This is a retelling of the Arachne Greek myth. She's not as stuck up in my version; rather, she's quite sentimental. In fact, this story tends to border on the sappy side. The weaving scenes also tend to get really boring if you hate descriptions. I'm very descriptive, but I tried to restrain myself. This is my first story on FanFic.
I wrote this story because:
I am addicted to Greek Myths
I hated how Arachne was always portrayed as a stupid, proud, stuck-up girl
WHERE WAS THE MOTHER IN THE STORY?
WHO DID SHE LEARN TO WEAVE FROM?
If she weaved so well, isn't she supposed to be RICH??
And I always did blame the Father
If you don't know the Arachne story already, this might get boring.
Last notes: M Word doesn't work right now, so I can't do italics. Anything in astericks are supposed to be in italics.
Spell and grammar check also don't work. Live with it.
And the last note of all--review.
Enjoy!
The Weaver
Chapter One~Mother
I learned the threads from my mother. Sweet, quiet Mother, who was fair skinned as death, taught me the loom, the wheel, the comfort of the fabrics. Mother was the plainest and quietest woman in Lydia, where we are famous for our purple dyes, but her weavings were wonderful. Before I could even walk, Mother began teaching me of threads. I was also plain and very shy. Like two peas in a pod, Mother and I were.
First, of course, I learned to spin. Father brought in the dyed wool every evening, and the next day it was my duty to spin it. I kicked the wheel into action and was soothed by the whir whir whir that it made. Slowly, the wool turned into threads. At first, my threads were lumpy and thick. Mother laughed and stood from her loom.
"No, Arachne, it is not so," she said softly, settling onto my stool. Her long white fingers handled the wool expertly. She spun the wheel and pinched the thread to make it thinner. I stood watching, trying to memorize all of her movements. Quickly Mother worked, and it was only a few moments that she had transformed a few handfuls of wool into thin, sturdy threads. Mother smiled and rose from the stool. Sitting in her place, I attempted to mimic her movements.
My hands grabbed more wool and threaded it into the wheel. I pinched the thread as Mother had, and I worked the wheel as I had seen her do. My threads were still thicker than Mother's, but those few moments of instruction had brought me great improvement. Looking up, I saw her beam at me.
Continuing to spin, Mother would weave at her loom. She was shorter than all the other village women, small and timid. Her fine blond hair was neatly placed into a simple knot at the base of her neck. Mother did not care for fanciness. Her fair-colored hands danced as they shifted threads to create vivid scenes. The two of us sat in loving silence.
At midday, I would have finished with my spinning. Then, Father would come home for a light meal. Always, we ate with the quickest speed, so that we might hurry on with our duties. Father had only ever spoken a handful of courteous words to me. To Mother, he also said little. He swallowed all of his food and gave us both forced smiles. Then, he was gone to dye more wool. I barely knew any more of my father than his physical features. Father was stout and wide, with a balding head of dark brown hair. Dark hazel marked his eyes and creases of work crossed his round face. Of his voice, all I knew was that it was loud and deeper than Mother's.
After the meal, Mother pulled me onto her lap and we fingered her progress with the loom. She held my hand and ran it over the soft fabric.
"See, Arachne?" she whispered. "Think that you may do this one day?"
Closing my eyes, I envisioned myself, sitting in Mother's place, my own white hands moving to the same dance her's always had. It was not hard to imagine, since I watched Mother every day.
I offered Mother a warm smile and nodded. She wrapped me in her arms and kissed my forehead. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the scent of her--died wool, damp earth, and faint traces of olive oil. I knew the scent better than any in the world.
"Arachne, one day I will let you try. For now, just watch and learn."
I nodded and looked into her pale blue eyes, mirrors of my own.
"I will, Mother. I will be the best weaver Greece has ever known!" I whispered fiercely. Mother frowned at me, and I bowed my head. "Well, one of the best mortal weavers," I added.
Mother pushed aside a loose lock of hair.
"Yes, Arachne. Never anger the gods," she warned.
I traced the wood of her loom, smooth and strong, and I nodded. Mother hugged me again.
"If you don't, I shall never see you weave. I want to see you weave, Arachne."
"You will see me weave, Mother. I promise you," I answered, rising. "Now, we have work that must be done."
The next winter, Mother died in childbirth, taking my baby brother with her to Tarturus. She never lived to see me weave.
When she died, I was only seven. She had not yet taught me to weave. I cried for days as I struggled to carry out both her chores as well as mine. Father spoke with me for the first time.
