Chapter 26: That First Ingredient at Last

Can you spin it out of gossamer

From the ceiling to the stair?

Can you let the wind blow through it

So it sways but doesn’t tear?

--Shel Silverstein, “The Weavers”

The forced march to the prison cell never made it to the part of the girls’ brains where memories were stored. Their feet took over, moving like wind-up toys. If Grace could have thought at that moment, she would picture how close this must feel to being a zombie.

One rabbit guard stopped to rub a wall of orange cheddar. A large slab melted away, but only momentarily. After being uncuffed, the girls were shoved in by a mass of rough paws. The wall re-solidified. There were no windows or lanterns to illuminate the room, but mold covering the hard, stale cheese glowed. At least they would not be left in darkness.

Diana rubbed her hand on the wall, exactly as the guard had. No doorway melted into place. She complained about not being a phoenix. Then she would have had fire, instead of just sweat. Fox claimed her stones could carve an exit, but whatever magic was in Ostara’s snap made her powerless for the time being.

With no chairs, benches, or couches, Grace sat on the floor. The cell was narrow, but tall. Four sharp corners drew past the height of the tallest adult (and then some) to shadowy rafters. The closest to a clear thought Grace had in the square room was that she had come full circle.

She, Diana, and Fox were in the same position as when they first met. While the people responsible for the Ambrosius Institute were now either themselves imprisoned or turned into a plant, it seemed there were always new jailers willing to take the Director’s role. Grace remembered—however vaguely—a time when speaking to birds was a way to make friends, like Mrs. Tatters, instead of gaining enemies eager to exploit her for it.

“Four corners,” Fox pointed out. “Perfect place to imagine a box, y’know, like Sch…someone showed us.” Though it might have worked, none so much as considered that solution further. It felt like disrespecting their murdered friend. 

Diana halfheartedly floated the idea of creating illusions, like cloud clones. This was providing they already found a way to break out. Any guards checking in should be fooled long enough to allow a search for Goldtalon, Bennu, the cure ingredients, and reliable means to escape the moon.

“Even if you left this cell,” said a thin voice from the rafters, “No illusions work here. I’ve tried. Glamours are only really effective with humans, anyway, or those with a humanoid mindset.”

“Who are you?” Fox shouted the question. “The bunny said we might get drained of blood here. What are you, a vampire?”

“‘Who’ or ‘what.’ Which would you like me to answer first?” The voice in the rafters became a bit louder. ‘What’ entails going into my species, genus, family, order, class, phylum, and kingdom, which’ll take a while. Not that we don’t have lots of free time. ‘Who’ is much simpler to answer. I’m Anansi.”

“Nancy?” asked Diana. “Isn’t that a girl’s name?” The speaker from the rafters was male, though he was no man.

Drifting from the ceiling on a silk cord (really more resembling a piece of multicolored yarn) came a spider. Like most spiders, he had eight legs. Unlike most, the back six wore yellow rubber galoshes. The front two, which possessed hands, juggled a silver thimble between them. 

In proportions, he was half Grace’s height, but just as wide, and twice as long. Most of him consisted of thorax, where his yarn originated. In the space between his spinnerets and head, he wore a tan raincoat. His face was mostly obscured by a pair of toy glasses with a plastic nose and mustache mimicking the appearance of the comedian Groucho Marx. Two eyes gazed at the friends through fake lenses. An extra six maintained different perspectives.

 “I should hope Anansi’s not a girl’s name. Female spiders eat their mates, and while I’m not a vampire, I am presently on an all-liquid diet.”

“‘Woe to she who would put her trust in Anansi—a sly, selfish, and greedy fellow.’” Grace remembered a proverb her mother said after every Anansi story. In them, Anansi the spider god had a weird, generally mean sense of humor. The morals—when there were morals to stories featuring misbehavior that would get Grace punished if her mother caught her acting that way—revolved around how a physically weak but clever creature can overcome strong but stupid opponents.

