She nodded to herself and bit her lip. What legacy could Mark’s mysterious mother have left? She pulled the book into her chest, wondering if there was any warmth at all to be gained from whatever story slumbered within. There was a sadness in that search for warmth; it could only cast a deeper shadow over the reality of the woman’s end and Mark’s guilt. She slipped her hand into her pocket and found the chain of the necklace. That object was the physical manifestation of all the pain and bloodshed that Mark bore. The sigil that adorned its reverse, whatever connection it had, felt like it was somehow meant for just the two of them.
Spinneretta smiled a little at that hopeless romanticism. She pulled the necklace out of her pocket and, after making sure Mark wasn’t looking, unfastened the clasp and slipped the chain around her neck. You don’t have to worry anymore, she thought. I’ll bear this guilt for you. I’ll lay it to rest.
Upon their return to Kyle’s, Spinneretta was inundated by cheers of birthday celebration from her family. Arthr, Kara, May, Ralph, and even Kyle himself surrounded her in warm attention that felt too forced for her to believe. And even were their cheer genuine, the circumstances were far too grim to enjoy any more celebration. And so while Mark slipped off to the study with the Repton Scriptures tucked under his arm, Spinneretta endured token apologies regarding the lack of gifts and sat through some of the cake her mother made her.
The moment was a rare one, a beacon of warmth amid the frigid seas that tossed their lives according to the whims of chaos. And yet dread clawed at every thought she spun. For through the windows, from the doors, even beyond the veil of spacetime, she thought she could feel eyes upon her.
Somewhere, the Cheshire Man was watching.
Chapter 29
The Repton Scriptures
Between her unease at the encounter with the Cheshire Man and the fact that she’d only been awake for a few hours, Spinneretta couldn’t sleep at all that night. Every time she approached the border of sleep, stray thoughts pierced her false sense of comfort and dragged her back into consciousness. She tossed and turned, and at around three in the morning she finally decided she wasn’t going to get any rest.
With one spider leg, she clicked the nearby lamp on and blinked back the brightness. As she yawned, something blue sitting upon the coffee table caught her eye. It was the book the Cheshire Man had given them from Mark’s mother. Starblooded, the title read. The temptation to read it started in her stomach. He’d given her permission, after all. And after seeing the mist sigil engraved upon the pendant, she wanted more than ever to explore the mystery of what it meant, and what it was that linked them together. But, as she held the book in her hands, the weight of Mark’s pain seemed to drip from the thin volume. Maybe later she could bring herself to open it, but right now the tale of his loss was too fresh. And so she stood up, stretched her arms and spider legs out, and made for the stairs.
The whole house was dead silent. When she arrived at the second-floor study, she rapped upon the door before easing it open. But to her surprise, Mark was nowhere to be found within. With careful steps, she approached the desk where the damned dinosaur of a computer still sat unsolved. She clicked the lamp on, and a dusty glow filled the room. Squinting against the second invasion of light, she flopped into the seat behind the desk. Well, there goes my plan for another sleepless night talking with him. Would’ve been so damned nostalgic, too.
And then she noticed something else at the edge of the desk. It was a book wrapped in a yellow canvas cover. Her heart skipped a beat. She sat upright and leaned forward, peering at the second of the imparted books. Mark must’ve been reading it before he left, she thought. Without thinking, she grabbed the tome and held it up before her eyes. She studied its textured surface and the enigmatic shape of the letters running across its face. The Repton Scriptures. Yes. This was it. More than Mark’s mother’s legacy, it was this book that captured the entirety of her present curiosity. She ran her fingers over the cover. If you’re not going to let me in on your secrets, she thought at Mark, then I’ll figure them out my damn self. Taking a shaky breath to calm the eels in her stomach, she cracked open the cover and exposed the dusty, faded pages within. After flipping over the first few leaflets, she came upon a table of contents: On the Subterranean Ruins of Ur’thenoth. Letters of Repton the Elder. Mythology of the Spider Cult. A Lexicon in Rakkith. The New Revelations of Repton the Younger. Code of the Websworn. Hymns and Rituals to Raxxinoth. The Book of Exile. She shuddered as she looked over the titles. Barely able to keep her nerves in check, she flipped forward to the first section, On the Subterranean Ruins of Ur’thenoth.
