The hemp was rough and scratched her throat as Mary slid the noose down into place. She closed her eyes and stood there for a moment with her white linen dress, beautiful as a bride, and her rosary wrapped tightly around her wrist. She took a large, deeper breath catching the strong scent of apple blossoms from the branch above her and the dry heat of midsummer that made the air in the distance shimmer like something from a dream. With that final breath she felt the tears begin to slide down her brown cheeks and then Mary kicked the three-legged stool out from under herself.
Darkness.
Mary awoke with a jolt, heart pounding so hard she feared it would burst.
It amazed her that the dream still had the ability to affect her so. Since February the same exact scene had played itself out in her slumbering mind. Each night, always the same dream, ever since she woke that one morning back in February to find her arm swollen, feverish and throbbing from some sort of bite.
All these months later she clearly remembered the dream she had been having when the bite woke her up.
She was nude and spread on a tigerskin rug with her hair, golden as the sun, loose and fanning out behind her. She was holding a bunch of ripe, juicy grapes to her chest. The skin of the grapes was warm against her own and throbbed with vegetal life. She found herself slipping deeper into a languid bliss that made forming thoughts difficult and words impossible. And she wanted to be taken even deeper but from a distance she heard the plaintive cries of a dog mourning its kind master and Mary, too, began to weep.
She knew the details well because that was the last thing she dreamed before the bite. Since then every night brought her back to the tree, reliving that terrible moment over and over again.
She did not react well to the bite — it grew inflamed from infection and her limbs became stiff like those of a wooden doll and even when she clamped her eyes shut the world spun dizzyingly around her. It got so bad that she feared for her life and sought medical attention. There were able to treat the physical symptoms so that by midsummer there was only a faint white scar to remember the bite by. The nausea and vertigo also diminished and she regained use of her limbs. But the bite had changed Mary in ways far beyond the monotony of her dreams.
Mary hungered tremendously, no matter what great lengths she went to satisfy her carnal appetites. Often she could think of little else and was in danger of losing her job and alienating all of her friends and family. She knew that she should be troubled by this but just couldn’t force herself to care enough to do anything about it. When she was unable to get out of such social obligations she was always sullen and withdrawn, everything they said or did grating on her nerves. All she wanted was to be left alone to wander among the woods and bathe herself in frigid streams. Sometimes the need to be wild and free of the oppressive presence of others grew so great that her hand would tremble and her feet begin to stamp out a rhythm only she could hear. Often the agitation was so extreme that Mary had to be physically restrained, bound to her bed. She would open her legs invitingly and toss her head side to side, gnashing her teeth savagely until they stuffed a rag in her mouth so that she did not accidentally — or as they feared, intentionally — bite through her tongue. When she was in such a fit the only thing to be done was to wait it out and hope that her wits would return to her. Then, utterly exhausted, she would slip into a restless slumber and dream of the tree once more.
One day a stranger came to her remote village, a doctor from Germany who was making a pilgrimage through the south of Italy to visit an ancient shrine famed for its healing. The doctor was a very learned and widely traveled man; he had seen much in his time and instantly recognized from its symptoms the affliction of poor Mary.
Although he had only been witness to the therapeutic cure he was confident that he could oversee the ceremony himself. So with the permission of Mary’s parents who had run out of options and were considering sending their daughter to the asylum run by the Good Sisters as a final resort, the doctor performed a series of tests on the girl to diagnose her affinities and antipathies. Then with this information in hand he began to weave together the ritual exorcism of the spider.
First he had Mary’s parents bathe the girl in the river and dress her all in white with a crown of ivy adorning her head of long black hair, dark as a raven’s wing. Then he had them lead her into a room that he had specially prepared for her.
The room was small and cramped, with people lining the walls to watch, which made the air hot as the gusts from a furnace. A circle had been made in the middle of the room, giving her plenty of space to move around in. The floor was littered with greenery which she immediately stooped down to fondle, absorbed in the tactile sensation. From the rafters hung streamers of brightly colored fabrics, carefully chosen based on her earlier reactions to the colors. There was a mirror, a ball of yarn, a framed picture of Saint Paul holding snakes in his hands and various other objects that the doctor had ordered the family to collect, even if they had to beg the items from their neighbors. No one understood what their use and meaning were and the doctor refused to elaborate.