“You’ve heard of me, then.” The spider adjusting his glasses. “You must’ve heard another quote about Anansi: “‘The wisdom of the spider is greater than that of all the world put together.’”

“You don’t look like a Nancy.” Fox scowled. “We haven’t had very good relations with spiders recently. In fact, you remind me of one called Djieien. I advise you not to try drinking our blood. Otherwise, I’ll have to swat you with a rolled-up newspaper!” This was, of course, a bluff. No postal services delivered to the moon, and none of the companions brought reading material from Earth.

If he was aware of how hollow the threat was, Anansi played along. “Stab me with scissors, crush me with rocks, but I beg of you, not paper! Yes, I’m sad to acknowledge the Djieien as a relative. A distant relation, I should point out, who picked a disreputable career. As I was telling our second cousin, Iktomi, ‘Working a trapdoor is no honest living for an arachnid. I mean, what are we? Antlions? No, we should aspire to the noble calling of artists! Spinning webs, not lunging at anyone treading by!’ Allow me to demonstrate how I differ from that brute. I rarely get an audience for my craft, but see what beautiful work came out of me!”

Between a finger and thimble-covered thumb, Anansi delicately pulled a white string of yarn connected to the ceiling, so thin as to initially appear invisible, but now seemed obvious. Tapestries unfurled from the rafters. They hardly fit Grace’s definition of “beautiful.”

In broad, clashing colors, they depicted animals interacting. Most included a figure clearly intended to be Ostara being murdered (or at least mauled) in ridiculous, humiliating ways.

Those sections used lots of red yarn. One involved a blacksmith’s anvil falling on the rabbit’s head, complete with the blacksmith sitting atop it.

“Ah, here’s the best part!” Anansi removed the thimble from his thumb and kicked off his galoshes. Stretching eight limbs to near-breaking point, he pulled at other hidden strings. With a full-body wrench, tapestry fibers weaved into each other, generating an illusion of motion which resembled the cartoons played before A-features.

With each rotation, a different story of escape was told, the constants being Ostara suffering punishment and a cartoon spider—easily recognized as Anansi himself what with the Groucho glasses—escaping. Grace felt like she was tied to the center pole of a merry-go-round. She fell down dizzy, as did Diana and Fox. 

Anansi dropped the cords and stooped to put his galoshes back on. After tidying a bit, he stuck a be-thimbled hand out to the girls, each in turn. Apparently expecting at least one to shake it. Eventually, the spider gave up, saying “It’s clear you’re not a touchy-feely crowd. Perfectly fine, long as you can talk. I love conversation. Like speaking even more. A free mouth leads to a free mind.

“That’s what I said before Ostara locked it up, plus the rest of me. I’d bragged a bit too often about my ‘active imagination.’ Rabbits aren’t especially known for deep thinkers, which is why terrible plans are called ‘hare-brained.’ Or is it ‘hair-brained’? Regardless, Little Miss Foo-Foo keeps me here til’ she wants creative ideas. Not my fault they always wind up being used for evil. ‘World domination’ isn’t even on my business card.”

He reached into a raincoat pocket, pulling out a card which he waved before Grace. The words started large, reading:

“ANANSI—GOD OF STORIES, Owner of nonsense in verse and prose, rentable at nominal charges; Planner of schemes; Schemer of plans; Jokesmith of the highest caliber; fully licensed Prankster; takes Clowning very seriously; Doer of the same thing over-and-over while expecting different results; Inventor of gags; Purveyor of believable lies and unbelievable truths; hot-air Balloonist for flights of fancy; Daydreamer by night; knitting Enthusiast; Weaver of karmic comeuppance; Defeater of monsters; Satire, in your choice of Horatian or Juvenalian; Charlatan of only the most unreliable and miscellaneous flibbertigibbets; fair-weather Enemy and poor-weather Friend; Deliverer of amusing anecdotes at parties on the condition of a decent supply of boo…”

—at this point, the text became so small it proved illegible. A line of black dots seemed to fall off the edge, but nothing resumed on the back of the card, which was blank except for a (strawberry jam?) stain.

