A Heart's Crucible

Tall forest trees made a change from vast desert sands. Joq’s mood churned sombre as deep as the surrounding shadows. Her mind stirred their fluke or providential Sahara escape.

“I miss Perdy,” said Zel.

“Yes, our thoughts are alike. The tail whip of the unexpected creature caught us by surprise!”

“Imagine Perdy under those putrid camels!”

“No, I near suffocated under your armpit!”

“Geez, girl, fear dripped from my pores.”

“Though you made the right call, your lacklustre wings best matched the matted camel hair to shield us.”

Joq rubbed the piece of silk in her koylek pocket. The tattered fabric she gripped white knuckle tight, cowering under Zel in the sand.

“Poppet, watch out!”

Zel ducked under a low-hanging branch. Joq’s thoughts left the desert as she held back the tree limb. As the sucker sprang back, so did the quests gain versus the cost. No balance appeared possible; the retrieved silk’s price weighed too steep without their radiant Perdy.

In the forest, unsure, the Peri followed paths favoured by bandits. They risked webbing or Arachne’s spies reporting a sighting if they flew. Spotting rusted Roman weapons and cleaved centurions, they entered the Teutoburg Forest. Fragmented skulls, greyed and mossed, hardly amounted to nature greeting them. Joq missed Perdy. The ideal company was three. Never a crowd for the Peri. Holding Zel’s hand, the pair wended tracks used by brave hunters, outlaws or the foolhardy. Every step led them deeper, where sunlight pierced the damp, leaf-littered ground less and less.

Stories Joq heard at the mound over goblets of wine or tales exchanged by open meadow river banks proved handy in their dire days. Unlike the sea of desolation, a known location by the Kazakh from a bird’s-eye sweep a century ago. Yet, Arachne’s world equated to a Peri no-fly zone; floating spider webs could net wings. Plus, hospitality and the temperamental spider queen did not keep company. Strays, seekers of weaving to win lovers or despairing quest chasers, the grapevine stated they took part in their last supper, where they were on the menu.

Joq knew Zel wished for the crowded bazaars of her home framed by the soaring peaks of Kashmir. Joq’s heart moped for her open, sun-grazed grassy steppe. Low tree branches in a dense forest scraped feathers. The pair hunched wings tight as they proceeded, unsure in single file as the tracks narrowed.

After trudging for three days, their path swept into a shadowy ravine.

“Ouch,” said Zel, as her delicate sandal crunched on broken rock.

“We should have pinched boots from the village we raided,” said Joq, taking careful steps.

The sound of fast-flowing water greeted their ears. Three choices met Joq’s eyes.

A narrow path following the stream north. An uneven rocky bank to slog south. Or they could risk crossing the river and entering the foreboding murky gap, hunter-snare shaped, on the other side.

Zel plopped on a wet, mossy boulder. Joq saw dampness seep on her behind and thighs, near-instant through her buddy’s sari. Rest outweighed the discomfort. Joq joined her friend’s soggy lull as a clammy nip infiltrated her skin through her koylek. She sought solace at the moment in a warming cuddle.

“We both know which route to take.”

Zel’s hands trembled on her lap. The flaxen Peri preferred to watch her companion’s toes wriggle in fetching tanned sandals with cute ankle straps.

Joq mustered decisive as their best ally. After touching the silk tatter in her left pocket, she grabbed Zel’s hand in her right. Then together, they flittered above the water in a gentle flap, aiming for the far bank — a narrow ledge leading into a dusk shaft between dense, massive trees. She loathed the prospect of sopping sandals.

“Oh, cripes,” said Joq.

“Fack it, damn it, damn it,” from Zel.

The double damn, Joq in a panicked understanding, the webbing and having dropped their bait—a bag full of frogs to avert prowling spiders. The green amphibians vented raspy croaks and husky hacks in the stream—a repetitious disdainful ribbit, ribbit, as they hopped to freedom.

Joq comprehended four wings snared in the finest of near-invisible silky threads. So careful not to flap for three straight days, yet her one hasty decision to avoid wet feet and, yikes, disaster! Useless to struggle, hopeless to flutter, any effort to seek release tangled them more.

What weighed heavier on Joq’s heart? The wait for giant spiders or the net in the desert snaring Perdy? A trussing that perhaps doomed their problematic quest?

Joq noted their wings spread wide, crucifixion style. Yet they swayed, like preparation for diving from a rope bridge. A light sun shower only dampened her pessimism. Raindrops showed the intricate sticky lace network across the stream—a devious masterwork of cunning interlacing. On a nature walk, Joq always appreciated cosmic symmetry. Still, the insider’s view as a spider’s snack held no short-term or long-term appeal.

Trapped time passed in mental torment. The seconds remained the same, yet each one extended to an hour—involuntary flapping tangled Joq’s fine wing tips in a tacky constriction.

