Kinda carrying on with a few of my earlier attempts at dipping my toes into trying my own hand tinkering with old stories, I've been on a bit of a myth kick and decided to try my hand at a pretty well-known story (or at least one of my older favorites) about the trickster spider Anansi.
Not particularly relevant, but of note: I used to know someone who once gave me a very heated lecture about how wrong I was in pronouncing the name Anansi. Contrary to his claim, Anansi is not pronounced like "uh-nazi" as if you're emulating Brad Pitt's accent in Inglourious Basterds.
Why my former friend was so dead-set insistent on that is beyond me, but hey, as Morrison might say, "people are strange."
Anyway, here we are; maybe it's worth a tinker's damn:
Once, the sky god Nyame owned all the stories
While humanity toiled in ignorance and boredom;
Among those with fertile minds who sought them
Stood the Trickster Spider: wily Anansi
In a burst of ill-conceived bravado he climbed
Up the water-spout, into the mountains, and then the clouds
Proclaiming to the sky god that he would have these stories;
Nyame merely laughed in mockery at the puffed-up spider
And, in a moment of impetuous disdain made an offer:
Anansi could have the stories his heart longed for
If…
He could complete four seemingly-impossible labors;
In the forest below, Nyame told him, there were four creatures
The mightiest leopard, the largest python, the most aggressive Hornets
And the spirit of the forest itself
If he could capture all four and bring them to Nyame,
Then the stories were to be his
Returning to the lower realms, Anansi contemplated his offer
And by the time his many feet once more embraced the earth,
His clever mind had conjured up a plan
Drawing on his own limited experiences, his truncated stories
He retrieved his magic bag and set out for his quarry
First he found the python, sunning itself on a languid afternoon
Remembering Nyame’s treatment of him and his outrage,
He mocked the python, telling the serpent it could not be as long as said
The serpent stretched itself out to prove his point
And Anansi bound him— and into the bag he went
As he ate that evening, Anansi spoke with his wife
Debating the challenge of the lion the following day
Remembering his hunger upon returning home, he dug a hole
Laid a trap with a delicious meal; lion came along, feasted
And fell into the trap, injured himself—and into the bag he went
Now, hearing the sound of the vicious hornets, a pang of fear struck
But Anansi was not fooled and contemplated this
Remembering the fear the hornets had for water, he gathered up water
And manufactured the illusion of a rainstorm
Frightened, the hornets sought shelter—and into the bag they went
With one remaining task, he returned home and spoke to his wife
About how to appeal to something like a spirit,
Something that had needs and wants beyond brute instinct
Remembering his love for his wife and family, Anansi made a tar baby
And the lonely spirit, outraged, struck and was frozen—and into the bag she went
Ecstatic in victory, a swashbuckling Anansi returned to the celestial realms
And provided the baffled, bewildered, and befuddled Nyame his price
Despite his astonishment, the sky god stands firm by his words
And when he returned to earth, this time Anansi carried with him priceless treasures
Time, however, was not forgiving to our prodigal spider
As it progressed, Anansi failed to learn from his experiences
He grew fat, happy, and arrogant; no longer did he distribute stories freely
Instead of carving his own path, he fell into habits he had witnessed
Ignorance and Boredom multiplied as he reigned like a miser tyrant
Even before Anansi’s family began to suffer, his wife warned him of his errors
But he would not listen, he did not grow; and so she set out to remind him
Remembering their charming schemes of old and the lessons she had taught,
She withdrew from Anansi and left instead a tar baby
Lost in his own narcissism, it took time for Anansi to notice his wife’s absence
He found the tar baby in a small room that had once been his entire home,
An echo of a simpler time, and tried to speak to it.
But Anansi had lost himself and his vision
He grew outraged when he received no answer
And as his anger grew, he struck the tar baby and his fist held fast
“Release me and begone or I shall strike again!”
But the tar baby did not respond, for it could not
And so Anansi struck it again; three (or seven?) times he repeated this
Until his whole body was held in its final embrace
“Release me and begone or I shall strike again!”
Anansi shouted, leaning his head back to prepare
But the tar baby did not respond, for it could not
And lost in his outrage at this unknown subject,
Anansi struck. His head stayed—his air did not.
So it was that Anansi’s wife came to find his corpse
She wept and grieved for him, at last interring his body
And wishing upon him peace, she returned home
To find the chastened Anansi waiting at their door,
Waiting to distribute stories freely with her, as they had once done.
Believe me, these kinds of things happened then,
When the world was young, when the translucent veil
Between the gates of horn and ivory remained passable
Anansi had many feet and his finest trick was always landing on one
Despite the uncertainty of Shiva’s precarious dance.
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