The dense script, written in a dry and academic style, was difficult to parse due to the antiquity of vocabulary and mannerism. But as she skimmed the writing, she came to realize the author was discussing a system of underground ruins discovered while surveying the Sierra Nevadas for precious metals. The tone was highly erudite, scientific—far from the crazed ravings of a madman as she had expected. The author was skeptical, cautious in drawing conclusions regarding the relief mosaics and friezes found in the seemingly timeless ruins down in those caverns. And as she read through his descriptions and skimmed sketches, she was unable to keep herself from thinking of the yawning void in the halls beneath San Solano. Was it possible that these caverns were one and the same? But if that was the case, then why had nobody discovered them before? A lost civilization beneath their feet would have shaken the scientific world. Just like human-spider hybrids, she thought, suddenly thinking the chill in the study pervasive.
Impatient for answers, she skipped ahead to Letters of Repton the Elder. However, she found the entire section consisted of letters apparently sent between Charles Repton and his contemporaries, Thomas Wood and Alexander Grant. The letters were just as erudite as the first section and thrice as dull, and so she skipped ahead to the next book. Beneath the large heading which read Mythology of the Spider Cult, the text went from dense and heavy to a lighter, more graceful flow. Blinking in relief from the eye strain, she began to read.
Contained below is a summary of the partial translation of the text found within the annals I have taken to calling The Library. Though the information presented is vast and disturbing, it is but a fragment of the total volume recorded within those halls, and makes no attempt at translating the more decadent script found accompanying the late period sites. All information contained is preserved for intellectual purposes. I shall defiantly make no endorsement of the deplorable religion the inhuman inhabitants of this vast ruin practiced.
In the beginning, dark permeated creation. When the first thought burned away the blackness, among those firstborn was Raxxinoth, the Overspider. And Raxxinoth, in all its glory, wove the heavens into great webs to keep its courts. And to all the stars and planets there ensnared, Raxxinoth spread its children. To all corners of all galaxies they spread. But there came from outside a menace to all, and Raxxinoth was bound in black flames within A’vavel, within Th’ai-ma, within Zigmhen, within the great dark.
But though Raxxinoth was imprisoned within A’vavel, its children were free to spread and grow. And even when the great calamity struck, there survived those children. In the fourteenth year of the ninth archon’s reign, when the scions of the Overspider yet gorged themselves on blood, there was born from the womb of a human woman a blue-eyed child blessed with the mark of Raxxinoth. The cursed child was thought a dark omen for his northern land, and treacherous men bearing false witness conspired to have him slain. But Raxxinoth guided the child, and the blessing of the Weaver of the Mists was strong within him. The child fled to the ancestral home of Raxxinoth, Zigmhen, where he laid the foundation of a new kingdom.
That child grew to become a man, and about himself he draped a silken cloak dyed in the yellow shades of cipherroot, whereupon he took the title of the Yellow King.
And so he sought to forge the kingdom of Raxxinoth, guided by the Weaver of the Mists. And as he learned of his powers, and learned of
the powers of those who had come before him, he created the proud beasts of Zigmhen. He created the quolls (original: Qul’therax-ma), and he created the children of Raxxinoth (original: Vant’therax). And so grew beneath his feet, upon the shattered shores of the Web, the magnificent fortress city of Th’ai-ma. For four hundred and forty-three years, so flourished Th’ai-ma. And the power and culture of the Vant’therax spread throughout Zigmhen, and from the Web to Ur’thenoth.
But there came a black shadow upon the kingdom, for a high priest of Raxxinoth, whose name was Heinokk, was visited by a malevolent specter. At the beckoning of that specter, Heinokk turned from the Yellow King and from Raxxinoth, and began to worship the Writhing Malefice. And soon, fully half of the Vant’therax bowed before that false idol. And Heinokk, with dark purpose and the magic of the idol, rose to challenge the Yellow King for the throne of Th’ai-ma.
