted it would ever be the same. Two quarts of water had poured out of it. I’d shaken it out in the alley, so at least now there was no longer anything living inside it, which was a small blessing, though my subway ticket, too, appeared to have been killed in the excitement. I held the damp corner of it and scowled. Resigned to my fate, I bowed my head and began to make my way back towards the subway station with a kind of damp shuffle.

  I could no longer say that I didn’t kill spiders. My mother would not be pleased.

  I wasn’t even at the corner of Fashion Avenue before I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. No one watched homeless people in Manhattan, I knew. Homeless people were conveniently invisible. Yet someone was looking at me.

  Oh god. What now?

  I looked up to find an imposingly tall, pale man, dressed in a sharp suit and dark sunglasses, standing before the open door of a sleek black luxury car. He looked like someone’s bodyguard.

  Vlad!

  I’d never in my life been so happy to see Celia’s towering chauffeur. I was so relieved I almost wanted to kiss him. Almost.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I gasped and slid gratefully into the back with an embarrassing squeak across the leather seats. He closed the door behind me and I belted myself in. Nothing in Vlad’s expression revealed shock at my appearance. Without a word he drove me back to Spektor. I didn’t ask how he knew where I was. I knew he wouldn’t answer anyway.

  He never did.

  I stepped out of Vlad’s car on Addams Avenue, slightly more composed but soaked to the bone, just as the final moments of a violet purple sunset faded from the dark sky in the distance. The streets were eerily calm – in other words, just as I would expect. The familiar stillness was comforting.

  I’d come to feel safer in this strange place than on the streets of New York where terrifying goddesses roamed free and factory workers could prove to be nothing more than clumps of amassed spiders, held together by some sinister spell. It said a lot for my new-found resilience that I didn’t want to just go to my room and hide under the bed. Or check myself into a psychiatric hospital. Tonight was special. Soon the full moon would emerge. If Celia was right about its effects, I would be able to call Luke. After all I’d been through, the thought of his warm embrace kept me going.

  I thanked Vlad, and instead of walking straight to the door of the mansion I took a quick detour to Harold’s Grocer. The bell chimed when I entered.

  ‘Hi Harold,’ I called out. ‘It’s me.’

  The store was no less musty than last I’d seen it. The glass-fronted fridge hummed in the back of the shop. I walked to it and grabbed myself some fresh milk and cheddar cheese. I’d become absolutely ravenous. I was just placing these items on the counter next to the old-fashioned cash register when Harold made his entrance.

  ‘Well, hello there, Pandora English,’ he said, emerging from the back in his plaid shirt and belted work pants, smiling and trailing debris. At the sight of me, his expression came over shocked. ‘You look like you’ve had a big day.’

  I nodded. ‘I sure have, Harold.’ I tucked my wet hair behind my ears and stuck close to the counter self-consciously so he didn’t notice my bare feet.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and pulled a clean-looking rag out from behind the counter. ‘Sorry, I don’t have a towel.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said gratefully. I dried myself off a bit more, but of course I was still damp, and worst of all, Celia’s cashmere coat looked like it had been stomped on. Which of course it had. I didn’t look forward to showing her.

  ‘How is that great-aunt of yours? Such a lovely lady . . .’

  ‘She’s well, Harold. She’s very well. It’s the Hunger Moon tonight, she says.’

  ‘Ah yes. The Hunger Moon. Could be eventful,’ he replied with a wink.

  I thought of Luke and smiled. ‘Yes, I think it will be eventful. Harold, if you were entertaining, say, a soldier from the early Civil War, what do you think he might like in the way of . . . I don’t know . . . a welcome drink?’

  Harold gave me a jovial nod. ‘Have a friend, do we? Very good then. Very good. Well, I’ve met a few fellows from that war. They all seem to like Asses’ Milk.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘My apologies, Miss Pandora. I don’t mean to shock you, but that’s what they called it. It’s only rum and lemonade. ’Twas quite popular.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I remarked, making a face.

  ‘You could always give him a Splitting Headache. Rum, lime juice, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg.’

  I thought about that. ‘Sounds a bit complicated for me. I don’t think I’d make a very good bartender. You see, I don’t drink,’ I explained and bit my lip.

  ‘Of course not, Miss Pandora. Of course not.’ He brought a finger to his green-tinged mouth.

  ‘What about something simple?’ I pressed.

  ‘Well, perhaps he’d like a nice glass of apple cider?’

  ‘Apple cider? That sounds more like it,’ I said, relieved. ‘That might make a nice welcome drink.’

  ‘Very well then, Miss Pandora.’

