Daddy Longlegs (An Snáthaid Mhór)
PART ONE:
Setting the Scene - the Spider and the Fly.
Incorporating an Invitation to High Tea and a Modicum of Philosophical and Linguistic Trivia.
-You might pause to consider, said the Spider smiling a toothy smile –that there has been considerable disinformation put about in the locality by idle and malicious gossip regarding myself.
It was one of those breathless summer days on the high bog, and the Spider and the Fly faced each other under an awning provided by the feathery reeds that grew along the edges of a small pool. The sky above them was as blue as a blackbird’s egg but as the hours passed it was starting to fade to grassy yellow in the distance where the marsh gave way to the russet scraw of turf cuttings and the afternoon to the approach of tea-time.
-I may be black and hairy and perhaps ugly in the eyes of some, continued the Spider. –and without question I am endowed with a superfluity of legs compared to a fly. But please, do not deny me my good points. Many of them are close to the prerequisites of genius. I am skilful. I am industrious. I am possessed of cunning and mental acuity. Above all I am a thinker. And look, my teeth are as beautifully enamelled and white as the tusks of the great trumpeting walrus. On top of this, he added, -there is the question of charm.
-You don’t say, said the Fly, without any.
She sat on a leaf high above the pool, sunning her hairy rumpkin in the late afternoon sun and trying to scratch off a sticky and unpleasant something that had attached itself to her back legs.
Far below a rusty carp broke for a moment the surface of the pool and gulping down a mouthful of air, flopped back disappointed under the green water. The Fly winced and ceased scratching her leg as she inched a little higher up the reed stem.
-I would say then, said the Spider, -that there is no reason in the world to refuse my invitation. The kettle is always on, and I have biscuits. And should you wish a proper meal, he added with a chuckle, -I am utterly bad in the kitchen.
At the mention of food the Fly shifted her position once again and stole a quick look behind her. The flicker of a shadow, caused no doubt by this sudden movement upon the leaf on which she balanced, darkened for a moment the Spider’s shining web and caused a tiny shudder to run through its hair trigger cordage.
-Come up for tea, said the Spider. –I crave conversation and crumpets. A thinker’s task is a lonely one. Without the support of company and the input of a second mind it is sometimes unbearable. It is no fun to be a philosopher, you know, hanging all day on one’s ownsome between the seen and the unseen and never being quite sure which is which.
The Fly rolled her eyes round her head like a chameleon. She noticed that this Spider was impeccably tailored for an older gentleman. It made her very suspicious. She looked down and spat a gobbet of yellow phlegm into the water beneath and smirked as the red carp rose and snapped and swallowed and sank out of sight with a sick look.
-Rubber face, she muttered, and, turning to the Spider, said rudely -You think I’m some kind of oik? My mother told me never to trust a gentleman in a tuxedo at teatime. She said it was almost as inauspicious as a velvet smoking jacket at dinner and worse than a dressing gown closed with a tasselled cord of silk instead of buttons at the hour of milk and biscuits. It reeks of good breeding and bad intentions, both of them inevitably pathways to ruination.
-Ruination, chuckled the Spider, –how quaint!
But the Fly went on with a frown. -Besides I can see without you telling me that you have eight legs. There are six legged bugs in this bog I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole, and they think they are family. Do you imagine I’d have anything to do with you, with your a horrid hairy speckled extras?
-You may not know it, said the Spider patiently, but eight is a magic number. Written sideways it is the sign for Infinity. Have you heard of infinity, Fly?
-Every fly has heard of infinity, she retorted with a grunt. –It is a way of counting our race. We are described in the better almanacs as an infinity of flies. We are many in number, you know. Like the sand on the seashore or the stars in the sky or whatever.
-An infinity of flies, said the Spider, -I suppose you mean like a cacophony of frogs or a murder of crows.
- A murder of spiders, more likely, said the Fly, who, like many of the non-philosophising classes believed religiously in gossip and vaguely remembered something off-colour about arachnids. Unfortunately she could never remember the details and invariable repeated any story she heard back to front which was often the cause of great resentment both to the gossiped about and the gossips themselves.
