Anansi Boys

He repeated the process once more, this time squeezing the pinched clay a little tighter. One of the pinches fell off onto the dirt, but the others held. He had something in his hand that looked like a small ball with seven points coming out of it, like a child’s model of the sun.

He looked at it with pride: given the circumstances, he felt as proud of it as anything a child has ever brought home from school.

The word, that would be the hardest part. Making a spider, or something quite like it, from blood and spit and clay, that was easy. Gods, even minor mischief gods like Spider, know how to do that. But the final part of Making was going to prove the hardest. You need a word to give something life. You need to name it.

He opened his mouth. “Hrrurrrurrr,” he said, with his tongueless mouth.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. “Hrrurrurr!” The clay sat, a dead lump in his hand.

His face fell back into the dirt. He was exhausted. Every movement tore the scabs on his face and chest. They oozed and burned and—worse—itched. Think! he told himself. There had to be a way of doing this… To talk without his tongue…

His lips still had a layer of clay on them. He sucked at them, moistening as well as he could, without a tongue.

He took a deep breath, and let the air push through his lips, controlling it as best he could, saying a word with such certainty that not even the universe could argue with him: he described the thing on his hand, and he said his own name, which was the best magic he knew: “hhssspphhhrrriiivver.”

And on his hand, where the lump of bloody mud had been, sat a fat spider, the color of red clay, with seven spindly legs.

Help me, thought Spider. Get help.

The spider stared at him, its eyes gleaming in the sunlight. Then it dropped from his hand to the earth, and it proceeded to make its lopsided way into the grass, its gait wobbly and uneven.

Spider watched it until it was out of sight. Then he lowered his head into the dirt, and he closed his eyes.

The wind changed then, and he smelled the ammoniac scent of male cat on the air. It had marked its territory…

High in the air, Spider could hear birds caw in triumph.

FAT CHARLIE’S STOMACH GROWLED. IF HE HAD HAD ANY SUPERFLUOUS money he would have gone somewhere for dinner, just to get away from his hotel, but he was, as near as dammit, now quite broke, and evening meals were included in the cost of the room, so as soon as it turned seven, he went down to the restaurant.

The maître d‘ had a glorious smile, and she told him that they would open the restaurant in just a few more minutes. They had to give the band time to finish setting up. Then she looked at him. Fat Charlie was beginning to know that look.

“Are you…?” she began.

“Yes,” he said, resigned. “I’ve even got it with me.” He took the lime out of his pocket and showed it to her.

“Very nice,” she said. “That’s definitely a lime you’ve got there. I was going to say, are you going to want the à la carte menu or would you rather do the buffet?”

“Buffet,” said Fat Charlie. The buffet was free. He stood in the hall outside the restaurant holding his lime.

“Just wait a moment,” said the maître d‘.

A small woman came down the corridor from behind Fat Charlie. She smiled at the maître d‘ and said, “Is the restaurant open yet? I’m completely starved.”

There was a final thrum-thung-thdum from the bass guitar and a plunk from the electric piano. The band put down their instruments and waved at the maître d‘. “It’s open,” she said. “Come in.”

The small woman stared at Fat Charlie with an expression of wary surprise. “Hello Fat Charlie,” she said. “What’s the lime for?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well,” said Daisy. “We’ve got the whole of dinnertime ahead of us. Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

ROSIE WONDERED WHETHER MADNESS COULD BE CONTAGIOUS. In the blind darkness beneath the house on the cliff, she had felt something brush past her. Something soft and lithe. Something huge. Something that growled, softly, as it circled them.

“Did you hear that too?” she said.

“Of course I heard it, you stupid girl,” said her mother. Then she said, “Is there any orange juice left?”