1
The snow spiders only come into season once every
ten years, but this year is the spring of their breeding. How can
we tell? you ask. Child, I will tell
you: By the impatient knocking the females make with their chitin-tipped feet
in their damp wooden hollows; by the rustle of sand along the banks of the
river, as the bull spiders wake from their slumber deep underground to search
for a mate; by the chorus of squeals and squawks made by the jackdaws, taken
mid-flight by the air-borne hatchlings; by the smell of blood and rot in the
air. The Whistling Oaks will soon be
covered in a thick gauze of webbing – picture, if you can, a bundle of candyfloss
forty feet tall – bulging here and there with large and pulsating clusters of
eggs. The moment of hatching is said to
be a startling sight, although I have yet to see it. Now run back to the house at the edge of the
woods, and board the windows good and tight: they’re busiest after dark.
2
Since I have been living in the house at the edge
of the woods, I have been haunted by the strangest dreams. It is always the same place: a coastal
landscape, jagged black rocks thrusting from a heaving sea. The shore is awash with the oily seminal
effluent of blind albino leviathans, whose colossal bloated bodies, rotting at
their extremities and smattered with a millennial crusting of limpets and
algae, pebble the ocean's deeps. Beyond
the beach is the forest: ancient and spiderous blood-oaks weeping their sticky
crimson sap, the only sustenance for the malformed monkeys who live among their
highest branches, too hideous to consider showing their faces on the forest
floor. The sky is permanently lit with
lightning, its roof of roiling cloud a mixture of pestilential browns and
blacks, cut with sickly ribbons of over-ripe peach. I have tried, upon waking, to render these
visions in a language appropriate to the immensity of what I have seen, but I
constantly fail, reduced to tics of punctuation, a forest of hyphens and
ampersands and asterisks mocking the fissures in my eloquence. My only comfort resides in the journals of
the occupant who came before me: they clearly faced the same problems of
interpretation, as their journals – dozens upon dozens, shelves upon shelves –
are black with the same abortive, nonsensical efforts as mine.
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