Spiderling was a little child, just like you are now or maybe even how I was once.
She was a little girl child and her rather eccentric but very sweet parents had named her Spiderling when she was born because that is precisely what she looked like: a tiny, black haired thing with enormous eyes and long thin limbs.
Spiderling was quite shy, wasnāt very fond of speaking and she hid behind her very long, very black hair, peeping out at the world with her very big, very black eyes.
When it rained, which it often did where she lived in the little, wet village on the long, wet coast of Wales, Spiderling liked to wear very shiny, very black PVC Wellington boots and rarely brushed her hair. There were no other children in the tiny village and her only but constant companion was a small, stuffed black toy that resembled nothing anyone could think of but which Spiderling loved very much. It may have been a bat, it may have been cat or even a little monkey. It didnāt matter, its name was Blackie and Spiderlingās Grandma had made it for her when she was born.
Spiderlingās parents were artists. They were very interesting and very busy and would often go off into the city to show off the things they had made. They were called Mr and Mrs Ink and were very, very fond of Spiderling but worried that the shy little girl was lonely in the village without any little friends to play with.
To try and fill the childās days and give her a bit of company, Mr and Mrs Ink would send her off to the cinema every afternoon with her minder. Theyād fill her little purse with enough money to watch as many films as she liked and plenty of extra to buy something sweet to eat. āA safe and even educational way to spend her time,ā they consoled each other before stepping onto the train, laden with armfuls of prints, paints and fur coats.
One afternoon, Spiderling sat at the window and watched her parents drive away from their home, her huge eyes reflecting silver as she stared after them through the rain, wondering why they never took her along.
Spiderling looked around her bedroom. It had white walls, a white brass bed and pretty white linen. Her cupboard was French and very large and had two oblong mirrors on the front. She had a big white dressing table that matched the cupboard and on it were lots of little white, ivory figurines that family members had bought her for treats and birthday presents over the years. She didnāt understand the little figurines and tried to not touch them at all. It seemed to be a little bit scary that they kept multiplying in her possession without her wishing for them; almost as though she were attracting tiny ghosts to haunt her.
The floors were wooden and white washed and sometimes little splinters would get stuck in the soles her black PVC Wellington boots. Once or twice they even pricked her small, white stockinged feet and tiny little red dots would spring up.
Ā Spiderling slid off of her bed where she had been cutting out pictures of black and white movie stars to put in her big, black book of lovely things that she like to look at more than once. She was wearing a very loose, oversized black jumper, made of soft, fine wool that seemed to be coming undone, leaving wispy entrails of webby black wool after her. One of these loose threads snagged on one of the white bedknobs and then again on a large nail sticking out of the floor when she jumped off the bed. She walked over the dressing table, leaving a fine, black trail behind her and peeped at the little white ghost statues on the surface. They were very quiet.
Little Spiderling looked past the peculiar little statues and at the mirror behind them. The mirror was very black most of the time because, as her nanny had explained, it reflected whatever was shown in front of it ā which is often how many mirrors work. As it was nearly night time and the room was full of shadowy things, the mirror was very black indeed. Her nanny had once said that this was the scrying hour for such a mirror. Spiderling had asked what scrying meant and her nanny had looked a little worried, smoothing her long, red hair but eventually explained to the little girl, as best she could, āItās a bit like dreaming about the answers to secret things. The mirror is very good at holding on to dreams like that, when it goes all black like that, and saving them up for when you need to know something about something else.ā Spiderling became a little more curious and wanted to know if her very own mirror would mind telling her secrets and somethings. At this point, her nanny shook her head and said little Spiderlings and their cuddly Blackie toys should be in bed by the time scrying hour comes about and anyway, wouldnāt a lovely bedtime story be far better than any old silly thing the mirror might have to say?
Spiderling thought about all of this, all the while looking at the black, swirling glass. She picked up Blackie by one of his wings or legs and followed the black trail of wool her unravelling jersey had left behind her. Spiderling jumped into bed, carefully tucking Blackie beneath her pillow, a small wing or leg poking out for her to stroke until she fell asleep.
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