“Should we try the useless yelp for help?” said Zel.

Joq glimpsed her chum’s wings minus their usual bronze lustre and faded to a dull copper hue.

“We could do worse and stay silent; screaming out may speed up our capture and end. Damn infernal waiting.”

The creamy yellow of her wings turned to white.

She started lung-bellowing hollers of “Spider, spider, you have tied her.”

Zel joined her voice.

Joq pondered; no point in a squealing plea? She accepted stuffing up the quest in the shortest flight, and grisly consequences awaited.

She watched Zel’s fingers cross. Meantime, her own watery eyes saw the dark legs dangle before her friend’s screech. Four gangling black widows swayed on diaphanous wispy strands. Their lithe scuttle contradicted their bulk as the flimsy threads supported them.

Zel screamed, the panic wail of imminent demise. Shriller because Joq knew she loathed creepy hairy spiders. A story recalled at a terrible moment — pinning her sari one morning as a youth, her brooch sheltered a spider. The youngster dropped her pin, and the jewellery fell, bouncing off her big toe. The spider spun a web from her bracelet. Zel told how she flapped her arms in a fluster. The cunning mite swung back and forth. Zel spun in a crazy whirl until the spider latched onto a table leg and disappeared. Her friend kept a habit of peering under tables before sitting.

Jog stared from the wrong viewpoint, the victims, a horror scene. Where kismet or quest luck no longer mattered. The odds shaped awful, and the outcome crystallised beyond a fifty-fifty break.

The spiders ambled from each corner of the vast web. Their red tail insignia resembled an hourglass. Time to pause and gain an extra hour thought Joq. An hour of what? Eight legs times four moved with stealth. Beady eyes, too many to count.

Zel’s screeching echoed along the river, reminding Joq of endless wine poured at a funeral libation.

Without warning, Joq saw the tawny tail feathers of a fierce barbed arrow whiz past Zel’s nose. Craning her head, she saw the closest black widow lurching in agony — entangled and pierced between the head and abdomen. A hairy dangling leg swayed backwards and forwards between her chum’s eyes. So close, Zarella retched.

Joq, in a silent torpor of disbelief, saw a flurry of three more arrows smite the remaining black widows. The spiders exhibited gaping wounds and writhed in death throes. An unseen rescuer with precise accuracy saved them.

Hanging suspended, Zel and Joq waited for their saviour to appear. Nothing moved, no stir in the forest, no twig crack. The stream continued to babble.

“Well, they didn’t come from heaven. But, in our situation, I would accept a miracle without believing one possible.”

Joq realised Zel’s voice raced as one damn black leg maintained a steady pendulum swing in front of her face.

“A true hunter,” said Joq.

“They wait, listening and scanning for evil’s reinforcements. Hopefully, we will see them soon.”

She reassured her friend with a wink.

Minutes lengthened every minute as Joq anticipated the likely points of a rescuer’s emergence from the forest. Nothing stirred where her eyes fixed.

Joq’s mouth fell open as she saw Orion. He glided from the high trees which touched the clouds.

She glanced at Zarella. Her buddy wiped a dry heave from her chin.

“Lucky for you, our paths crossed,” said the hunter, cutting the webs using his magnificent silver knife. The chosen points allowed Joq and Zel to float in tandem to the riverbank. However, their fine feathers still required more than a rinse to be serviceable.

Joq observed Zel trying to stretch her wings in a coquette, flirty way. But they flopped in their tacky webbing.

“Clean your wings in the stream; I will keep the watch.”

Joq, alongside Zel, remained hunk fixated, though Orion’s eyes scanned elsewhere.

“Fast,” he urged, appearing capable of seeing behind himself.

After removing their sandals, Joq joined Zel. They dipped, splashed, and sluiced to launder pristine wings. Then, seduced by freshened prettiness and the desire to flirt with their striking protector, they started titivating each other’s hair.

“Enough,” Orion’s voice commanded.

“Follow me.”

Joq and Zel completed their rapid wing flutter, drying their dripping clothes. They laced sandals on the move and wended off on covert cloak and dagger trails as a group. Orion led with a sprinting hike to his encampment. From a knoll accessible by various routes, Joq realised the hunter had brought them to a secure place.

The smell of roasting venison greeted her nose. Dry furs offered a reassuring place to rest, and a low smokeless fire provided warmth. Orion cut fine pieces of meat and two chunky slabs.

He offered Zel and her the campfire log as a seat. He crouched opposite, his bow and quiver within quick reach. Then, the hunter passed slices of meat to avoid juices dripping on their clothes. He offered Zel the wineskin first. Joq noted her girlfriend gulped more than a fair share.

“Time for your full story.”

For the first time, the spunky dude sounded mellow.

“We feast and tell yarns of the good days.”

His teeth tore into a wedge of meat.

“For tomorrow, we may die in Arachne’s den.”