David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

The man nodded, his jaw trembling.

Thren finally wiped at the tears that wetted his face, then held his hand out to Carr.

“I wanted you to see that,” Thren said, his voice so soft, so cold. “I wanted you to see the pain and anguish you’ve caused me. Marion was everything to me. Everything. My men may see me as hard, or calloused. Others will marvel at how I left her memory behind so easily. But you will know, Carr. You’ve seen it, seen every bit of my anguish.”

Thren grabbed Carr by the hair and pulled him close enough that he could whisper into his ear.

“And you’re about to feel that same pain and anguish, you stupid bastard. Because this isn’t about the dead. This isn’t about revenge. Not anymore. It’s about the message .”

He flung him back, rose to his feet. His tired, red-eyed gaze turned to Carr’s terrified family. No smile, no pleasure on his face. A sob came from Carr’s throat, yet the sound made no impact on Thren. Just a dullness in him now. A death.

“You’ll feel it,” Thren told the guildmaster. “I promise you, you’ll feel it. All that pain. All that agony.”

He drew his sword, approached the boy first.

“And I won’t have to lay a hand on you to do it.”

All throughout the night, Carr screamed and sobbed.

True to his word, Thren never laid a hand on him.

Thren checked his things once more as he paced within a room of his safe house. His older son, Randith, was out with the rest of his guild, preparing for his own meeting that night. Much as it worried him, Thren knew Randith was seventeen now, and needed to handle certain things on his own. That meant waiting instead of organizing things himself. That meant pacing and drumming his fingers on the hilts of his swords as the minutes crawled on by, instead of rallying his Spider Guild for a potential war.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Thren muttered, realizing just how nervous he was.

He went through a door leading to a modestly furnished bedroom, and was surprised to see his eight-year-old son, Aaron, standing there as if waiting for him. Thren raised an eyebrow, grunted.

“Yes?” he asked.

Aaron opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked to the ground. He was embarrassed about something, something he no doubt wanted to ask, but Thren didn’t have the patience to wait it out. He noticed a book in his son’s hand and he reached out and grabbed it. It was held open to a page with simple illustrations of a lioness and her cubs. It was a story Thren had seen his son reading multiple times, and he had a feeling as to why.

“I miss Mom,” Aaron said when Thren looked up from the page. Thren shut the book and let out a sigh.

“We all do,” he said, putting a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “But try not to let it overwhelm you.”

He tossed the book to the bed and turned to leave, thinking their conversation over. Ever since Marion’s death, Aaron had turned incredibly quiet and inward, rarely talking even with him. But it seemed that day was a day of surprises.

“Where are you going?” he asked before Thren could exit the door.

“I have things to do,” he said.

“Randith?”

Thren turned back, nodded.

“Randith too. Why do you ask?”

Aaron rubbed an arm, bit his lower lip.

“What am I for?”

The question was so odd, so unexpected, it startled Thren. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out, forcing himself to relax, forced his impatience away and tried to be honest with his son for once.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Aaron glanced away.

“You show Randith everything. You teach him every day. But not me. Why? What am I for?”

Thren crossed his arms, trying to decide on the right answer. Aaron was so young, but at times he seemed incredibly intelligent as well. Thren knew Randith might return anytime soon, but the mention of his beloved Marion had put a bit of nostalgia into his heart, and he sat down on the bed, gesturing for Aaron to sit beside him.

“I have some time to spare,” he said, “so let me tell you a story. Perhaps that will help.”

Aaron shifted in his seat and then hunched over, head rested on his hands, attentive. Thinking for a moment, Thren decided on the one he would tell.

“I was once told this story when I was younger,” he said. “When I was still being trained by the Darkhand. My version will be a little different, but still similar. It’s the story of the cloak and the spider.

“Years ago, when this land was still in its infancy, there was a man who’d been gifted with a cloak from a powerful wizard. The cloak made him wise, and made his life last for centuries. But this man had walked the land since its creation, and he was tired. Tired of the strife. Tired of watching his loved ones pass away while he continued on. So he rented a room from a farmer, and then in the middle of the night he stole away to the barn. There he built a fire, removed his cloak, and tossed it into the flames. The cloak burned to ash, and the man smiled, aged to dust, and then died.

“The cloak, however, did not burn completely. A tiny bit of it burned loose and floated on the wind, circling around the barn until it caught in the web of a small spider. That spider didn’t know what had happened, but he was suddenly aware now, far more wise than a simple spider should be. He looked at his little web and decided it could be bigger. It could be stronger. So the spider cast his web out farther, no longer taking up just a tiny little corner but instead larger and larger pieces of the roof.

“The farmer saw him building, and at first it just amused him. Spiders kept away the bugs, ate the flies, things he was never fond of anyway. But the spider continued to build, eating the little flies and moths and things that fly about. And he lived, lived far longer than a spider should have. He grew wiser, and he wrapped that piece of cloak into the very center of his web, knowing that it must be carefully protected, and that the spider must never leave his web. He also learned to strike fast, for the insects caught in his web would gain the same wisdom.

“So larger and larger the spider grew. He took a mate, one he loved dearly, and he made her a promise. So long as she remained safe in the heart of his web, he would spin her a creation so majestic she would understand how greatly he loved her. And so he did, crawling, spinning, until the farmer saw it and was afraid. But the spider was bigger now, the size of a fist, and the farmer was a cowardly man. He struck at his web at times, hacked parts of it with sticks should it get in his way, but he tried to ignore the spider, figuring surely the spider would soon die.”

“The farmer wasn’t wise, was he?” Aaron asked. Thren chuckled, but before he could answer he realized Aaron had leaned against him, the weight of his body pressing against his chest. It seemed strange, and he realized just how little contact he had with his own son. Clearing his throat, Thren began again, hiding his discomfort.

“No, he wasn’t,” Thren continued. “If he had been wise, he would have crushed the spider the moment he realized something was amiss. But he didn’t, and the spider grew and grew. He fed on bats and small birds, and everything made him larger. Soon the barn itself was wrapped entirely in his webs, and the farmer would not go there anymore. Larger birds, owls and hawks, began to get trapped within the web. But the spider was still not happy. He was hungry, so hungry. He cast his web to the ground, catching dogs, wolves, groundhogs, trapping them, wrapping them, feeding upon them. His legs grew larger, and each eye like the pit of a peach. Yet his mate remained small as she always was, resting peacefully in the heart of the web.