"Arachne, stop. I will miss her too, but there is work to be done. I will take a few of her chores--you must learn to weave. Weave as your mother did. Perhaps you can weave even better. You must try, Arachne," he commanded.
I sobbed and refused to look at him. *You don't miss her like I do*, I thought. *You don't know her like I do. You don't care as much as I do.*
Father placed a firm hand on my shoulder and shook me. Looking up at him through blurry eyes, I saw shame and impatience in his eyes. Springing to my feet, I bowed my head to him.
"Yes, Father. I will learn to weave," I said, trying to keep the grief from my voice. Keeping my eyes on my tiny feet, I shuffled toward Mother's loom. Since she had died, I had refused to go near it. I refused even to touch wool. Now I walked to the loom. It looked the same as it always had--beautiful wood tinged red with small carved designs. I traced one of the designs, a sun among clouds. It was Mother's favorite carving in the loom, run even smoother because she always rubbed it. My eyes fell down to the spokes and the threads. Another tear dropped.
"It was her dowry, when we married," Father said gruffly. "It is old, but it works. Take care of it. Use it well."
I heard him leave, the door close behind him. No, I didn't want to weave. Weaving was what Mother did. I was just little Arachne. I did not weave.
Then, I caught a whiff of the loom and my heart stopped. Closing my eyes, I could almost *feel* Mother next to me. The loom smelled like my mother--earthy and sweet. Slowly, I lowered myself onto the dirt ground. There. I could almost sense her now, beside me. Extending one arm, I felt the threads and rememberd words she had said to me, words I had said in return.
*I want you to weave, Arachne*
My eyes flew open in shock. Startled, I looked around. I could have sworn that Mother had spoken to me!
There was nobody there. I waited to hear the voice again. All I heard were the birds outside. The phantom voice didn't speak to me again, but it roused emotions and memories from me. I heard myself speak, as I had half a year ago.
*I will be the best weaver Greece has ever known!*
"I will, Mother," I whispered aloud. "I will weave for you."
A warm sensation filled me, and I nearly cried out. It was as if Mother was holding me in her arms yet again. I stood up as quickly as I could.
"I swear it, Mother! I swear it!"
Then, the warm feeling left me and instantly I longed for its return. Now I was truly alone in the world, save for a Father I did not know. All I had left of Mother was weaving. So I taught myself to weave.
I wrote this story because:
I am addicted to Greek Myths
I hated how Arachne was always portrayed as a stupid, proud, stuck-up girl
WHERE WAS THE MOTHER IN THE STORY?
WHO DID SHE LEARN TO WEAVE FROM?
If she weaved so well, isn't she supposed to be RICH??
And I always did blame the Father
If you don't know the Arachne story already, this might get boring.
Last notes: M Word doesn't work right now, so I can't do italics. Anything in astericks are supposed to be in italics.
Spell and grammar check also don't work. Live with it.
And the last note of all--review.
Enjoy!
The Weaver
Chapter One~Mother
I learned the threads from my mother. Sweet, quiet Mother, who was fair skinned as death, taught me the loom, the wheel, the comfort of the fabrics. Mother was the plainest and quietest woman in Lydia, where we are famous for our purple dyes, but her weavings were wonderful. Before I could even walk, Mother began teaching me of threads. I was also plain and very shy. Like two peas in a pod, Mother and I were.
First, of course, I learned to spin. Father brought in the dyed wool every evening, and the next day it was my duty to spin it. I kicked the wheel into action and was soothed by the whir whir whir that it made. Slowly, the wool turned into threads. At first, my threads were lumpy and thick. Mother laughed and stood from her loom.
"No, Arachne, it is not so," she said softly, settling onto my stool. Her long white fingers handled the wool expertly. She spun the wheel and pinched the thread to make it thinner. I stood watching, trying to memorize all of her movements. Quickly Mother worked, and it was only a few moments that she had transformed a few handfuls of wool into thin, sturdy threads. Mother smiled and rose from the stool. Sitting in her place, I attempted to mimic her movements.
My hands grabbed more wool and threaded it into the wheel. I pinched the thread as Mother had, and I worked the wheel as I had seen her do. My threads were still thicker than Mother's, but those few moments of instruction had brought me great improvement. Looking up, I saw her beam at me.
Continuing to spin, Mother would weave at her loom. She was shorter than all the other village women, small and timid. Her fine blond hair was neatly placed into a simple knot at the base of her neck. Mother did not care for fanciness. Her fair-colored hands danced as they shifted threads to create vivid scenes. The two of us sat in loving silence.