Fox looked over Grace’s shoulder. “You must print cards from the same place as Dr. Bezoar.”

“I don’t know who that is,” admitted Anansi. “But they sound like a professional.”

“I’ve read lots,” said Diana. “But I only know the meaning of half those words.”

“That’s fine.” Anansi put the card back in his pocket. “Learning new words makes a fine hobby. It’s putting them in the right order that becomes work.”

“Are you a writer?” Of the girls, Diana seemed the least anxious about having a huge spider next to her.

Grace doubted she would feel so at ease if the semi-squonk had seen the Djieien like the others. Then again, Grace felt uneasy with spiders even back at home, where they were never giant.

“Not exactly.” Anansi shrugged his shoulders. All eight of them. “But I’ve sat near the desks of every great writer. I own the patent to every story, see, and loan them out to authors. Rights revert to me after their deaths. The prices paid by writers vary. But truthfully, they’re not happy ones. Why, Milton had to go blind before really starting to hit his stride.”

“I wanted to be a writer,” Diana said after some hesitation. “Tragic poems and ballads. Romantic…in a way. Except now, I know about real tragedy, I don’t much want to write it.”

“I noticed you three were rather upset when you came in.” Anansi glanced at Fox, who scooted away. Grace had already put herself as distant from him as she could in the confined square. “Don’t need details on whom you’ve lost, but I typically love hearing juicy details of drama. Are you sure you wouldn’t want to write something different than tragedy, Miz…?”

Diana introduced herself and her friends.

“Comedies used to be my preferred type of stories,” said Anansi. “But if I can change, maybe you can too? I decided while imprisoned here, there’s no such thing as ‘happily ever after.’ Allowed to progress far enough, every story ends in death.

“Say you’re reading a book you’re enjoying, and you get to the last page. No matter how well things might turn out for those heroes you’ve been made to fall in love with, the simple fact that it ends tinges the entire work with bitterness. Wrap your ending in a bow, cover it in sprinkles, but nothing sweetens the taste of conclusions.”

“I think it’s like this,” said Diana, “No matter how often you go back and reread the book, the ending’ll always be the same. Whatever pitfalls, dilemmas, or sacrifices the characters endured, there’s no surprises anymore. You can only experience a story for the first time once. Then it ends, whether good or bad.”

“You only live once,” observed Fox. “I don’t know what makes a good ending, but if you finish the story and shout ‘Finally, I’m done!’, that’s how you know the writer did a bad job.”

Till now, Grace had been rather silent. Now she asked “Does that make you a muse, Anansi?”

“Forcibly retired.” Anansi put his hands behind his thorax and scaled the wall until he leaned against the ceiling. “Was perhaps a bit less altruistic than grim…” with eight eyes, he had no trouble spotting the blanching of the girl’s faces, so he replaced ‘malkin’ with ‘…m Brothers.’ Anyway, a writer’s muse has lots of highs,” he plunged to the floor, “and lows. Mostly lows. Even so, I’d gladly return to the business if I escaped here.”

“Sold!” said Diana. “I’ll give up all my potential happiness, Anansi, if it means I can become a great composer of ballads—we’ll decide how tragic later—and have the courage to recite them myself. In front of people. Not just mannequins.”

The Groucho glasses bobbed up and down. “We get out of here; I’ll take you up on the offer.” For once, Anansi got the least part of a bargain. Little did he know: Diana Hemlock expected no happiness in her life. Then again, he also did not think she could find a way to leave.

On the orders of Ostara’s lieutenant, Tecciztecatl, rabbits had confiscated Grace’s bag. They failed, however, to riffle her pockets. She absentmindedly opened the tinfoil from Utlunta’s house. Grace knew she should have eaten a long while ago, but the stench of Mooncry suppressed appetites. Regardless, there now lay a selection of cakes, cookies, breads, briskets, pork, and mashed potatoes before the group, plus a cup of fizzy red soda.

