Every day the spider sat on the side of the box, pretending to be a kanji. He tried his legs in different positions, looking over one of his joints at the kanji for water on the box next to him. He was about the same size, though he could never mimic the breaks in the brush strokes in the stylized calligraphy. He thought he would be more convincing, if only he were blue, still he was more graceful than most large arachnids, and the overall effect pleased him.
The woman peered in through the kitchen door every morning to ascertain his position. She was not fond of large, brown spiders, but this one was so courteous on the whole, and somehow rather elegant with his balletic poses. When she came down early in the morning the spider would hold perfectly still to allow her to admire him, then when she turned to put the kettle on the stove he would scurry into the space between boxes as if he were timid. He wasn’t, actually. He hid, chuckling to himself while she wondered where he’d gone. Eventually she located his hideout; after that, he took to disappearing for entire days at a time, which made her anxious.
“I like it better when I know where he is,” she’d say to any family member who would pay attention to her. No one else had seen him, so no one else was very interested. This was the spider’s doing, of course. From his vantage point—on and between boxes stored above the high kitchen cupboards—he could easily watch the family’s comings and goings. He knew their routines. He was active at night after the teenagers had gone to bed, and he waited for the woman, who came down first in the morning, to retire for the day.
It was a lovely house, and he congratulated himself on having hatched there. Nearly a hundred years old, it was replete with nooks and crannies for hiding. What had not been purposely created by the Victorian architect had been effected by years of earthquakes. A diverse insect community thrived in the cracks and between the walls. The spider was not a web-builder; he was of a hunting species. But it took very little effort for him to capture and consume a broad variety of delectable insect offerings. He was a bit of a gourmand.
It was chiefly this quality which allowed an uneasy alliance between himself and the mother of the family, for while she wouldn’t countenance the murder of a harmless creature, she certainly would not have objected to his relocation—if it hadn’t been for the roaches. The spider held up his end of the bargain admirably. Roaches were his preferred meal. Once he’d established residency in the kitchen, the woman hadn’t seen any roaches at all. It was gratifying to know that she valued his contribution to their domestic harmony.
He was about the size of the palm of her hand, perhaps slightly bigger. He wasn’t the largest hunting spider they’d found in the house, but he was certainly the most refined. The mother tolerated spiders in the house, so long as they remained downstairs and didn’t run around too much; this much the dogs had told him. She had become almost fond of this one, simply because of his deferential behavior: he never moved when she was looking, and he never appeared outside of his small domain.
It so happened that the spider was missed for an entire week. The housekeeper, who had eventually spied him once, between the boxes, supposed that he had moved on, but the mother suspected a different explanation. She could scarcely imagine a more comfortable home for him: the top of the cupboards was eight feet above the kitchen floor; the boxes were seldom disturbed. Old and imperfectly sealed, the house was vulnerable to insect incursions, especially as there was an abandoned house across the road and a garbage collection point just beyond the garage.
She was right in that, but what she failed to recognize was that the spider had done his job so well that the insect population had dwindled considerably. Though uncles and aunts and cousins arrived nightly, the kitchen had gained a rather gothic reputation; the society whispered of an unseen monster there that would eat little nymphs with no consideration for their youth and innocence. The kitchen was a nightmare realm where nothing crept, despite the plenteous crumbs.
Accustomed as he was to waiting—sometimes for days—between meals, the spider was not at first concerned. In the end, however, he was obliged to leave his comfortable home and forage for himself in the dark cracks and crevices of the old house. He went cautiously at first, overawed by the dark turnings obscuring his view. He knew too well what he might find lurking between the walls: a mukade—a centipede of the Scolopendra genus. They were tolerated nowhere, though they also ate insects, for they were vicious and venomous, and not a little ugly.
A distant cousin, a small orb-weaver fabled for her battle with one, had told him about it. It was a terrifying story; she had struggled for hours against a rather large one caught accidently in her web, knowing that a single mistake could be fatal. Fortunately, the centipede was caught hanging head end down, and the spider had crawled down to repeatedly sting its other end, retreating to a safe distance when it arched its back in an effort to capture her and draw her to its deadly, stinging front claws.
The spider had never tested himself against a mukade; he had not the competence to capture one in a web, and he doubted he would be a match for one here, in the darkness, with so little room to maneuver. Truth be told, he’d never even seen one. The first effete gejigeji he saw nearly scared him to death. The poor fellow was equally frightened; he doubted his mild venom would suffice against such a large and powerful spider. In the end, the two became quite friendly, their mutual terror establishing a precipitous intimacy between them.
