I woke up today to a garden full of dew-glistening webs, which for me is a good start to any day. I keep trying (pathetically, really) to get a decent photo of one. Whatever skills or talents required to succeed at that still elude me, but I do enjoy trying.
Spiders have fascinated me for a long time. Long before being hooked on Adrian Tchaikovsky’s superb Children of Time. Even before writing Cauldron the spider into Summer Sorcery as a potions master. Back in the dim and distant past, I flirted with the idea of a post-grad degree studying jumping spiders. Thankfully I came to my senses in time, so I’m still fascinated by them.
Anyway, I grabbed some photos this morning with the intention of a story-prompt. Annoyingly inspiration kept coming out in a decidedly Tchaikovsky/Portia kind of way. Not helpful. Instead I’ll take a wee dip into Cauldron’s backstory. So a story-prompt/legendarium all-in-one kind of think it is then…
The spider leaped for the cover of the purple bud as the huge shadow passed its web. It could feel the plant’s stem tremble at the approach of massive footsteps. The shadow darkened and air currents from the creature’s breath rattled the leaved. The spider tucked its legs in as tightly as it could, trying desperately to avoid detection. In hindsight, a mistake. Or, with the benefit of further hindsight, perhaps not.
A gigantic, fleshy paw crashed through the leaf clutter and plucked the bud off the plant. The spider cowered as its hiding place was lifted high into the air and deposited into blessed darkness.
There was little light to see by, which was an inconvenience, but the little spider stretched out with its other senses to explore its environment. Densely woven material bounded the miniature world on all sides. Within was an assortment of plant parts. A strange prison for a spider to find itself in. And a mobile one. Moments later the prison, presumably carried by the giant, lurched away at an alarming pace. Spiders surely were never meant to travel so fast.
Periodically, the top of the mini-world would be pulled open by the giant’s fleshy paws. More plant matter would rain down, then the sky would close again and the lurching movement would continue.
Eventually the giant stopped moving. However, any relief the spider might have felt in its tiny mind was driven away by a great heat. The worst kind. A damp heat. The heat grew with alarming speed as the prison moved again, briefly.
The sky opened once more and the mini-world turned upside down. Varied plant matter, and one small spider fell. Below, the spider saw what seemed a lake of boiling water. Terror filled its mind then. It leaped back up the cascade of falling plants. The unsettling safety of the prison, still held in the giant’s paw, moved abruptly away. In a last desperate attempt at survival, the spider threw a line of web at the lake’s edge.
It fell.
The splash as it his the water would be tiny to our ears, but it filled the spider’s whole world. It struggled against the searing pain and the cloying liquid filling its book-lungs. The random flailing of what should have been its death-throes snagged its taut web-line. On pure instinct the spider pulled. Its other feet landed on a piece of floating vegetable. It climbed up and leaped.
The ‘lake’ was bounded by a vertical, black cliff of some extremely hard material. The spider clung on for a life that it suddenly felt was dear. As it… no… as he clung there, he could feel changes coming over him. His mind enlarged, first to encompass an idea of self, then a torrent of new ideas. His brain grew to hold these new concepts and as it did his exoskeleton expanded (without moulting!) to fit his new form. He adjusted his footing to avoid falling back into the lake — no that wasn’t right. He new now that it was a cooking pot, not a lake at all.
A shadow fell on him. This time he didn’t feel fear, just curiosity. The giant brought its face near and the spider suddenly knew words for this creature: human, male, druid. Curiosity surged in the spider’s mind. Not just at the words, nor at the concepts behind them but at the very concept of words and concepts.
The druid moved its mouth and produced sounds. Spider’s can’t hear. Not really. But they are hugely sensitive to vibrations. The spider’s widening mind took those vibrations and re-interpreted them as sounds. Not just sounds but speech.
“Hello, little one,” said the Druid. “And who might you be?” He held out a finger and the spider jumped onto it.
“I…” the spider paused. He had no idea how he was speaking back to the druid, but he was. “I don’t know. This is all a bit new to me.”
The druid raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. My potion seems to have had some effect on you.”
“I would say so,” said the spider, still wondering how.
“Well,” said the druid, “you need a name.” His brow furrowed for a moment, then he said, “May I call you ‘Cauldron’?”
“Cauldron,” said Cauldron. “Yes, I like that. Yes, please. Call me Cauldron.”
“Well then Cauldron,” the druid laughed, “come with me. There is much for you to learn.”
Brandon Lim 