And when the Yellow King saw Heinokk’s betrayal, he felt no remorse. Their battle was over immediately, for the Yellow King commanded power against magic, granted him by Raxxinoth as a wine of communion. The Yellow King broke Heinokk, and severed his gift of magic forever, so that another spell may never be cast from his twisted mind. And when Heinokk refused to repent his sins, the Yellow King tore him to shreds in sight of the amassed followers of the dark idol. And on that day, the Yellow King declared a genocide against the Vant’therax. Only his most loyal were spared, and they marched for the slaughter with a vengeful fervor.
For years the battles raged, but the King was cruel and unforgiving. Entire cities were swept away by his weapons, and where his loyal could not march he went alone. In his wake, only death remained.
But upon the eve of the ninth year of slaughter, from the void there came an ember of the same fire that bound Raxxinoth within A’vavel. Death washed through Zigmhen, until the tides of the Yellow King and the killer from the stars met. Though the war raged for a long while, the Yellow King realized in all of his wisdom that his opponent was composed of the very essence of magic, and with the Wine of Raxxinoth he struck a fatal blow that drove the wounded creature from Zigmhen. But the invader cast a final spell over the cosmic Web. And as the Yellow King retreated to his throne within Th’ai-ma, he gave a final charge to his loyal servants who had left the Web behind: weave the helices of man and spider, and the aeons shall cry.
Spinneretta turned the page and found an illustration overleaf. The image depicted a scene of brutality. Crudely depicted humanoid skulls floated at the sides of the image, framing a large figure in the center. Though the figure was made up of only sharp, serrated angles, it was clearly meant to depict a flowing robe-like garment. A number of geometric tendrils—spider legs—extended from beneath the robe. The robed creature stood astride another man-thing lying upon the ground, and those spider legs were busy tearing into the victim. Face twisted in pain, the creature on the ground seemed to melt into a cloud of blood that streamed to the sides. Beneath the hood of that figure, Spinneretta stared into the only visible feature: a pair of haunting eyes that must have gleamed a vibrant, electric blue—just as the story had claimed. The caption beneath the picture read: The Yellow King and Heinokk.
The author then continued a lecture on several relevant topics, expanding at great length on several of the specific aspects of the mythology, but Spinneretta had become distracted by the haunting and unrefined style of the image. Reading only a few words per paragraph, she flipped through the following pages. More images followed, each penned in the same sketchy, hyperangular style.
A deserted wasteland, dotted with sharp obelisks that she just knew were the same blood-red color as the pillars in the Web and the excavations beneath San Solano. The text under the image read: Zigmhen, the World on the Web.
A lanky, eyeless humanoid with four thick spider legs growing from its back, hunched over like an animal. A long tongue licking the air from between jagged, sharpened teeth. Nubbed growths, not unlike vestigial pedipalps, flanked the thing’s mouth. The text beneath it: Vant’therax, Children of Raxxinoth.
A portrait of a monstrous mammal with bat-like ears, four eyes, and a forest of jagged teeth, all riding atop bladed legs covered in serrated ridges. She swallowed hard, her breath stuttering. It was a spider-hound, a Leng cat. But the text beneath it gave it a different name: Qul’therax-ma, the Great Quolls of Raxxinoth.
An aerial view of complex, interlocking structures within the spokes of cyclopean walls. In the center, a monstrously large fortress towered over the sprawling culture below, which grew like an ivy lattice from the wastelands. The architecture, blocky but precisely hewn, somehow geometrically perverse, was a perfect match for the foreboding dwellings of the mountain city in the Web. And beyond the fortress, the endless expanse of some forgotten sea beat against a broken shoreline. The text beneath the image: Th’ai-ma, the Great Fortress of the Web. The words sent a shiver racing through her legs. Th’ai-ma. The home of the Yellow King.
Something stirred within her. The bastions that ringed the terraced fortress, connected by sky bridges, seemed to whisper to her, just as the subtle waves upon that ocean did. The hardest déjà vu of her life struck her. She’d seen this before. Somewhere. Within a dream, perhaps, but somewhere nonetheless. It was too familiar to be a mere coincidence.
