Fresh Short Story: Recluse (1)

It is possible to abandon technology entirely and retreat into wilderness, to transform overnight all you know. After taking the bus as far as he could, he called a cab and let it fade down a dirt driveway...when the wind picked up and rustled the leaves at his feet, he felt the truth of it. He leaned back on his heels, stared up into a white sky through half-skeleton branches, and inhaled the fresh country air with a smile. He would create a new self here.

Sturdy wood with a red brick chimney and stack of firewood under a tarp, the cabin looked just as he remembered it -- but the interior had changed. Months of neglect since his grandmother's death covered the same old furniture, rugs, and paintings with cobwebs and dust. Cleaning would be the first order of business, once he put away his things.

Spiders are defensive creatures. Provided that you don't trouble them, they won't trouble you, and this saved his life, for, contrary to his initial intentions, he did not clean the house. He set up his computer, installed Internet, ordered packaged meals, and wiled away the days in an ever-darkening inner world. The spiders had their first official meeting a month after his arrival.

"His crumbs draw prey," was the prevailing argument, along with the neutral fact that he had not broken a single web nor killed a single spider. The brown recluses had taken over the cabin in the old woman's absence, and would have been all too glad to take him out with a few well-placed bites in the dark of night. But the spiders agreed that they could likely coexist, and let him live.

Autumn passed into winter. Now the spiders had a second reason to be thankful for his presence, for he kept the wood stove regularly supplied, filling the cabin with cozy heat. Has any spider ever lived so well?

A day after solstice, winter gave the forest a frigid chomp, and an old woman moved across the brittle ground with curious pauses around those areas whitest with hoarfrost. Her clothes were black, her eyes white, and her mouth often moving with silent words. Though she looked at least 90 years old, she moved as quickly and deftly as a woman of 40. This, my friends, was a witch, and her current work was frost-gathering.

Witches must store frost in winter, lest their hearts thaw to weakness in the hottest days of summer. Every time she paused, the frost disappeared from some branch or needle, and her heart thrilled with cold. Thus engaged, she drew closer and closer to the cabin, until the scent of darkness and gloom swept into her sensitive nose. Like a hound given a whiff of raccoon, she eagerly followed the scent through trees and over hills until the cabin came into view. "Ah," she said aloud, and actually rubbed her hands together.

He was about to put lunch into the microwave when she frightened him half to death by knocking on his door. He hadn't seen anyone in months. He hadn't even seen himself. A quick check in the hall mirror revealed small and black eyes like two bullets, a stiff, long beard, and an ample belly slowly sinking inward. Abandoning any thought of making himself presentable, he went to the door in his boxers and unwashed t-shirt.

The pathetic blind woman was shivering like mad, and her skin seemed nearly translucent and blue. "Oh, please let me in," she said. "I'm so cold."

"Um, uh, yeah, of course." He reached out a hand to help her, but she swept past him, and a sudden gust of wind slammed the door behind them.

"How nice and warm it is here," she said with a hint of disgust. He replied, but she was listening with all her might to what the spiders had to tell her about how he lived and when he'd come. For their part, the spiders were overjoyed. Just when they thought it couldn't get any better, a witch! Granted, she would soon fill the cabin with cold, but spiders are a witch's most loyal slaves. This is because of something that happened many centuries ago, so I won't bore you with the details; suffice to say that it is a spider's highest honor to serve a witch.

Senile, he thought as he watched the hunched old woman standing in the middle of the cluttered living room with her head tilted as though listening to someone. Finally she straightened and shuffled along. "I see an attic door in the ceiling here -- mind if I take a peek?"

"Um. Don't you want to sit by the stove? It's right over--"

She was already pulling the string to the attic stairs. "Excuse me," he said, but she ignored him. Before he knew it she had unfolded and ascended the stairs and was poking around in the attic.

"What the hell," he muttered. He returned to his computer in bewildered defeat.

The spiders crowding the attic darted and hunched out of the way as the witch shoved through boxes and old furniture. One old spider -- you might call her the matriarch -- had told the witch about the grandmother's death, and now that worthy enchantress wanted a special something for a spell. It was a long shot, but in the bottom of a box in the farthermost corner of the attic, she found a tiny stuffed doll, so faded in features that only the outline of its eyes and a dot of pink where its lips had been remained. If this belonged to the grandmother as a child, her task would be simple! Only one way to find out.

In the darkness of the attic, the witch conducted a silent dance. The oldest she-spiders swept across the floor and between boxes to create an elaborate pattern of markings that were a fine replacement for ink, string, or blood. Then the witch knelt, placed the doll in the center, and let them all drop to wrap and wrap it in web. She was mouthing silent words again, and every spider felt the rush of power as she finished her spell.

The witch grinned. "Let's go meet our grandson."

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aole i pau