Laura Schlitz - The Night Fairy

The spider scowled. “What if I won’t?”

“Then you starve to death,” Flory said unkindly. She put her hands on her hips. “I can sting you. And I can tie you up. So you have to do what I say.”

The spider shook herself, straining against the ropes around her belly. “I’m not promising anything unless you say you’re sorry.”

It was Flory’s turn to scowl. She had never said she was sorry in her life. She didn’t like the idea of saying it. “I won’t,” she said. “Besides, I’m cutting you free. You ought to be grateful.”

“I’m not free yet,” answered the spider, “and I’m not grateful.”

Flory stamped her foot. “I’m not asking you to starve,” she said irritably. “All I’m asking is for you not to eat the hummingbird.” After a minute she added, “Or me.”

“And all I’m asking is for you to say you’re sorry,” retorted the spider. “You hurt my legs and you hurt my pride. So you have to say sorry, and”— a glint of malice lit her eyes —“you have to say it right.”

Flory laid her hand on the hilt of her dagger. “What do you mean, ‘say it right’?”

“I mean you have to mean it,” the spider said. “If you don’t say you’re sorry, I’d rather stay here and starve. I will starve, and it will be all your fault.”

Flory made an angry little noise in the back of her throat. This was all taking too long. The spider was her prisoner, and prisoners shouldn’t tell their jailors what to do. All the same, Flory knew she had met her match. The spider was as stubborn as she was. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine being sorry. It was hard work, almost like casting a spell.

She imagined that she was a spider, a proud and dangerous spider. She imagined what it was like to spin an elegant web, only to be caught in it herself. She imagined having eight legs and having them twisted and trapped and hurt. After a moment, she bit her lip.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice.

“That’ll do,” said the spider. “Cut me free.”

Flory stuck her dagger back in her sash. “You haven’t promised not to eat the hummingbird.”

“I promise,” answered the spider. She gave a low chuckle. “Truth is, I don’t like raw bird very much — but I hate the way birds leave a big hole in my web. I ought to give her”— she jerked one leg to point at the hummingbird —“a pinch and a poison, just for making such a mess! But when all is said and done, I hate wasps more than birds. There’s things I could tell you about wasps that would make your blood run cold.”

Flory thought that her blood had run cold enough for one evening. She said, “I’ll try to free the bird without cutting your web too much.”

“Hmmmph.” The spider tapped the web with one oily foot. “That’s good of you. But if I were you, I wouldn’t cut her loose just yet. Wait until dawn.”

“Why?”

“Look at her.” The spider shook herself, freed at last. “She’s still in torpor. If you cut her loose, she’ll fall. She’s safer in the web than on the ground.”

“But I have to cut her loose. She has to go home.” Flory raised her eyes to the unmoving bird. “How do I wake her up?”

“You can’t,” said the spider. “That’s the thing about torpor. She won’t come out of it till the sun rises and she warms up.”

“But she has to fly now, ” Flory said. “She has to go back to her nest, and I have to go home.”

“She’s not going anywhere tonight,” said the spider.

Flory’s heart sank. Night had almost fallen. The green plants looked gray, and the stars were brightening. At any moment, the bats would leave their hollow in the oak tree. It was time to take shelter in her safe little home — but if she left, the hummingbird would be food for any animal that found her.

Flory said slowly, “I can’t stay here and guard her —”

“Nobody asked you to,” said the spider. “What I say is, every creature has to take care of herself.”

Flory agreed. She had taken care of herself ever since she was three days old. She thought of her lily-leaf hammock and how tired and scratched and sore she felt. Then she remembered the baby hummingbirds. She had kissed them and promised them that their mother would come back.

“Oh, all right!” she said furiously. “I’ll stay.”

“Suit yourself,” said the spider. “I’m going to eat that wasp. Do you want a piece?”

“No, I don’t,” Flory said firmly. “I don’t like wasps — not even to eat.”

The spider began to pick her way up the web. She turned back. “If you’re going to spend the night in the web, you should know that the cross-threads are the sticky ones.”

“Thank you,” said Flory. She meant it.

The spider shinnied away. Flory was left alone. She climbed up the juniper bush and settled down close to the hummingbird. A dog barked in the distance. Flory had an odd sense that something was missing. Then she knew what it was. The birds had stopped singing. They were roosting for the night instead of leaping from branch to branch.

Suddenly the night was alive with shrill sounds. It was the moment Flory had been dreading. She gripped the juniper twig until her fingers ached. She heard leathery wings beating the air and saw the jagged shapes of bats against the sky. But they did not come looking for her. Bats hunt in the air, not close to the ground.

Once they had flown away, Flory began to breathe again. She caught a glimpse of gleaming white between the trees. The moon was rising — the beautiful moon. Its light did not dazzle her or make her eyes water. She could look at it as long as she liked.

A tiny green light appeared above the grass. Then another. The lightning bugs were rising. One by one they lit their lamps and floated toward the sky. Flory gazed at them, rapt. All at once she realized how homesick she had been for the night. She was not sleepy. She had been up since dawn, but she knew that she would have no trouble staying awake. She was, after all, a night fairy. This was her time.

Hours passed. Flory swung back and forth on the juniper twig and gazed at the moon. The night breeze tickled her sweetly. The fireflies blinked on and off, now green, now golden. From time to time, Flory heard the faint shhhh of the grass moving and saw long shadows cross the ground. The earthworms were leaving their burrows, coming out to breathe the moist air.

A curious chuckling sound caught her attention. Flory held her breath.

A raccoon was drinking from the fishpond. She could hear his tongue as he lapped the water. Noiselessly, Flory got to her feet and peered through the darkness. She saw the grizzled hump of the raccoon’s body. He was combing the water, searching for goldfish. Flory prayed that he would catch one and eat his fill, but her hopes were dashed. He looked up, eyes gleaming, nostrils twitching. She could almost feel him smelling her.

He came straight toward the juniper bush, his claws making a faint click-click on the patio. His eyes flashed yellow in the dark. Now he was close enough that Flory could see his dark mask and the weird prettiness of his face. “Who’s there?” he barked.

Flory didn’t move a muscle.

The raccoon came closer. The long, ringed tail swung over the grass like a fat snake. Flory gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and stung.