Two.
★
“Anansi, I have seen you watching that girl when you think no one is there. I have noticed, sir. Who is she?”
The Spider narrowed his eyes. He was The Trickster, known for his talent of slipping into spaces where his presence was neither expected nor desired. He had every story, every word, every secret, and no being on Earth had his. How was it, then, that a common hare had learned of his infatuation with a human woman? How long had she known? What had she seen? Had she followed him into the village, seen him wait in the market for the girl to arrive on her daily errands? It would have been obvious why he was there—hers was not the kind of beauty that depended on the patronage of an acquired eye, it was undeniable. Gorgeous, her smooth, brown skin and wide, almond eyes—the lips of a queen, so thick, so full, so plump. He liked to look from one to the other when she spoke—
Her eyes to her lips and back.
Her lips to her eyes and back.
As she narrowed her gaze, or pressed her lips tight in thought, in anger, in disgust, her face remained smooth. When she was amused, the left corner of her mouth would tug upward, the right brow lifting a seemingly infinitesimal amount. Her companions often missed it altogether.
Anansi did not.
He knew her hidden smile as well as her name.
Aja.
If her beauty was striking, her prescience was startling. For her wealth of knowledge on all things spiritual and herbal, she had amassed a following that spanned all the continent—a travelling priestess who moved from village to village, region to region, but had made her home among his Ashanti, who claimed her as their own. She was visited by man and beast alike, spirits trailed behind her waiting for an audience, and even the gods of the winds and river seemed to find her worthy of their patronage—Anansi was far from the first to have noticed her. He feared, correctly, that if he did not make his petition soon, some other soul would come along to pay the bride price and claim her hand. There had to be a way to gain her favor.
As a god, he thought little of human boundaries and less of privacy. Sole custodian of the Earth’s stories, he had been tasked with the collection of every secret and whisper, every stolen glance, every hidden desire, and he employed his gifts in furtherance of this endeavor. It was his divine right, and so he moved between the skin of a man and his spider form, and every variation thereof. He could rise to the height of a tree or shrink to the size of an ant, lurk in the crowd at the market or creep through the tightest window crack. Often, he would remain in plain sight, hiding in the bristles of a brush, the spine of a book, the feathers of an ostrich fan.
And while he knew where she lived and often listened at her window, he had never used the rest of his tricks on Aja; had never hidden on her person. Instead, he lingered in her periphery, learned about her through his observations, followed the patients who visited her home to discern the quality of her work, rested in the canopy of the forest as she gathered her herbs and took inventory on which animals she approached, and which spirits answered when she called on their aid, all the while slipping from skin to skin and maintaining a safe distance from her person. It would be easy to nest in her curls to better hear her conversations, as he had done countless times to countless people, and even other gods, but it did not feel right this time. Something within him found his usual methods inappropriate. She had to share in his desire. She had to want him.
He had to touch her as a man.
The form he usually took when he wanted to walk among the people became his preferred skin; tall, slender, with handsome cheekbones and bright brown eyes, his limbs lean and spindly—every bit the spider. He typically donned garments of his own webs, spun into a soft, cotton-like fabric, or else an even finer silk. Ruby, emerald, and sapphire were the hues he favored most—his skin had a certain precious luster when set against jewel tones and his tight, perfect spirals became an even glossier black.
And while he had to hide as a spider
So as not to alarm her,
As a man, he could be seen.
He desperately wanted to be held in those almond eyes. When their paths crossed at last—not by chance, but his deft orchestration—he nearly died of delight. It was a typical afternoon at the bustling marketplace; throngs of people from the village and neighboring area had gathered in the heart of the town, where the streets were lined with shops housed in permanent clay structures that had stood proud and strong for centuries alongside transient stalls with fabric walls, to buy and trade and to see the latest shipments from other parts of the Akan world and beyond. Children were herded along their mothers’ calves, or sat astride their fathers’ shoulders, the sound of their laughter swelled in the air with the sizzling of beef skewers and the braying of livestock. Splashes of color and texture and Ankara and adinkra lined the stalls of the merchants and draped the bodies of the people, the smell of spices and produce and prepared meat at food stalls, and of incense and raffia and hand carved wood at those of artisans and peddlers and established businesses with elderly owners and older traditions—the indigo dyers and kente weavers, the wool spinners and pot sculptors. Anything and everything and every type of person could be found there at one point or another. If not in the early hours when the sounds were the loudest and the smells were the strongest and the sights were the most intriguing, then later in the day, when things had died down and many had retired to prepare for a quiet evening at home with their families.
Aja arrived in the time between, a basket balanced on her head and another nestled in the curve of her waist. She was alone, buying fabric from a merchant who was eager to sell. Anansi placed himself in her line of sight—one booth across and one to the right—so that when she finally stepped out from the shade of the stall and into the sun, his sapphire suit would be the first thing she saw. He tried to focus on his plan, to get the timing just right—he would make his exit the exact moment she turned to survey her surroundings—but the proprietor of the shop he had been loitering in for the better part of fifteen minutes had been pestering him with questions for the past ten. Flustered and annoyed, he pulled out a pouch of gold.
“But sir,” the nuisance went on even after the silk purse was in his palms, the small bar hidden within shifting from side to side like water. “Sir.”
“Tuh!” Said Anansi, tearing his eyes from the girl so he could properly face him, and, he hoped, shut him up. “What is it you want, sir? What must I give you to make you stop talking?”
He was middle aged and spoiled by moderate wealth—portly and balding and draped in an Ankara robe that accentuated his wide girth, a thick beard on his chin, golden hoops in each ear, ivory rings on each finger, bracelets adorning both wrists—and was nervously fingering the bag. Clearly, he intended to keep it, so why would he not keep his peace as well?
“Sir,” the fat man said again. “You have given me far too much—this is enough for every stick of incense I have in stock here, every oil, bar of soap, and jar of butter, and even the pots my wife made solely to display them, and still—”
Anansi raised a hand to silence him.
Across the way, the priestess was paying her merchant.
“Do you see her? That woman, just there?”
“The young lady with the colorful baskets?”
“Yes,” said Anansi. “Give it all to her.”
“Sir?”
“Everything,” said Anansi.
He willed his target to look his way.
“Call her here when I leave,” he ordered the incense man. “Tell her it’s all been paid for and carry it to her home in your wife’s pots. Consider the surplus your delivery fee.”
She was moving now, backing out of the fabric merchant’s shop, looking around in search of her next destination. This would be Anansi’s only chance. As she turned on her sandaled heel and exited the stall, he slid out from the canopy of the incense merchant’s tent. With a single step, he closed the gap between them, positioning his body so that when she finished her rotation back into the open market, they were separated by a negligent ten feet.
The space between them
Collapsed.
She stared openly,
Her brow drawing together
Slightly.
Her lips parting,
Slightly.
Softly,
And sweetly.
He smiled before slipping out of sight.