Much of the space in the room was taken up by a band of local youths nervously adjusting their instruments. Their leader, on account of his age, was an apprentice to the barber and was tuning his violin. Mary sat enraptured watching him, a strand of ivy cradled in her lap. She was mesmerized by his facial hair — made even more noticeable by the fact that all of the others went clean-shaven or were too young to grow hair on their lips let alone their chins and cheeks. Mary longed to run her fingers through it for it seemed soft as a sheep’s coat. Before she had an opportunity to act on the impulse the doctor began reciting prayers in a clipped, bookish Latin made barbaric by his thick Rhenish accent. When he was finished he raised his hands in a gesture of benediction and commanded the boys to play in emphatic Italian.
At first their playing was clumsy and jarring and it sent a searing pain through Mary’s skull as if a fiery brand had been shoved through her eye socket. She screamed for them to stop and pounded her fists against the floor. Eventually Mary felt a rhythm take hold and her fists beat out a staccato pattern that found its way into the playing of the musicians. As they took up the rhythm and performed subtle variations on it Mary stopped hitting the ground and began swaying in place to the song. She was especially mesmerized by the violin of the bearded youth and grew more bold in her movement whenever he could be heard above the din of his companions. Noting the effect he was having on her he rose from his seat and began playing louder and faster. Mary got on all fours like an animal and rocked back and forth bobbing her head in sync with him. Then the concertina-player caught her attention and she leapt up to her feet and began stomping and growling, trying to goad him on, challenging him to take firmer control of her body through his music. Then she heard a boy on the other side of the room playing a piccolo and she rushed over to watch him closely. Then, suddenly, the whole band fascinated her and she was dancing wildly between them. Then she forget them entirely and there was only the dance which she lost herself in. She moved in ways her body never had before, violently graceful and grotesquely flexible. At one point she was thrashing her head with such vigor she was sure it would come loose and fly across the room — then she found herself supine on the floor, inching herself along like a creeping spider or slithering serpent. Then she was leaping about and laughing hysterically though she couldn’t have said why even if she still possessed the faculty of speech.
Hours passed, though it seemed like mere moments to Mary until she stopped dancing. Then the weight of fatigue dragged her down to the floor where she lay panting, chest heaving, hair plastered to her face by sweat, while the boys refreshed themselves with wine and bread and cheese. They offered some to her but she shook her head no and growled. She was too hungry for food. Her body ached for other nourishment.
Mary felt a hand on her knee, cold and hard like the wall of a cave. Though the touch was shocking, it felt good. Her flesh felt like it was on fire and the touch was soothing, calming and Mary opened her eyes to see who was leaning over her. It was the German doctor and he was grinning wolfishly down at her. Stray movement on the periphery of her vision caught her attention and confused her: there, across the room, talking to a boy with a tambourine, was the German doctor.
Then who was here with her?
The man’s features blurred so that he seemed to resemble both the doctor and Saint Paul, though the men looked nothing alike ordinarily. He grinned again and there was something ancient and savage and possessive in his eyes. A hunger that surpassed even her own shown through them. He was going to devour her like a horrible fat spider and she would not resist him. She wanted to be devoured by one like him and always had.
“My poison is in you.” He whispered, sliding his hand further down her bare thigh until it reached the place where her linen dress had bunched up. His fingers crawled beneath the fabric. “I claimed you with my bite. There is no escaping me so don’t even try. I am in you. You cannot flee from me any more than you could flee from yourself.”
His fingers found her opening and forced their way inside her roughly. She winced at the sudden, unexpected intrusion but put up no fight; Mary arched her hips to give him easier access.
From across the room the doctor watched her, concerned by the girl’s lewd display. What demonic insolence! To spread her legs and moan like a cheap whore with a room full of spectators — and in the presence of the image of the blessed Saint Paul no less! Something would have to be done about this.
To his eyes she was entirely alone.
“You are my wife now,” the man with the face of a saint said. “And I will have you whenever I want. As your dowry,” his fingers stopped moving within her. Fingers that felt like the thick, hairy, black legs of a spider. She closed her thighs to trap them there. “I will return your sanity.” He withdrew and rose to his feet. “But whenever I wish, no matter what is going on for you, you will dance for me.”
She could still feel the coldness of his touch inside her. She knew it would always be there. He had caught her in his web and it was good to be prey of a hunter such as him. With that realization Mary convulsed, her whole body spasming in the throes of grace and deliverance, which washed away all of her accumulated impurity. The doctor rushed over to the screaming girl, deeply concerned by her queer behavior. Once he had given her wine and managed to calm her down a bit, he said that they needed to resume the exorcism. Could she continue?
“I will dance for my taranta always,” she panted. And then the music started playing once more and Mary rose to her feet and danced until nightfall.
Tagged: christianity, dance, dionysos, erigone, italy, music, saint paul, spider
