The Tale of the Spiders

Ilere lay in her bed wrapped in cool, white sheets. Her only light was the dying flame of a candle that sputtered and danced against the darkness. As it flickered she could see the soft shadow of a spider’s web spun high in the corner of her room; in its center a spider worked, reinforcing an already tight ball of silk. Her legs and mouth moved tirelessly and the ball grew. With weary eyes Ilere watched. Her eyes grew heavy and closed as she slipped in the place where the worlds of sleep and reality folded on themselves, and still, with closed eyes, it seemed that she could see the spider working.

When her spinning was done the spider lay beside the ball and sighed. “Just when you are beginning to know life I will die,” she whispered to her unborn.

Ilere sat up pulling her sheets to her chest. “Who said that?” she called out.

On a silk thread as thin as the finest hair, the spider let herself down to Ilere’s pillow. They were unmoving, staring: Ilere at the spider and the spider at Ilere.

Finally the spider spoke, “Just when my children are beginning to know life I will die. It is the nature of our kind.” The young woman let her sheets fall.

In dreams it was not unusual for animals to speak. “Is this a dream?” she asked herself. “Spiders cannot speak. It must be a dream.” Then she said to the spider, “It was like that with me. I am Ilere, daughter of Olokban and Tolokban. They died when I was quite young. I never really knew them.”

The spider spoke, “My children will never know me at all.” Spinning her egg sack left her weary, and gently she laid her own head on the pillow. “They will never know me. They will never know my stories. I don’t even know the stories of my ancestors. There was no one to tell them to me when I was a child.”

“The spider did speak,” Ilere thought. “This must be a dream.”

She pushed her hair back from her face and spoke, “That must be sad to not know the stories of your kind. Where are your elders? Do they not teach?”

“No, there are no elders to teach. We are our own elders.” The spider sighed again; it was gentle and drawn out, like a soft summer breeze in the forest. “We all live in one big cycle. Together we are born. Together we mate. Together we lay our eggs, and together we die just as our young hatch. We never see our fathers or our mothers. We never see our children. We have no connection with our past. We are cut off and alone, each generation being the sum of our kind.”

“I know your stories,” said Ilere.

“I grew up with them when I was a child.”

“I wish I knew our stories,” said the spider. “I wish there were some one to tell my children our stories.” Ilere smiled; gently, she moved the pillow on which the spider lay closer to her.

“I will tell your stories,” she said, “and the world will remember them.”

Her voice was soft as she spoke to the spider.

"The first of your kind were not born on earth; they were born in heaven, creatures of spirit, not flesh. They were soft and weak, but they were happy living where there was neither sickness nor death. Still the more curious of your kind watched as all the animals began the journey to earth; and when humans were created they marveled at the creatures who walked with two legs and mastered their environments with two hands. When the insects rose from the earth and walked fearlessly among giants, the spiders were jealous. They, too, wanted to know the new world Olódumare created. In mass they went to the diviners to find out what they had to do to live on the earth. They told the spiders that the world was a dangerous place for creatures as small as they; but the spiders had seen the tiny insects flourishing without fear. They told the spiders that it was their right to settle in the material world, but as with all new ventures they were to make ebó; and they were warned to stay out of the cities—the forests were where they would live best. They were told that their numbers would be legion on the earth, that each female would renew their race yearly with thousands of progeny. Of all the creatures big and small few would be as blessed as they. The spiders liked the diviners’ words and they agreed to everything. Quickly they made preparations to leave. 'The diviners have said that we will be legion on earth—our females will renew our race yearly. We do not need to make ebó,' said the men. 'Let us prepare to leave now so we can make our way in the world. There is no time to waste!' The women were fearful, but they followed their men, and no one bothered to make ebó. It was an unfortunate thing. At first they were happy in the forests. Food was abundant, and although they were small their appetites were huge. When your ancestors came they feasted on the wild fruits and berries that grew freely among the bushes and trees. As they spread throughout the woods eventually they arrived at the edge of the wild lands—and before them stretched human civilization. Strange sights and smells seduced them; quickly they forgot the diviners’ warnings and left the safety of the trees for the uncertainty of the cities."

The spider smiled as she listened to Ilere. “I have never lived in the woods,” she said. “I have always been a house spider. Nor have I tasted fruits or berries. I live off the juices and blood of insects unlucky enough to be stuck in my web. It is a beautiful story, but I find no truth in it.”

Ilere creased her brow. “I can tell you’ve never been told a story,” she said. “Stories acquire strange twists and turns, and the way they begin is never the way they end. Be still little one, and let me tell you what happened.”