“My unfortunate relation really only resembles me in that he is possessed of an unusual number of legs among arthropods,” the gejigeji said, sniffing a little.
“I must confess, I was quite surprised by your beauty,” the spider replied, aware of the slight implicit in his mistake. “I had always understood centipedes to be ugly.”
“And so they are,” the gejigeji assured him, “at least the dangerous ones. But our branch of the family is much more attractive.”
“You really must visit some time,” the spider said, affably. “I insist. We shan’t be troubled by the family, and I have a lovely view. It would be so pleasant to share it with someone.” The gejigeji was still somewhat intimidated by the spider’s size; the advantage seemed to be his. “Come now,” the spider pleaded, “I have never eaten a friend.” Persuaded by the spider’s courtesy and good breeding, the harmless centipede finally agreed. Before they parted, the gejigeji led him to a deserted spot where a deceased mukade lay peacefully decomposing.
“He’s not in the best shape,” the spider’s friend apologized, “but you can see his general appearance. Never give one of those a chance; they are remorseless hooligans.”
“Utterly hideous!” the spider exclaimed, repulsed.
“If anything,” the gejigeji muttered gloomily, “the appearance is less offensive post mortem.” He promised to visit soon, and went on his way.
The spider continued his search for prey. As occasionally happened, he fell into a dejected reverie about his lifestyle. Now, the rumors about the spider were not entirely untrue. He would, indeed, eat nymphs without scruple, for he only survived by his skill at the hunt. But as everyone knows, roaches are a dissolute bunch, given to every form of self-indulgence and debauchery, so calling their youth innocent wasn’t entirely accurate. Reflecting on his contribution to the eradication of noxious pests, his spirits lifted a bit. He never ate anyone who was truly useful. In any event, he simply had no choice. Health lay in accepting that which could not be changed.
At long last, the spider turned toward home. He might have to include eating tours such as this one in his plans for the future, but he was content for the time being. He had eaten a large variety and a vast quantity of arthropods of all shapes and sizes. Sated, he looked forward to returning to his more regular habits.
He was surprised to find that he was out of sorts his first morning back on the side of the box. Even the woman noticed it. He was somewhat comforted by the reestablishment of his own routine, but his life seemed lonely and drab after finding a friend in the gejigeji. He hoped eagerly for a visit in the near future.
It was with great joy that he welcomed his friend a few days later. The gejigeji had brought a small case of delicacies for the two to munch, while conversing in the pleasing intimacy of the space behind the boxes. After this delightful interlude, the two emerged to watch over the kitchen from their vantage point high above.
The visitor was somewhat alarmed by the two dogs sleeping on the floor, but the spider reassured him that they, too, were perfectly civilized; in fact, he had often been down to discuss the family with them of an evening. At first the black dog had shown some possible interest in ingesting him, but the white dog had talked him out of it. “Spiders are useful,” he’d told him, “he’ll keep the bugs out of our food.” He winked at the spider. “And they don’t taste good.”
In the end, it had been a profitable association. While the three of them could not truly be said to be friends—their experience and station in life so different—they were at least good neighbors. It was the white dog who had recommended that the spider display no obvious proclivity for exploration. “Stay in the kitchen,” he advised him. “They’ll leave you to your own pleasures if you do.”
On that first evening of the gejigeji’s visit, the spider called down to the dogs to introduce them to his new friend. The dogs acknowledged them cordially, wishing them a pleasant holiday, before slipping back to sleep on the soft towels spread for them on the kitchen floor. A long time later, in the early hours before dawn, the spider and the gejigeji were just beginning to be pleasantly tired and thinking of retiring behind the boxes for the day.
Suddenly the dogs jumped up and skittered across the room, their nails scratching against the floorboards. Their neighbors looked down from above the cupboards. It had happened at last: an enormous, vile mukade had sauntered into the kitchen, legs rippling alongside his armored back. He was at least fifteen centimeters long, with a black back, amber legs and red head. The dogs knew enough not to want to tangle with him!
The spider and the gejigeji scurried up onto the ceiling for a better view of what happened below. Sneering at the frightened terriers, the mukade slithered along the floor and started up the door to one of the lower cupboards, rasping imprecations under his breath.
“Philistine!” the spider muttered, appalled.
“He’ll want some water,” whispered the gejigeji to his trembling friend, “if he’s been traveling for any length of time at all.” Sure enough, the mukade found his way to the counter top where he disappeared under a wet rag, tossed aside after kitchen cleanup the night before.
“Oh, no!” the spider breathed, aghast.
“What is it?” the gejigeji asked him, barely audible.
The spider had felt the familiar vibration that signaled the arrival of the family’s mother for her morning cup of tea. The door to the hallway squeaked open, and the woman came into the room quietly, so as not to wake the family.