  He disappeared fo
r a moment and I heard boxes being moved and mysterious clanging sounds from the back of the shop. Soon Harold returned to the counter with a tall bottle. It had one of those glass stoppers at the top and it didn’t have a label. ‘Homemade apple cider,’ he announced.

  ‘You made this?’

  ‘One of the fellas here in Spektor makes it. It’s top notch. Maybe heat it up in a mug. Your friend might like that. It’s nice in winter. Hot apple cider was a treat for the boys in the battlefield, I believe.’

  ‘Thanks Harold. Good thinking.’ I hoped Luke would like it, or appreciate the thought at least. ‘Great-Aunt Celia mentioned you sometimes get the papers. I suppose I can get some in town tomorrow, or when I head in to work on Monday, but you wouldn’t happen to have anything here?’

  ‘Wanting to keep up on the news?’

  ‘Well, yes. I’ve had a little trouble lately,’ I admitted.

  He rubbed his chin. ‘Mmmm, yes. With Arachne.’

  My eyes widened. ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘There’s a bit of a grapevine here in Spektor. I’d heard she was in town. Some of the residents are a bit nervous, to be honest.’

  I felt my chest tighten. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I imagine you’ll want to watch yourself.’

  No kidding.

  Harold ducked under the counter, giving me a striking view of the green swaying tufts of hair on his head. I heard papers rustle just beyond my view. ‘We used to have a weekly in Spektor.’ Harold’s voice sounded slightly muffled. ‘A community newsletter of sorts – you know, all the events and things. The lady who produced it moved on. Regrettably, there’s not been anything since.’

  I thought about the quiet streets of Spektor and wondered what events there could possibly be to announce in a weekly newsletter. And, more importantly, where does one go when one ‘moves on’ from Spektor?

  Harold stood up, looking a little more dishevelled than before, and placed a broadsheet on the counter. He tried to straighten his collar and it let off a puff of dust.

  I sneezed.

  ‘Sorry ’bout that, Miss Pandora. Best I can do for you is yesterday’s New York Times. That of any interest to you?’

  ‘No, that’s okay, Harold. Thanks anyway.’ There hadn’t been much on the missing designers in Friday’s paper, and I suspected the incident with Laurie Smith would go completely unreported, anyway. I resolved to call him on Monday to see if he was okay.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,’ Harold said.

  ‘You were of great help,’ I assured him, holding the bottle of apple cider aloft. Harold bagged my groceries, put it all on Celia’s tab (which she still insisted upon, despite my protestations) and I headed towards the mansion.

  I walked through the gathering dark, thinking of Luke and wondering what would happen tonight under the Hunger Moon. Would Luke appear? Could he enlighten me about the spider goddess and her minions and what I could do about her? Could we leave the mansion together? Could we walk down this same stretch of road, and beyond?

  Could I crawl into his arms and never leave?

  I was several metres from the mansion when the front door opened.

  I hoped for Celia.

  What I saw was Brunette, Blonde and Redhead.

  No.

  The fearsome trio spilled out of the mansion in tight tops and thigh-high splits, ready for another night of hunting. Blonde stepped over something on the doorstep, and stopped. She picked it up.

  ‘Pretty,’ I heard her say.

  ‘Give me that.’ Brunette snatched it away.

  It was only then that they noticed me. I had paused on the sidewalk, holding my groceries.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t meddling Miss Country.’

  ‘That’s not even clever, you know,’ I said. I’d stopped in my tracks.

  Blonde observed my dishevelled state and let out a sharp, amused chuckle. ‘Wet-look hair is so early nineties. And your coat —’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  They began to approach me and I found myself wishing Vlad hadn’t already driven off.

  ‘You didn’t seem to want to be left alone last night. Actually you seemed to be trespassing,’ Redhead said.

  I opened my mouth to explain what had happened, and that’s when I saw the pretty thing in Brunette’s hands. I paused. ‘Um, what’s that you’re holding?’

  Brunette held up the beautiful jet black and emerald green package, satin bows shining. ‘What’s it to you?’

  One of the parcels. Just like the one at Victor Mal’s. Just like the one Laurie Smith opened. The boxes at Arachne’s studio were probably packed with these pretty parcels.

  Oh god. The spider goddess sends them to her enemies. And now she has sent one to me. She knows where I live.

  ‘Whom is it addressed to?’

  ‘Me,’ she said, and gave a smug grin. Blonde and Redhead giggled.

  I took a step forward. ‘Listen to me, you really don’t want to open that. Trust me,’ I said. Slowly, I lowered my groceries to the pavement.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. That’s so.’

  ‘Watch me.’

  I held my hands up. ‘Don’t,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t open it. Trust me.’

