Inspiration

All of sudden, we're at the end of August. Remember when September 1 meant back-to-school? It meant new scribblers! Pencils! The best time of the school year.

Now, school days are a distant memory. Weekends are like any other day of the week, and I often have to glance at the pill box sitting on the counter to see if it's Monday, or whatever/ More often than I'd like to admit, I even have to check the calendar to see what month it is. In fact, that's what has given me INSPIRATION for this blog.

I walked into my office today and realized that the calendar still says it’s July. Changing it to the appropriate month, I flipped through the pages and was absorbed by the photographs.

I love this calendar. In fact, it's the third one from this publisher that I've purchased. Every year, I pour through calendars featuring cute kittens, puppies, racy car and models at Calendar Club to find the latest edition of "Haunts". It's published by Gladstone Media, and features moody photos of abandoned castles, homes, etc. from around the world. It invites you to "Take a tour through the dark side of life with Mary Shelley, Bram Stoker, and Edgar Allan Poe, three mortals who revel in sharing their haunts."

Gladstone Media ISBN 9 781612 235042

Forgotten ballrooms, deserted playrooms, and shuttered vestibules bring to mind better times of long ago. Brambles cover crypts and tombstones; peeling paint on swimming pavillion walls looks ready to drop into the still waters.

These photos are inspiration for stories. Imagine the parties, conversations, and lives that used to play out in these spaces. Romance, intrigue, suspense, and probably, mostly mundane activities. But with imagination, perhaps something sinister?

Check out "Ophelia", a short story I wrote using one of these calendar pages as inspiration. You never know what your mind will come up with, if you let it wander into dark corners...

Ophelia

A scientist’s exploration of manor ruins leads to a realm where only an archer’s arrow can save her.

Margot sat cross-legged on the smooth, wet grass, the blades tickling the back of her thighs. Resting elbows on her knees, she patiently waited for an unwary fly, maybe moth, to become entangled in the web and lure the spider into the light. She knew it was only a matter of time, for a spider is too wise to spin a web where prey does not pass. 

She hadn’t planned on visiting these manor ruins, but while driving along the nearby motorway, she'd seen its pale walls behind a veil of morning mist. She wondered what could be found there hidden in its dark corners. You see, Margot loved creepy crawlies, particularly, spiders. In this remote, deserted place, surely some interesting specimens might be found.

Bushes and brambles crowded the path up the hill to the old building. In some places the trail disappeared almost entirely under last fall’s sodden leaves. Patiently, she followed the faint trail until massive, ornate, iron gates lay askew before her. It was difficult to call them gates now, really. They hung, slack open from hinges long ago rusted and frozen. Crushed oyster shells, still packed so tightly that weeds struggled to break through, formed a white drive, and crunched underfoot when she slowly walked closer to the manor walls.

The sun chased fingers of mist lingering in low-lying thickets. As day overcame night, colors of new growth were revealed. The lime greens of leaves freshly unfurled framed jaunty yellows of jonquils, nodding white snowdrops, and the furry, royal purple of spring crocus. The heady perfume of new growth filled the air.

Granite manor walls, gray against kale-colored evergreens, rose before her. Windows, gaping without glass, stared down. She shivered when imagining eyes deep within watching her. 

Standing at the base of the walls now, Margot ran her hand across the surprisingly smooth stone. Oh, what stories they could tell. They would have seen more than one war, as well as periods of peace, such as the one that reigned today.

Margot’s true interest, however, was not on the macro, but instead, on the micro of smaller things easily overlooked. To her, the small butterfly dancing between the crocus or the bumblebee lumbering across the creeping thyme covering the flagstone border was of more interest than the towering building in front of her. She crouched to study the clumsy, black and yellow Bombini. According to her view of aerodynamics, it should never be able to fly. That’s when she saw the web strung vertically in a crack between two stones at the corner of the manor.

A Cross Orbweaver’s web. Almost three feet high.

  Margot lowered herself to the damp grass, waiting for the spider that created this masterpiece to appear. She knew it labored every night to construct a new web, and it would be waiting for a hapless insect to wander into the sticky silk. She studied the gossamer marvel upon which beads of morning dew, like silver dragees, still hung.