“For last meals,” Diana said as she wiped a teacake crumb from the side of her lips, “this could be worse.”

“Is this what it is?” Grace still had not eaten much. “A last meal?”

“Well, not for you.” Fox pushed aside the ham to get to some brisket. “You heard the bad bunny. Speakin’ to birds is useful—least, to her. Diana and me, though? She’ll probably chop off our ears before we’re executed.”

“Pardon me.” Anansi skittered over. “You don’t owe my anything, Miz Grey. But, well, it’s been so long since I’ve had anything to sip. Would it bother you to share some of that delicious-looking beverage with me?”

In fact, it did bother Grace. The plastic Groucho mustache did little to hide the fanged mandibles underneath. She had no problem helping Anansi, she just did not want him getting too close. “If you set out your thimble, I’ll pour you some.”

Anansi did so. When Grace filled the thimble to the brim, he slurped the drink, staining his mandibles as when humans drink punch. “You’ve nothing to fear from my fangs,” he said after his seventh or more serving. “If I had any decent venom, I’d have killed the guards who perform my regularly-scheduled torture. Instead, the only effect my bite has is sudden, unprovoked laughter.”

“‘Delight can be found in the smiles of spiders.’” Grace felt sure that was how the initial line in the gold scroll went. “Anansi’s venom must be the last ingredient to the cure!”

“Obviously.” Despite lacking a neck, Anansi nodded. “What cure, exactly?”

Grace turned to where Diana and Fox sat in a half circle, munching from a spread which stubbornly refused to be exhausted. “And I’ve got some sleeping sand on my shoulder! Schrodinger said that was the second (or second-to-last) ingredient. Scratching my coat with his gritty claws was his last action before…”

Diana produced no tears, but dry-cried. Fox yanked off her goggles, rubbing elbows into her eyes.

Grace sympathized. “Yeah, I’m sad, too…actually, sad’s not a strong enough word.”

“I have a Webster’s thesaurus if you need it.” Anansi paused to read the room, then retreated back to the rafters.

“Schrodinger wouldn’t want us to just give up, right?” Grace phrased it as a question, but already knew the answer. He wished to cure the plague of zombie spores even more than some of the birds suffering from it. As a muse, he inspired people, even if sometimes he talked too much. “Only someone like Lady Mondegreen can help him now. But we’re alive! We have to hope Goldtalon and Bennu are, too. There’s no time for last meals.”

“If it’s sand we need,” said Diana, “I think some fell in my pockets when I had that accident with the Sandman.” Sure enough, her bandaged, warty hand pulled out bits of abrasive dust.

“You call defeating horrible monsters ‘an accident?’” asked Fox incredulously. She turned to Grace. “You trust the words of that witch when she said an ingredient would be in this stinky castle?”

“Too many gingerbread men.” Diana dropped a piece of red velvet cake from her fist.

Grace hesitated. “Utlunta let me go…in the end. And you trust her enough to still eat her food.”

“From these ramblings I gather you need my venom.” Anansi crawled down. “I’m happy to supply all you might require. But I think it’s fair I get more strawberry soda.”

“It should never run out. Just don’t ask where it comes from.” Grace handed the cup to Anansi outright. His hand felt just as hairy and disgusting as she figured it would. But that hardly mattered right now. Though she knew jumping up and down was hardly dignified, that also did not matter. For the first time since Schrodinger’s murder, she had a mission, and a chance…

Grace bounced on the balls of her feet, slapping her hands together. “Laughing venom and sand. That leaves finding the bag, where we have Bennu’s feathers, Goldtalon’s shell, sap from trees in the Silent Forest, snips of Aiken Drum’s hair, and the jar Chang’e cried in. The peg-legged rabbit took Ridil himself, but find that, and we’ve got everything for the cure!”