-Apart from that, she went on with a sneer -I have heard the expression a clutter of spiders. I suppose it means you spiders are like rats: if I can see one of you in front of me there must be twenty or thirty out of sight cluttering up the undergrowth.
-Tut tut, said the Spider, -but I notice you are misinformed about your good race. It was never spoken of as an infinity of flies. The correct usage is a business of flies.
- A business? sniffed the Fly.
-Libellously so, said the Spider,–a business.
He continued. –There must have been a prejudiced few in the past who imagined that flies had vile and unhygienic habits and did their unsanitary business anywhere they pleased. -Slanderous, he added, ingratiatingly, -but the dirt seems to have stuck. Together with such gems as a puke-fest of bluebottles and a piss-party of midges and a chunder of…
-Enough! interrupted the Fly.
-Well, to set the matter straight about myself at least, said the Spider, - allow me to inform you that here there is no clutter but only a solitude of spiders. For spiders are solitary animals. You may talk about a turbulence of starlings or an exaltation of larks but the truth of the matter is that at the heart of this beautiful handcrafted web there is only a solitude of spiders. That solitude, he added, -is me.
-Of course, he murmured, as if by afterthought, -if we were to dine together we could rectify that. -And I have kippers, he went on,-with gorgonzola sauce. He smiled now with the focussed unction of a professional ringmaster and beckoned. –If not dinner, high tea at least?
-Gawgonzola sauce! The Fly spat again, this time carefully into the palm of her hand and for a moment seemed greatly engrossed in an analysis of the results. The augury apparently clear, she turned back to the Spider and said
-Hey ho! Time flies. And so must I! Nice gear! Nice try! Nice talking to you. Nice…
Abruptly niceties ceased, for at that moment an orange and purple dragonfly rose from the surface of a water lily leaf in the green pool below and hovered for a moment on the wings of appetite, all jaws and teeth and expectancy as if daring the Fly to take flight and enter its airy killing zone.
The Fly began to wonder if it might not be worthwhile taking a little walk somewhere else on foot, but before she could make a decision the Dragonfly’s wings flashed like a Samurai sword in the sun and he was gone.
-Shall we dine then, smiled the Spider, -you and I, together?
PART ONE:
Setting the Scene - the Spider and the Fly.
Incorporating an Invitation to High Tea and a Modicum of Philosophical and Linguistic Trivia.
-You might pause to consider, said the Spider smiling a toothy smile –that there has been considerable disinformation put about in the locality by idle and malicious gossip regarding myself.
It was one of those breathless summer days on the high bog, and the Spider and the Fly faced each other under an awning provided by the feathery reeds that grew along the edges of a small pool. The sky above them was as blue as a blackbird’s egg but as the hours passed it was starting to fade to grassy yellow in the distance where the marsh gave way to the russet scraw of turf cuttings and the afternoon to the approach of tea-time.
-I may be black and hairy and perhaps ugly in the eyes of some, continued the Spider. –and without question I am endowed with a superfluity of legs compared to a fly. But please, do not deny me my good points. Many of them are close to the prerequisites of genius. I am skilful. I am industrious. I am possessed of cunning and mental acuity. Above all I am a thinker. And look, my teeth are as beautifully enamelled and white as the tusks of the great trumpeting walrus. On top of this, he added, -there is the question of charm.
-You don’t say, said the Fly, without any.
She sat on a leaf high above the pool, sunning her hairy rumpkin in the late afternoon sun and trying to scratch off a sticky and unpleasant something that had attached itself to her back legs.
Far below a rusty carp broke for a moment the surface of the pool and gulping down a mouthful of air, flopped back disappointed under the green water. The Fly winced and ceased scratching her leg as she inched a little higher up the reed stem.
-I would say then, said the Spider, -that there is no reason in the world to refuse my invitation. The kettle is always on, and I have biscuits. And should you wish a proper meal, he added with a chuckle, -I am utterly bad in the kitchen.
At the mention of food the Fly shifted her position once again and stole a quick look behind her. The flicker of a shadow, caused no doubt by this sudden movement upon the leaf on which she balanced, darkened for a moment the Spider’s shining web and caused a tiny shudder to run through its hair trigger cordage.