As she sat considering the strange book, footsteps came from the hall. In reflex, she slammed the tome shut and slid it back where she’d found it, uncertain why she was so afraid to be seen reading it. The footsteps grew yet nearer, and Kyle emerged into the dim lamplight, a glass in his hand. He paused in the doorway, and the two looked at one another for a moment.
“You’re up pretty late, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yeah, I guess I am. Aren’t you getting started a bit early?”
He took a brief glance at his drink and chuckled. “Guess I am.” When she didn’t say anything else, he sauntered over to the other chair and lowered himself into it. “Hope you don’t mind if I sit with you for a bit. Drinking alone is mighty lonely business.”
“Your house,” she said, avoiding direct eye contact. Why does everybody keep bothering me in the middle of the night? Why don’t you bother Arthr instead? This was probably the fourth time she’d spoken to Kyle, as he had mostly kept himself sequestered away in his room. He only seemed to emerge for meals, drinking, and occasionally pillaging reading material from the study.
Kyle took a slow sip of the dark liquid and commenced staring off into the unlit fireplace. “Whatever you and your family got in the middle of,” he said, “it sure is something. Must be pretty hard on you.”
“I’m surviving.” Somehow.
He made a noise of acceptance and took another sip of his drink. “You know, I hate to bombard you with questions. God knows you must feel like a fucking guinea pig.”
“Are you taking more notes?”
“No, just curious.”
“Then ask.”
“What was it like growing up as a spider person?” He clucked under his breath. “I mean, I can’t even imagine what it would be like. Did you get picked on at school, or . . . ?”
She shook her head, already weary of his curiosity. “Not really, no. People talked, but you can never stop that. For the most part, people treated me like they treat anyone else. It was never really a big deal at all.”
He nodded a little. “So. Did you get that computer workin’?”
“A bit. UNIX is a real pain in the ass.”
“That it is,” he laughed. “If you were really desperate to get it working you could probably ask . . . Uhh, never mind.”
She glanced at the tips of her spider legs as they clicked together in front of her. “Mind if I ask something for a change?”
“Hmm?”
“How do you know our mom?”
A thick, electrical silence fell between them. Kyle stared at her, something ugly brewing in his eyes. “Why?”
“Considering you called her a bitch as soon as we showed up and completely disappeared after she got here,
it seems you’re not the family friend I assumed you were.”
He was quiet for a moment and then began to nod. “We used to be close. But that was a long time ago.” He took a moment to spill half the remaining whiskey into his mouth, and then coughed into his sleeve. “May and I used to go to college together. We became friends and then fell in love. But then Ralph came between us. Not much more to it than that.”
“Ahh.” She already wished she hadn’t asked. Should’ve guessed it was that damn love thing ruining everything.
“Yeah. Probably not what you wanted to hear, huh.”
“Not really. Sorry to open old wounds.”
“It’s fine,” he said with a sigh. “Not your fault. Not like you knew.”
His tone sucked the life from the room like a black hole. Even if Spinneretta didn’t want to ask anything further, she felt obligated to. “So . . . what happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s not worth explaining.” Kyle took a sip of his drink. “Think it messed me up pretty bad, but . . . It’s not something you need to get involved with. Just haven’t been able to forget, and part of me has still loved her all these years. And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to kill that part of me off, because every time I come close to burying my feelings she finds a way to claw her way back into my life as though nothing ever happened.”
The veiled animosity cut. “What do you mean?”
He gave his hand a dismissive shake. “It’s . . . It’s nothing. Just, they settled in Grantwood at the worst fucking time. Think it was a couple months after, I get this unprompted letter, a job offer, from some company in Grantwood. West Valley Research, I think they were called. Wanted to give me a huge motherfucking research grant to go and study spiders in their labs, some huge project. Fucking dream job, it was. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move there. Even if I never saw her again, the possibility that I might just . . . I couldn’t handle it. So I turned ’em down. I never recovered from that.”
Helixweaver (The Warren Brood Book 2) Page 36