She tapped the tinfoil spread (minus the thermos of soda), and it neatly folded into itself.

“First we have to get out.” Diana slumped. “The doorway still won’t melt.”

“Goldtalon would just eat through the walls.” Fox started rolling her eyes, but midway through, they froze. After staring into space, she said “Actually, that might—might—be the right idea.”

“It’s green and moldy,” complained Diana. “We’ll get sooooooooo sick.”

“However sick we get,” said Grace, “Ridil should fix us. We just need to find it quick.”

“Smart plan,” said Anansi. “I’d have tried to bite my own way out, but it’s not permitted by my diet. Blood and beer, yes. I mean, if it turned back to milk…anyway, no pressure. If you need encouragement, remember that the strongest part of the human body is its jawbone.”

Grace had to wonder why Gretel never thought to eat through the walls of the gingerbread house where the witch imprisoned her and Hansel. That sounded like a delicious idea. Not so much with old cheese. She, Diana, and Fox approached where the guards pushed them in. It would do no good chewing blindly in a direction that might be one thick block.

To her chagrin, Grace was no stranger to awful smells. The burnt slag of the former Stymphalian bird, the bridge Dr. Bezoar lived under, and, of course, the Aniwye’s acid spray. All these, however, dissipate in air. The wall of moldy cheese was all-too-solid, and tasted worse than it smelled.

In the centuries it had stood, Mooncry probably spawned entirely new, occasionally glowing species of mold. Some only native to the present cell. It was risky to swallow anything. Fox suggested spitting out what they bit onto the floor. Even this proved barely tolerable. They silently agreed this was the worst torture anyone—including Ostara—could devise. Of the three, at least two would gladly sell their souls for some mouthwash right then.

Grace almost chipped a tooth. Diana claimed her pristine, white molars had loosened after chomping into what she swore was concrete. Eventually, though, a pinhole was excavated. A bit of foreign firelight peeked into the previously mold-glowing room. Through heroic masticatory labor, the pinhole became an awl-hole, then a hole large enough to stick a fist through. Grace did just that, scratching at the edges with her already dirty fingernails. The hole became big enough for multiple fists. Then they, at last, carved out a big enough passage for them all. The cheddar wall was not especially thick—maybe an inch or two. Being so dried out and hard made it seem worse.

Grace never thought her jaw could feel so sore, but her legs worked fine. She waited in the bleu hallway, alert for any patrols that might catch them. So far, it stayed vacant.

Previously, Diana always followed Fox’s lead. This time, the former squonk left before, waddling on uneven feet but staying upright. This is not to say Fox was far behind. She merely stopped to tie the laces on her boots.

Anansi escaped last, bringing with him a long line of multicolored yarn. “Why doesn’t everyone hold onto the thread, so we keep together?” No one else thought this was an especially good idea, in large part because of its stickiness. He carried it in a pocket of his raincoat regardless, the way a magician might carry a chain of handkerchiefs. 

“How do you know about this Anansi guy?” Fox quietly asked Grace. She replaced her goggles and pulled up her pale hood.

Grace explained what she heard from her mother, and what Desdemona in turn heard from her own mother. The girl had no idea how far back the stories went. While Anansi was not always a hero, he usually stood up to bullies. Even if only in indirect ways like pranks. He was smart, but his only loyalty was to his own wants. An ever-refilling cup of soda might not be enough to guarantee his assistance for long.

“Those are just stories, though,” said Diana. “What if in real life he’s more like the Djieien?”

“Squonks were just stories,” reminded Fox. “But learning about them changed your life for real. In Astro-world, stories matter, but I’m not trusting the trickster either. Even if his laughing venom helps cure Goldtalon.”

Although spiders were the creature Grace most feared, compared to the Djieien, Anansi was a daddy longlegs, and she was skeptical of her cousin Perdita’s claim that they were

the most venomous animals in the world. Still, the spider wearing Groucho glasses was something to watch out for. Especially for those without six extra eyes.