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He stood very straight and thought of nothing.
She sighed. “Timothy? Ready? Set?”
Like a hand into a glove, Cecy thrust in both ears. “Go!”
“Everyone! Look!”
Timothy lifted the goblet of strange red wine, the peculiar vintage, so all could see. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews!
He drank it down.
He waved at his stepsister Laura, held her gaze, to freeze her in place.
Timothy pinned Laura’s arms behind her, whispering. Gently, he bit her neck!
Candles blew out. Wind applauded the roof shingles. Aunts and uncles gasped.
Turning, Timothy crammed toadstools in his mouth, swallowed, then beat his arms against his hips and ran in circles. “Uncle Einar! Now I’ll fly!”
At the top of the stairs, flapping, Timothy heard his mother cry, “No!”
“Yes!” Timothy hurled himself out, thrashing!
Halfway his wings exploded. Screaming, he fell.
To be caught by Uncle Einar.
Timothy squirmed wildly as a voice burst from his lips.
“This is Cecy!” it cried. “Cecy! Come see! In the attic!” Laughter. Timothy tried to stop his mouth.
Laughter. Einar let him drop. Running through the mob as they rushed up toward Cecy, Timothy kicked the front door wide and …
Flap! went the wine and toadstools, out into the cold autumn night.
“Cecy, I hate you, hate you!”
Inside the
barn, in deep shadow, Timothy sobbed bitterly and thrashed in a stack of odorous hay. Then he lay still. From his blouse pocket, from the protection of the matchbox used as his retreat, the spider crawled forth and along Timothy’s shoulder to his neck to climb to his ear.
Timothy trembled. “No, no. Don’t!”
The delicate touch of the feeler on his tympanum, small signals of large concern, made Timothy’s crying cease.
The spider then traveled down his cheek, stationed itself beneath his nose, probing the nostrils as if to seek the melancholy in there, and then moved quietly up over the rim of his nose to sit, peering at Timothy, until he burst with laughter.
“Get, Arach! Go!”
In answer, the spider floated down and with sixteen delicate motions wove its filaments zigzag over Timothy’s mouth which could only sound:
“Mmmmmm!”
Timothy sat up, rustling the hay.
Mouse was there in his blouse pocket, a small snug contentment to touch his chest and heart.
Anuba was there, curled in a soft round ball of sleep, all adream with many fine fish swimming in freshets of dream.
