WEBVTT
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Arachne
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A rumour reached the ears of the gods and the goddesses,
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a rumour that there was a mortal woman named Arachne,
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who possessed such skill at weaving that her work dazzled the eyes of anyone who looked upon it.
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It was said that it moved people to laughter and tears in equal measure.
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Owl-eyed Athene heard the story and she snorted with indignation:
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some mere mortal, out-weaving her?
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She who had invented the loom, the spindle, the shuttle and all the women’s arts?
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And had this Arachne ever given thanks for her gift?
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Had she ever made sacrifices to the goddess?
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Never!
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Athene strapped on her sandals of untarnishing gold.
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She seized her spear and flashed down out of the sky to the kingdom of Lydia.
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When her feet struck the ground she changed her shape so that to all the world she looked like an old woman,
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leaning on a twisted stick.
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She hobbled to the village of Hypaepa.
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She made her way through the village until she came to the cottage of Arachne.
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Through the window she could see the woman working at her loom.
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She lifted her fist and knocked at the door.
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Arachne welcomed the stranger.
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She fetched a stool so that she could sit in the cool shadows.
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She fetched a bowl of wine for her to drink.
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The old woman sipped, looked about herself and said,
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‘Some things that old age brings should be welcomed:
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wisdom, for instance.
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Your gift is great but it is just that –
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a gift, given you by owl-eyed Athene.
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If I were you,
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I would thank her before she decides to turn against you and stop your nimble fingers.’
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Arachne shook her head. ‘A gift?
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If only it were so.
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I have a skill, earned by long years of hard work and tedious effort.
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Let those who owe Athene give her thanks.
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As for me, I owe her nothing.
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Mine is an art won from suffering and sympathy.
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Let her come.
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Let her come here and show me that my work is tame and trite compared with hers.’
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‘She has come.’
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Suddenly the old woman doubled in size.
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The wrinkles faded from her face.
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The twisted staff became a bronze-tipped spear.
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Arachne sat uncowed, unbowed,
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and looked at the goddess without blinking.
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The goddess stared at the woman.
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The face of the goddess was beautiful,
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unchangeable as a constellation.
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The face of the woman was creased and wrinkled with all the joys and sorrows of a lifetime.
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Athene spoke first:
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‘We will have a contest of weaving, you and I,
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and soon enough we will discover who is the giver and who the mere receiver of gifts.’
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Arachne nodded. ‘Very well.’
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The goddess set up a loom in the corner of the room and when everything had been made ready Arachne asked,
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‘What is to be our theme?’
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The goddess smiled.
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‘Our theme will be this:
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the changeless power of the mighty gods and goddesses and the uppity cheek and presumption of you mere mortals.’
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The woman and the goddess loosened their blouses,
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they rolled up their sleeves,
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each of them selected a thread from the rainbow of choices and fitted it to a shuttle.
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Each of them set to work,
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passing the shining shuttle from hand to hand across the loom.
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All the long day they worked,
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intent in their concentration,
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without stopping for food or drink.
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And then, as the shadows of evening lengthened and the light began to fade,
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they put down their shuttles and stepped back from their looms.
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Their bright tapestries were finished now.
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Each looked at the other’s work.
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On the loom of the goddess was the image of Hephaestus,
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fashioning the woman Pandora out of clay.
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There was Artemis watching as Actaeon was torn apart by his own hounds.
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There was Prometheus bound to his crag with Zeus’ vultures devouring his liver.
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Arachne shuddered.
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Athena looked at Arachne’s loom.
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There was Orpheus looking over his shoulder,
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seeing his wife’s face fading.
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There was the boy Phaethon trying to control his father’s horses.
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There was broken Cygnus, transforming into a swan.
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The tapestry of the goddess was flawless, masterful, perfect.
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But the tapestry of the woman was human, moving, touching.
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There was tenderness and suffering.
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It had been woven with a golden threat of joy and a silver thread of sorrow.
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It had been woven with the knowledge that life is brief.
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The immortal goddess saw that she was beaten.
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She snarled.
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She grabbed the shuttle from her tapestry and struck Arachne on the forehead three, four times over.
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Arachne moaned.
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She put her hands to her face.
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Her hair fell out.
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Her nose and ears fell to the floor.
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Her head shrank to the size of one black poppy seed,
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her body to the size of one black peppercorn.
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Her eight nimble fingers became legs that clung to her sides and she scuttled into the shadows and safety.
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Owl-eyed Athene ripped the woman’s tapestry into bright ribbons.
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She flew out of the cottage and up to the high slopes of Mount Olympus.
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But that night another rumour came drifting into her ears,
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a rumour from the village of Hypaepa,
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a rumour of spinning and weaving.
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The goddess’ forehead furrowed into a frown and the next morning,
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as the dawn took her golden throne,
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she swooped down out of the sky to the kingdom of Lydia.
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She made her way to the cottage of Arachne.
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She peered through the window.
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The place was empty,
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and that was as it should be.
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But then, out of the corner of her eye,
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she saw something moving under the eaves of the roof.
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She turned and looked.
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And there she saw a creature,
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a tiny eight-legged creature drawing the final thread across a piece of weaving so beautiful,
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so intricately delicate that the goddess could only gasp in astonishment and admiration.
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The tiny creature was spinning a gossamer thread from her own belly and making a masterpiece.
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A spider’s web, the very first,
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and it was hanging with drops of dew in the light of the dawn as though it had been threaded with silver tears.