It was dark when the spiders left the safety of the trees for the uncertainty of the civilized world; thousands of them walked the streets at night and found their way into houses and shops through the little cracks under the doors or in window frames. Some stayed outside making homes in the awnings while others took up residence in horse stables and gardens. When the sun rose the next morning great cries went up in the city. Humans saw the big, hairy spiders in their homes and they were afraid. One by one screaming children and frantic woman stomped them with their feet or beat them with sticks. Soft and weak, the spiders succumbed. Hundreds were killed each day.

Elegguá was walking through town that day and he found one of the spiders cowering in the street under some trash.

“The humans are trying to kill us,” it said.

“Why did you come to the city? Did the diviners not warn you to stay in the forest?”

“We wanted to live among humans and learn of the wonders they created.”

“Surely you can fight back,” said Elegguá.

“Did you not make ebó before you came to be strong?”

“We never made ebó. We were too anxious to come to the new world.” The spider trembled so violently with fear that the trash under which he hid rustled as if dancing in a breeze.

Gently, Elegguá picked up the spider.

“You need to make ebó. Each of your kind was told to bring two iron needles and bunches of bitter herbs from the forest before you came into the world. These were so you could defend yourselves. And you were to feed me a goat, a rooster, and a guinea hen in exchange for my help. Do these things and I will help your kind survive in this world.”

He sat the spider down on the dusty road; it ran as fast as it could to gather up the rest of the spiders. By nightfall they stood at the edge of the forest, each spider with two needles, bitter herbs, and together they got the animals Elegguá required.

When all was ready the orisha came to accept his ebó.

Dreamily the spider smiled; she was weary, and she wore sleep on her head like a gauzy scarf, loosely wrapped. “I cannot see any of us having the strength to gather needles or herbs or animals. Are you sure this is how it happened?” she asked.

“Your bodies might be soft and squishy but the first of your kind had great strength, I am sure,” said Ilere. “If not, how did they gather the ebó, indeed?”

After Elegguá ate his goat, his rooster, and his guinea, he lifted the iron needles from the spider closest and said, “Open your mouth. Wide.”

The spider did as he was told.

Gently Elegguá pushed the needles into his gums and said, “Bite down.”

The needles held fast—the small creature had razor sharp teeth.

One by one Elegguá put the needles in the mouths of all the spiders; each had teeth that were razor sharp and iron-strong.

“But these are too small to defend ourselves against the humans,” said the spiders.

“They are large. Our mouths are small and our teeth tiny. To bite them would be no more than an annoyance, and they would crush us as we bit.”

“Use your teeth to suck the sap from the bitter plants,” Elegguá ordered.

“It will taste horrible, but suck on each leaf until it is a dry shell.”

Great moans rose from the mass of spiders as they sucked the leaves and branches dry. The herbs were bitter, bitter to the point that their lips puckered and their mouths froze in a useless grimace. When they were done they tried to open their mouths; but they were unmoving, frozen into tiny slits so small they all but lost the power of speech.

“Our mouths are useless!” screamed the spiders. Their words were almost unrecognizable, but Elegguá understood their speech.

One spider ran to a nearby bush and tried to open his mouth wide enough to eat a berry. It was useless.

“We will starve! We cannot eat!” There was panic at the forest’s edge, and Elegguá’s voice rose to drown them all out.

“You’ve made ebó and your nature has changed. You will not starve. You will just eat another way!”

A cricket wandered into their midst; he was unafraid of the spiders even though their numbers that day were legion. They were too soft to hurt him, or so he thought.

“Quickly,” said Elegguá, “one of you try to bite that cricket.” The spiders were loath to hurt another creature, but so upset was one spider at the changes made that he attacked the cricket out of anger. His two tiny, razor sharp teeth sank into its soft flesh. A drop of thick poison dripped down his fangs and into the cricket’s body.

It fell down, dead. “Now you will see what good your mouths are. Bite him again, and this time suck.”

The spider did as he was told; thick juices flooded his mouth. They were sweet, like fruit, and thick, like honey; they filled his belly with something that felt like gentle heat, and in a few moments a dry carcass hung from his teeth. He spit it out, and watched it lay crumpled on the ground.

“Your teeth are sharp and your mouths drip poison,” said Elegguá.

“Just as a drop killed the cricket before his heart could beat a second time, so will a few drops cause pain and sometimes death to the humans. Once they learn your bites are poisoned they will think twice about trying to kill you. In time, they will run from you. You might be small, but now you are deadly.”

That night the spiders marched back into town, and the next day when the humans sought to kill them the spiders fought back. Those who were bit suffered pain and torment, and when a few died from the bites they learned it was best to leave the spiders alone.

