The Red Raven, Part I
Sylvan Spider God
Like a wheel, spinning, spinning, spinning–a maddening rhythm that increases in speed–the god-creature spins and spins away, all eight of its hands a silver shimmer in the air.
Like a nightmare-creature, it sits in its golden chair. A chair made from gilded bones, which the spider god looks at fondly from time to time. The creature in question is itself a mystery: why does it spin, and who does it spin for? It is both a horror and a delight to behold; gold and silver, with black bands on all eight of it’s arms, hands, and fingers, which–in just the right light–are translucent, revealing an intricate network of veins, muscles, and sinew . . . All of which sparkle, due to the star stuff from which the god-creature was made.
Sitting in its chair, it sits upon its gilded throne in a clearing of exotic trees, blue, slate and red in colour. The trees tower over the clearing, poker-straight, but without leaves. The god looks up into the vast expanse of nothing overhead. It lives outside of creation, therefore there are no stars, no moon, and no planets to gaze upon.
Only the silver shimmer of eight hands, spinning, spinning, spinning–a maddening, blinding rhythm–provide any entertainment for the god.
“What good does my spinning do, if I can never see the end result?” it said in its deep voice.
There was no reply, of course. It was to be expected. The spider god lived on its rocky plateau alone, deep within the vast expanse of . . . Nothing.
It sighed, of course. It was what it always did. Endlessly it spun. Always it asked the same questions. And not once had it ever received an answer.
It returned its attention back to the golden chair, back to the gilded bones. Its prize. A remnant. Long ago, when there was a universe for the god to look at . . . Something, not nothing . . . Within time . . . The spider god sighed again. Its memory was long, as if someone had stretched it. All the way down, to the very beginning of its memory were the fuzzy remnants of that universe, that something. Sadly, its memory was severely frayed at that end–or beginning.
It could not recall.
“What good does my spinning do, if I can never see the end result?” it said again. “I am lonely. I itch!” the last sentence came out as a low, guttural growl.
Its face lifted up. From within the shadows of the trees, it caught a glimpse of a ghost. Something stirred within the spiders memory . . . Anger, pain . . . An ancient enemy.
“Have you come to gloat?” the god-creature asked, watching as the ghost flickered in and out from among the trees, watching as it flitted from tree to tree, back and forth, as if it were mocking the spiders spinning. “Damn you!” The shout reverberated within the clearing, hollow, metallic.
With a crack the ghost appeared before the spider. A ravens skull and neck, with a red cloak and cowl trailing behind it, like a tear in reality . . . The spider knew who it was. As the memories flooded back it wondered how it could have forgotten the Red Raven–the dream tyrant, the punisher, the savage terror.
Something struck the spider god then. Its captor . . . It had no crown . . . The Spider God laughed as the Red Raven collapsed in upon itself.
What a terrible, cosmic fate. Such an irony. To forget yourself, and to have all of your work undone? The Spider God knew the feeling well; after all, it had been its only company for countless eons . . .
The Spider God ceased spinning. The spinning had been the key, it realized, to its own imprisonment.
The question HE had been asking was a fruitless one; the answer had been there all along . . . How stupid. How clever.
Comments, critiques, and suggestions are welcome! We apologize for the wait, and we thank you for waiting! We hope you enjoy this serial! Part II will come out next week!
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