Eschewing movement which might startle a spider, Margot moved only her eyes looking for the lovely lady, for it is the female who weaves. The arachnid's usual position would be in the center of the web, but her eight-legged body was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the heavy, dark gray body was camouflaged against the stone supporting the web?

While the birds flitted through the trees behind her, Margot waited.

  Perhaps she dozed, for when the ground shivered, she opened her eyes. It was if she looked through the ripples of crystal-clear river water rushing over pebbles. Her vision wavered, then cleared.

How strange everything looked. The delicate strands of web in front of her now appeared as silver satin cables intricately woven in ever expanding circles so expansive she had to tilt her head to see the outer reaches. The dew drops, grown to the size of boulders, clung to the silk, but instead of holding reflections within as a drop of water, they sparkled with inner fire as diamonds.

She looked behind her and was relieved it was only the web that had magnified. The trees in the forest and the butterfly on the crocus still had normal relative size. Perhaps if she looked at the web again all would be back the way it was.

Before she turned there was a dull thud, like a stone had been dropped from the window above her. She glanced up just as the ground trembled again.

No one stood in the window, she assured herself. In front of her, no new stone sat on the ground, but within the darkness in the break between great blocks in the foundation something caught her eye.

  What had been a crack, barely a finger's-breath wide, now appeared as a doorway. Sunlight could not penetrate its gloom, but movement, black against darker black, made her heart race.

What creature lurked? This was Romania, after all, home of the modern-day vampiric legends of Transylvania. She snorted. More likely it was an ordinary house cat searching for mice.

Then more noise but this time not a thud. A rustle. Margot revised her opinion. It was no kitty. She rose to her knees, leaning forward to look into the shadows even though common sense said to do otherwise.

It could be a bear but only moments ago the crack was perhaps an inch wide. The thought of it now containing a bear was ludicrous.

  From the darkness, a single appendage appeared, but not of a cat, or even a bear. Margot had often studied objects under microscopes and had no question about what stepped before her. It was a spider leg. As thick as her thigh.

Margot’s first instinct was to flee but she hesitated. Spiders are carnivorous; they move with amazing speed; they sense vibrations. If this creature posed a threat to her, as she feared it did, the safest course of action was to remain motionless.

The idea of kneeling before the predator like a serf was less than appealing, but to scramble to her feet and run would mean instant pursuit. She had watched many insects flee from arachnids, but the spiders almost always overtook and plunged fangs into their prey. No. Margot knew remaining motionless was critical.

Slowly the spider, one long, striped leg after another, stalked from the shadows into the morning sunlight.

Some might call it monstrous or hideous, but Margot, even with her heart beating like cannons in her chest, was awestruck. Primitive, instinctive, and utterly efficient, the spider was an amazing creation. With colorful, broad bands of alternating chestnut brown and straw yellow, its legs were sparsely covered with spikes of bristles. The bulbous abdomen, predominantly varying shades of dark gray, was patterned with white dots and dashes forming a cross-like pattern on the scallop-edged ventral surface.

The spider moved closer and reached out with one of the long forelegs to gently tap, tap, tap Margot’s shoulder.

The young woman squeezed close her eyes, anticipating the rush of the spider to embrace her within its eight legs. Inevitably it would be followed by searing pain when fangs pierced her torso.

Arachnid venom is a paralytic, Margot knew. And enzymes contained in the venom would liquefy her organs and her muscles. How long would she feel the agony of this process? Would she be aware as the spider wrapped her in a silken cocoon to be sucked dry at a more convenient time?

Minutes passed and Margot risked opening her eyes. Very slowly. And then wider until they were as saucers. In front of her the spider rested on the grass, legs folded primly like a contented tabby. Though they had no ability to move or blink, it seemed to Margot the spider’s eight eyes were watching her.

Then it spoke.

  Forget that Margot had shrunken to the size of a garden pea. Or was it the world in front of her that had expanded one-hundred-fold? What Margot thought most unusual was the spider’s voice. It brought to mind the rich, sultry contralto of Alicia Keys.

“What brings you to my garden, child?”

Margot swallowed, or at least tried to. Her mouth could have been filled with cotton it was so dry.

The Volkswagen-beetle-sized arachnid in front of her waited patiently. Margot had no words, after all, what is the correct response to a spider?

Finally, she whispered. “I was curious.”

The spider settled further into the grass. “Curious? And speak up, my hearing is not as acute as it once was.”