  She tore the bow off the top in a show of defiance, and ripped the box open. The parcel and its wrapping fluttered to the ground, leaving her holding what looked like a large, beautiful, cream-coloured pashmina shawl.

  ‘Nice.’ Brunette flicked her fingers and it unfolded. She looked at the tag. ‘A-r-a-c-h-n-e. I haven’t heard of that label.’

  Arachne. ‘Oh god, put it down!’

  Instead, she slung it around her shoulders. It wrapped around her elegantly, and she did a little spin. ‘Jealous?’ she said, as I stood with my hands out in front of me, bracing myself.

  Blonde fondled the wrap. ‘Mmmm, soft and silky. I want it.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have it,’ Brunette teased. ‘When Athanasia’s not here, I’m the head of the gang, and I say it’s mine. Mine, mine, mine . . .’

  And then the wrap moved.

  I noticed it before she did. The edge of it furled around Brunette’s shoulder, and it might not have seemed strange, except that there was no wind to push it there.

  And then things moved quickly. The fabric sprang outwards and grew, suddenly opening around her like the mouth of a giant Venus flytrap, and in a flash it folded back on itself, enveloping the brunette Sanguine from head to toe. I barely heard her scream, muffled as it was by the constricting fabric. Her friends stepped backwards, confused.

  ‘Do something! She’ll suffocate!’ I yelled.

  But the two vampires just stared with their mouths open as their friend was enveloped in the silky cocoon. She began to struggle inside it, doubling over, and soon the whole mass began to vibrate and shake as I’d seen it do at the Smith & Co workshop. The spiders. It was filled with spiders.

  ‘What is it?’ Redhead cried.

  Brunette had callously killed someone right in front of me only the night before, yet I couldn’t just stand there. I had to do something. I left my position on the sidewalk and ran forward. ‘I’ll get you out!’ I yelled. ‘Try and hold still.’ Blonde and Redhead cowered at the door of the mansion, uncharacteristically silent. ‘Help me hold her still.’

  But I couldn’t get her out. Without the sharp point of scissors or a knife there was no way to penetrate the silky web. The webbing was sticky, soft and slightly translucent, but somehow as strong as piano wire. My struggles were useless, and my fingertips became raw with the effort. I drew blood.

  ‘Someone! Quick!’ I yelled to the open street, but there was no one to help. What could anyone have done anyway?

  There was no time left.

  In minutes the cocoon deflated on the sidewalk, shrivelling up as if it did not hold the brunette Sanguine at all. And indeed, it didn’t. It was empty, sucked clean, apart from the hundreds of spiders that spilled from its spent husk and filed away into the gutter.

/>   I knocked, let myself into the penthouse and placed my groceries on the counter. I leaned there for a while with my head down, reeling.

  The spider goddess knows where I live.

  It was only a matter of time before I encountered her again. She and her horrible spider people. And now I was sure what had happened to the missing designers.

  They wouldn’t be coming back.

  I was desperate to tell Celia what had happened, and to ask for her help, but she appeared to be out. The lights had been off when I came in. Her fox stole was gone from the Edwardian hatstand. The penthouse was quiet. I stood in the kitchen for a while, wondering what to do. The curtains were open in the lounge room and the moon was full. The Hunger Moon. Beams of moonlight were creating shadows with the furniture in the lounge room, and with all those strange objects that Celia had collected over the years. Inanimate shapes seemed alive. The butterflies appeared to move. I could feel the pull of the moon, just as Celia had suggested.

  It seemed likely I did indeed have a big night ahead of me. I hoped I would not be spending it alone.

  In times of trouble and anxiety, rituals could be comforting. I took my time in the claw-foot bathtub as I washed my hair with a sweet-scented shampoo, and luxuriated in the soapy water, trying my best to focus on Lieutenant Luke and not the shocking visions with which I had been confronted. To Luke’s credit, I found it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought. I recalled our kiss in the storage room and the way it had made me feel; the sensation of his warm, human embrace, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. I was so focused on my romantic recollections that I almost didn’t notice the tender bruises coming up on my knees and the ache of my tailbone. I carefully shaved my legs and towelled myself off, taking my time drying my hair. I walked out to the kitchen around seven, feeling excited about the evening ahead. I lit the stove and heated up some of the apple cider in a pot, and filled a couple of mugs with it. I looked at the mugs and cocked my head. What did one serve with hot apple cider? I took a couple of biscuits from the cupboard and laid them out on a plate, and then returned to my room to arrange it all on the Victorian writing desk. I brushed my long hair once more, and adjusted my top in the mirror. I changed once. Twice. And finally I put the same white blouse back on with my second favourite jeans. My favourite jeans were rather the worse for wear after the fire hose incident. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard to impress Luke. Even though clearly I was.