The weak made ebó; and the weak became strong.

“Such a lovely story,” said the spider. She lay on the pillow exhausted, barely moving. The chill of death was in her thin legs; it was heavy, and she found herself unable to move them.

“I think my children will be hatching soon,” she said.

"Why do you think that?” asked Ilere,

“Because I cannot move my legs. They are cold and they are heavy. And I am so tired. This must be what dying feels like. It’s too bad there is no one to tell me. There is no one to sit with me and help me through it.

“I’m here,” said Ilere.

“If your time is close I won’t leave you.”

The spider smiled. “Why do we die just as our children are born? Did you grow up with a story for that, too?”

“I did,” she said. “There is a reason you grow old, and then weak after you lay your eggs. Again, it has to do with the first of your kind.”

The first generation of spiders enjoyed life on earth; they were strong and they were powerful predators. They spent their days hunting and their evenings eating their kills; and at night, they rested safely in the trees under a sky filled with stars. One morning when they awoke, they saw one of their own lying still, unmoving, and when they looked closer they saw the body had no breath. By nightfall the body was hard and fragile, and a light breeze knocked it from its branch. It fell to the earth and turned to dust.

“She is dead!” said one of the spiders.

Never had they known death. In heaven they were immortal, but on earth their lives were ephemeral. Night after night it was the same—someone would die, sometimes dozens, and they saw their numbers dwindle. The spiders sought out the orisha Elegguá

“It is the nature of mortal beings to die,” said Elegguá. “And in their place, their children grow. Where are your children?”

“We have none,” said one of the spiders, fear in her voice.

The chill of death touched her; she felt weak, and shivered.

“You have no children? All mortal creatures have children. That is why they make ebó in heaven before coming to earth—to make sure they are fruitful and multiply.”

“We did not,” said the spider weakly. “We never made ebó in heaven.”

“And that is why you die with no children,” said Elegguá. He looked at the female spiders one by one.

“Ladies, follow me,” he said. The males had puzzled faces as the females followed Elegguá through the forest, but they were too tired to protest and follow. Their bodies felt the chill of death, and they were weak. Deep in the forest and well beyond the hearing of the males, Elegguá stopped. The female spiders stopped as well.

“It is not your fault that you do not bear young,” said Elegguá, “for it was the men of your race who told you that there was no need to make ebó. I will teach you how to mate. Unfortunately, when you are done you will be too weak to lay your eggs and spin the silk that will keep them safe . . . unless. . . you do one simple thing . . .”

His voice trailed off; he was silent.

One of the females could stand the silence no longer.

“What must we do?” she asked.

“You must eat your mate,” Elegguá said. His voice was flat and a great cry rose among the females.

“You are all dying,” he said. “Even now, death nips at you. In a few days you will all be dead. None of you will live to see your children born. None of you will have the strength to bear children unless you draw on the strength of their fathers. All of this is because none of you had the foresight to make ebó. There is no other way.”

Elegguá taught them how to seduce their males; he taught them how to join and copulate. Together the woman went back to their men; and in a great swarm, they seduced them. When they were done, they ate their mates. None of them saw it coming—not a single male fought back.

One by one the female spiders scattered sadly thought the forest; they were like an aged tribe of amazons with no males left in their ranks. Soon their bodies swelled with eggs, and these they laid and wrapped in tough silk. Exhausted, they lay down to die and their bodies turned to dust while millions of small spiders awoke and marched through the forest.

Ilere looked down at the spider; she was sleeping, her tiny chest rising and falling slowly. She, too, was tired; she laid her head on the pillow and fell asleep watching the spider’s breath slowing.

As the light went out in her own head, she thought, “A dream. This is all a dream . . . spiders don’t talk, not really . . .”

When she awoke the spider was dead. Her body was still and dry. She looked up to the corner where the thin web hung and watched as small dots scurried out of the silk sack.

One by one they emerged, hanging on the thread as their brothers and sisters wriggled out.

On a line so thin it was almost invisible, one of the dots let herself down on Ilere’s bed.

In a voice so tiny it was barely a whisper, the spider asked, “Are you my mother?”

“So it was not a dream,” Ilere thought. She shuddered.

“No, I am not your mother. She is dead.” She looked where the old spider lay lifeless; her body was dried and drawn into itself, barely recognizable.

“What is ‘dead’?” asked the little dot.

“It means she is no more. Her life ended just as you were born.” Hundreds of small dots descended silky webs to Ilere’s bed. Thousands of eyes looked at her.

“Would you like to know the story of your people? So you can be prepared for what lies ahead?”

Hundreds of voices said, “Yes.” Ilere wrapped her sheets around herself and told them their stories.