The woman took a deep breath, willing her voice not to squeak. “Yes. I saw this manor from a distance, floating in the clouds, and I wanted to see what it looked like up close. Behind the mist.”

“I see. Are you often curious? Do you often trespass in gardens to which you have not been invited?”

“No. Not often.” Margot paused. “Well sometimes.”

She felt a compunction to talk for a while with this spider. Yes, she was terrified, but it didn’t seem that the spider was going to bite her. At least not yet.

“You see, I love…” she took a deep breath, “spiders.”

The animal raised up on its mighty legs and boomed. “Flattery will not save you.”

“But I do.” Margot cried. “You are complex, and beautifully colored, and…” she pointed at the web, “any creature that can create such works of art is to be admired.”

The spider lowered the front of her body, bringing its complex visual cortex closer to Margot. “Go on.”

Margot bit her lower lip, wondering how best to explain herself without causing offense to the spider. “Every night you spin a web, yet you were never taught how to do it. It is never quite the same as the one you made yesterday, and each one is as complex and beautiful as the one before. I am awestruck by this ability.”

Margot was also intrigued by spiders’ tendency to snack on the males who impregnated them but kept that thought to herself.

  Her attention was then diverted from the spider by movement in her peripheral vision. The spider didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps it didn’t care.

Almost hidden in the thicket at the edge of the forest, a man wearing variegated green clothing stood watching them. How long had he been there?

When he saw her eyes on him, he raised his arm, showing what he held.

Margot's thoughts about the man abruptly vanished when the spider daintily caressed her cheek with a foreleg. It felt surprisingly soft, covered with fine hair. Margot knew that spiders have the ability to taste through some of these hairs and shivered at the reason the spider rested its leg on her neck.

“You are well fed.” The spider crooned.

It crouched. Despite how fascinating this encounter was, Margot sensed she could be coming to a tragic end. Would pointing out The Archer at the edge of the forest delay the inevitable?

“What is your name so I might remember you?” The spider asked.

“I will tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“My name is Ophelia,” the spider said.

“And mine is Margot.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Margot. It is a shame I am hungry.”

Ophelia raised her two forelegs in a posture familiar to Margot from her years of study. This presaged an attack.

Margot was no coward and refused to kneel at her death. She rose to her feet and remembering words written by Mary Shelley, spoke one last time to Ophelia. “Beware, for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.”

It was as if Ophelia cocked her head at the strange quotation. Did this human not realize what was about to happen?

  A faint sound, a zing past Margot’s ear was all that announced the arrow piercing the space between Ophelia’s complex eyes.

The great gray spider did not collapse. Instead, the air shimmered as if the world around her was simply a mirage. Margot blinked and when she opened her eyes, the world had returned to normal size.

Ophelia was no more, well, except for a thumbnail-sized Cross Orbweaver scuttling back into the once-again narrow crack in the manor stone wall.

Margot might have been dreaming but at her feet was an arrow, fletched with gold feathers.

  She heard the crunch of footsteps on the crushed oyster-shell driveway. She turned and watched The Archer approach. When two meters away he doffed his soft peaked hat and bowed. 

“Bună ziua. I am Ivo.”

Margot responded. “Bună ziua. I am Margot and I am in your debt.”

The swarthy, sharp-chinned man inclined his head, and held the intricately carved bow horizontally in front of him. “Through the ages, my duty has been to protect visitors to this place. The realm existing within does not treat strangers kindly. Once you have found your way here, to escape the fantasy my arrows must pierce the boundary between what is and what you imagine it to be.”

“Was the spider real?” Margot had to know.

The Archer paused and peered around her to the crack in the wall. She turned to follow his gaze.

A gentle breeze ruffled her hair and when she turned back to hear his response, he and the arrow at her feet, had vanished.

  Margot squinted against the sun now high in the cloudless sky. A concert of birds chirping, insects buzzing and humming filled the air, a glorious spring day in the countryside. The arachnologist humphed and shook her head before pulling a small notebook from her pocket. She made note of the date, time, and circumstances of sighting the fingernail-sized spider. Her pencil poised momentarily at the end of her entry as she pondered whether to include more detail. She glanced down at the web, vibrating slightly in the freshening breeze, then put the pencil back in her pocket.

She muttered. “Ophelia, indeed.”