In real life, the spider reflected, danger does not approach in slow motion. The woman’s inexorable progress toward the tea cupboard, directly above the wet rag on the counter, would place her in the gravest of danger unless he could somehow stop her. She turned on the light in the range hood, and moved to stand before the counter. Already in harm’s way, she opened the cupboard and took down the tea tin and tea spoon, placing them on the counter between the stove and the sink. The spider thought he saw the cloth stir, ever so slightly, as if the mukade were readying himself for some unspeakable act. The terror of the four observers reached apogee; the gejigeji was utterly stupefied. The spider himself was temporarily paralyzed, though his mind raced.
Outside, the first weak rays of the dawn struggled against the darkness. Moving but slightly between the stove and the sink, the woman took the bright copper kettle from the range top. The spider watched spellbound as she swung it around in front of her; it shone with reflected light from the single bulb above the stove. She filled the kettle with water from the tap. She paused, then, and turned to wonder at the dogs, cowering against the cupboards at the far side of the room. In turning, she tipped the kettle to the point where water flowed from the spout. She extended her left hand toward the rag, no doubt intending to wipe up the spill.
There was no time to consider, no time to weigh the consequences; the spider simply had to act. He leapt from his position of safety on the ceiling onto the woman’s left hand.
Several things happened simultaneously: the woman screamed, and dropped the kettle on the counter. She shook her hand violently, but the spider needed no encouragement. He dropped, unhurt onto the counter and, heedless of tangling his eight, long legs, ran as he had never run, away from that place of evil. Over the counter and up the wall, across the underside of the cupboard, around the bottom edge and up the side: he whirled around, dreading what he should see.
The woman’s shriek had wakened her sleeping family. The spider heard the man’s weight hit the floor above, his alarm audible in thundering footfalls on the landing, and rushing down the stairs. He burst into the room just as the spider saw the mukade stagger out from under the kettle, which had landed in the middle of his jointed back while he lay in ambush under the rag. Instantly apprehending what must be done, the man dispatched the dazed aggressor with a sharp pair of kitchen scissors drawn from the knife rack at the back of the counter. The spider watched as he flicked segments of the vanquished mukade into the sink, cautious lest the head end, malignant even in defeat, succeed in delivering a painful sting.
The original threat removed, the spider trembled, fearing reprisal. He should conceal himself, but he could not move. He had no way of explaining his egregious breach of decorum. He had actually offended against the very person of his hostess!
“That’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen,” said the man. “Where did it come from that it startled you so badly?”
“It wasn’t the centipede,” his wife returned. “I didn’t even see it.” Her husband waited, and the woman continued. “It was the spider,” she explained, gesturing at the immobilized spider on the cupboard. “I spilled some water, and he jumped on my hand as I was reaching for the cloth to clean it up. The centipede must have been under the cloth.”
“So the spider did you a good turn?” Her husband smiled. He knew that she would see it this way, and he had an amused tenderness for her fancies.
“Yes,” she nodded. “I would have had a nasty surprise if I had picked up that rag!”
“I’ll make your tea,” her husband said, gallantly.
Ten minutes later, the couple talked quietly at the table, sipping their tea. The dogs were already asleep again; the white one sighed in deep relief and contentment.
“Such courage!” the gejigeji said to his friend, his admiration undisguised. “A mighty deed.”
“A beau geste, perhaps,” the spider replied, modestly. Drained by their exertions, the two retired behind the boxes for a well deserved rest.
The spider is now welcomed into the dining room and parlor. The woman beams at him whenever he appears, though, unsure of how to address an heroic arachnid, she rarely speaks to him. Rumors of his exploits have reached the insect community; the old roach people tell stories about him to their nymphs, who go in mortal terror of him. The occasional spider seeks him out to hear the tale; he has become a living legend.
The gejigeji never could bring himself to part from his friend. And so, on the spider’s next eating tour, the two of them collected the gejigeji’s belongings and set up housekeeping behind the boxes. They live there still, as I imagine they shall until the end of their long—and, we hope, peaceful—days.
Cast of characters:
The heroic spider: ashi daka gumo or high-legged spider; huntsman spider common in Japan.
The gejigeji: Scutigera coleoptrata or house centipede, generally considered harmless to human beings.
The mukade: Scolopendra subspinipes. The centipedes of the Scolopendra genus deliver a painful and potentially dangerous bite.
The man and woman: expatriates living in an old foreign section of Yokohama.
Images:
The spider: Nativeplants Botanical Garden, CC 4.0 (modified)
The house centipede: Public Domain