-Come up for tea, said the Spider. –I crave conversation and crumpets. A thinker’s task is a lonely one. Without the support of company and the input of a second mind it is sometimes unbearable. It is no fun to be a philosopher, you know, hanging all day on one’s ownsome between the seen and the unseen and never being quite sure which is which.
The Fly rolled her eyes round her head like a chameleon. She noticed that this Spider was impeccably tailored for an older gentleman. It made her very suspicious. She looked down and spat a gobbet of yellow phlegm into the water beneath and smirked as the red carp rose and snapped and swallowed and sank out of sight with a sick look.
-Rubber face, she muttered, and, turning to the Spider, said rudely -You think I’m some kind of oik? My mother told me never to trust a gentleman in a tuxedo at teatime. She said it was almost as inauspicious as a velvet smoking jacket at dinner and worse than a dressing gown closed with a tasselled cord of silk instead of buttons at the hour of milk and biscuits. It reeks of good breeding and bad intentions, both of them inevitably pathways to ruination.
-Ruination, chuckled the Spider, –how quaint!
But the Fly went on with a frown. -Besides I can see without you telling me that you have eight legs. There are six legged bugs in this bog I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole, and they think they are family. Do you imagine I’d have anything to do with you, with your a horrid hairy speckled extras?
-You may not know it, said the Spider patiently, but eight is a magic number. Written sideways it is the sign for Infinity. Have you heard of infinity, Fly?
-Every fly has heard of infinity, she retorted with a grunt. –It is a way of counting our race. We are described in the better almanacs as an infinity of flies. We are many in number, you know. Like the sand on the seashore or the stars in the sky or whatever.
-An infinity of flies, said the Spider, -I suppose you mean like a cacophony of frogs or a murder of crows.
- A murder of spiders, more likely, said the Fly, who, like many of the non-philosophising classes believed religiously in gossip and vaguely remembered something off-colour about arachnids. Unfortunately she could never remember the details and invariable repeated any story she heard back to front which was often the cause of great resentment both to the gossiped about and the gossips themselves.
-Apart from that, she went on with a sneer -I have heard the expression a clutter of spiders. I suppose it means you spiders are like rats: if I can see one of you in front of me there must be twenty or thirty out of sight cluttering up the undergrowth.
-Tut tut, said the Spider, -but I notice you are misinformed about your good race. It was never spoken of as an infinity of flies. The correct usage is a business of flies.
- A business? sniffed the Fly.
-Libellously so, said the Spider,–a business.
He continued. –There must have been a prejudiced few in the past who imagined that flies had vile and unhygienic habits and did their unsanitary business anywhere they pleased. -Slanderous, he added, ingratiatingly, -but the dirt seems to have stuck. Together with such gems as a puke-fest of bluebottles and a piss-party of midges and a chunder of…
-Enough! interrupted the Fly.
-Well, to set the matter straight about myself at least, said the Spider, - allow me to inform you that here there is no clutter but only a solitude of spiders. For spiders are solitary animals. You may talk about a turbulence of starlings or an exaltation of larks but the truth of the matter is that at the heart of this beautiful handcrafted web there is only a solitude of spiders. That solitude, he added, -is me.
-Of course, he murmured, as if by afterthought, -if we were to dine together we could rectify that. -And I have kippers, he went on,-with gorgonzola sauce. He smiled now with the focussed unction of a professional ringmaster and beckoned. –If not dinner, high tea at least?
-Gawgonzola sauce! The Fly spat again, this time carefully into the palm of her hand and for a moment seemed greatly engrossed in an analysis of the results. The augury apparently clear, she turned back to the Spider and said
-Hey ho! Time flies. And so must I! Nice gear! Nice try! Nice talking to you. Nice…
Abruptly niceties ceased, for at that moment an orange and purple dragonfly rose from the surface of a water lily leaf in the green pool below and hovered for a moment on the wings of appetite, all jaws and teeth and expectancy as if daring the Fly to take flight and enter its airy killing zone.
The Fly began to wonder if it might not be worthwhile taking a little walk somewhere else on foot, but before she could make a decision the Dragonfly’s wings flashed like a Samurai sword in the sun and he was gone.
-Shall we dine then, smiled the Spider, -you and I, together?
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