At midday, I would have finished with my spinning. Then, Father would come home for a light meal. Always, we ate with the quickest speed, so that we might hurry on with our duties. Father had only ever spoken a handful of courteous words to me. To Mother, he also said little. He swallowed all of his food and gave us both forced smiles. Then, he was gone to dye more wool. I barely knew any more of my father than his physical features. Father was stout and wide, with a balding head of dark brown hair. Dark hazel marked his eyes and creases of work crossed his round face. Of his voice, all I knew was that it was loud and deeper than Mother's.
After the meal, Mother pulled me onto her lap and we fingered her progress with the loom. She held my hand and ran it over the soft fabric.
"See, Arachne?" she whispered. "Think that you may do this one day?"
Closing my eyes, I envisioned myself, sitting in Mother's place, my own white hands moving to the same dance her's always had. It was not hard to imagine, since I watched Mother every day.
I offered Mother a warm smile and nodded. She wrapped me in her arms and kissed my forehead. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the scent of her--died wool, damp earth, and faint traces of olive oil. I knew the scent better than any in the world.
"Arachne, one day I will let you try. For now, just watch and learn."
I nodded and looked into her pale blue eyes, mirrors of my own.
"I will, Mother. I will be the best weaver Greece has ever known!" I whispered fiercely. Mother frowned at me, and I bowed my head. "Well, one of the best mortal weavers," I added.
Mother pushed aside a loose lock of hair.
"Yes, Arachne. Never anger the gods," she warned.
I traced the wood of her loom, smooth and strong, and I nodded. Mother hugged me again.
"If you don't, I shall never see you weave. I want to see you weave, Arachne."
"You will see me weave, Mother. I promise you," I answered, rising. "Now, we have work that must be done."
The next winter, Mother died in childbirth, taking my baby brother with her to Tarturus. She never lived to see me weave.
When she died, I was only seven. She had not yet taught me to weave. I cried for days as I struggled to carry out both her chores as well as mine. Father spoke with me for the first time.
"Arachne, stop. I will miss her too, but there is work to be done. I will take a few of her chores--you must learn to weave. Weave as your mother did. Perhaps you can weave even better. You must try, Arachne," he commanded.
I sobbed and refused to look at him. *You don't miss her like I do*, I thought. *You don't know her like I do. You don't care as much as I do.*
Father placed a firm hand on my shoulder and shook me. Looking up at him through blurry eyes, I saw shame and impatience in his eyes. Springing to my feet, I bowed my head to him.
"Yes, Father. I will learn to weave," I said, trying to keep the grief from my voice. Keeping my eyes on my tiny feet, I shuffled toward Mother's loom. Since she had died, I had refused to go near it. I refused even to touch wool. Now I walked to the loom. It looked the same as it always had--beautiful wood tinged red with small carved designs. I traced one of the designs, a sun among clouds. It was Mother's favorite carving in the loom, run even smoother because she always rubbed it. My eyes fell down to the spokes and the threads. Another tear dropped.
"It was her dowry, when we married," Father said gruffly. "It is old, but it works. Take care of it. Use it well."
I heard him leave, the door close behind him. No, I didn't want to weave. Weaving was what Mother did. I was just little Arachne. I did not weave.
Then, I caught a whiff of the loom and my heart stopped. Closing my eyes, I could almost *feel* Mother next to me. The loom smelled like my mother--earthy and sweet. Slowly, I lowered myself onto the dirt ground. There. I could almost sense her now, beside me. Extending one arm, I felt the threads and rememberd words she had said to me, words I had said in return.
*I want you to weave, Arachne*
My eyes flew open in shock. Startled, I looked around. I could have sworn that Mother had spoken to me!
There was nobody there. I waited to hear the voice again. All I heard were the birds outside. The phantom voice didn't speak to me again, but it roused emotions and memories from me. I heard myself speak, as I had half a year ago.
*I will be the best weaver Greece has ever known!*
"I will, Mother," I whispered aloud. "I will weave for you."
A warm sensation filled me, and I nearly cried out. It was as if Mother was holding me in her arms yet again. I stood up as quickly as I could.
"I swear it, Mother! I swear it!"
Then, the warm feeling left me and instantly I longed for its return. Now I was truly alone in the world, save for a Father I did not know. All I had left of Mother was weaving. So I taught myself to weave.