Zealots of an Araneae Order

Art by Ian Piexoto - 2024

The Stone came from the heavens.

Great Hands From Above placed The Stone, three stones away from their own nest. Their reach pierced the veil between the dirt-rooted creatures and their world above. Their intervention marked a change, as it always does. Yet, The Hands rarely knew of what change their otherworldly intervention brought to the root world below.

Upon the dirt, the arachnid zealots watched in awe.

Their legs scampered away as it was placed, but reapproached as soon as it had settled. Many eyes watched, blinked, and stared at The Stone. The scampering stilled, tiny heart beating fast to a song with no melody, just rhythm. A pulsing rhythm rippled through the arachnid gathering, an anticipation for the history yet to unravel.

Many stones had been placed in their territory, great boulders and mountains protruding from the ruddy soil. The spiders’ routine was never shattered by the placement of any of those dull, gray, stones. They felt lifeless, simply an obstruction to the horizon and nothing more than a backdrop to the arachnid routine. Those stones did not stand out, they did not shine, they did not bring with it that pulsing rhythm of heartbeat anticipation.

But this rock, The Stone, there was something to its silence that felt different.

The Stone extended from the ground only an inch or so, set snuggly into the rust-colored dirt. It beckoned the zealots forward with its color: a green-blue speckle that danced across the stone’s surface in a great swamp of colors. It’s as if it’d been splattered in paints made of seafoam and undergrowth.

Then, the spiders noticed something beneath its surface.

In the light, the stone sparkled, a crystalline glint hiding amongst the verdant blue. It glowed. An opulent curtain appeared to drape across its surface, and its luminescence reflected in the eyes of the zealots. What became a cautious watch became a reverent stare. They were entranced, drawn in closer and closer to the stone until they were at its side, close enough to reach out and touch it. 

Moving around the stone, they discovered its last secret: a creme-colored marking fused to its underside. Turquoise splotches on the markings evoked runes or etchings, perhaps from the creatures who had found the stone long ago. It seemed to hold the life essence of the seafoam and undergrowth paints that had first drawn them in.

The arachnids would always weave meaning into their webs and nests, each one sewn with unique patterns and designs. Meaning is always woven with intention. The Stone’s arrival would be no different. It must have an intention. It must have a meaning.

What crystalline thoughts did the stone possess?

As their gaze remained fixed upon the stone, they expected it to move. Its color was one of life. Yet, it remained still. It did not move, it did not speak. The stillness was as entrancing as the color. The zealots waited for it to speak, hanging upon its every potential word.

Nothing came. No sound. No move. So, the arachnids moved instead.

They danced around The Stone, creating entrancing patterns with their many appendages. They circled it, spiraled around it in an endless, Araneae order. The spiders’ silence mixed in with The Stone’s own humble quietude. The sunlight on its surface turned to moonlight. Its glint brightened as night allowed it to contrast the dark.

And as the night came, the threads came with it. The Stone became their idol.

Spidery silk draped over the stone, offerings of service and art. The milky white strings wrapped around in the same circles and spirals as their dance. They weaved to the stone’s heartbeat song, hymns to an unmoving god. The cloth of their organs draped over their new savior from above.

When the weaving was done, the spiders retreated for a moment. The clamor on the stone’s sparkling surface slowed, and they took a moment to admire their offerings. Dewdrops formed on their silk, adding another layer to The Stone’s sparkle.

They felt the stone was pleased.

Its arrival to their soil no longer felt like a chance encounter. It was now a blessing of purpose. They placed this intention and meaning upon The Stone, sacrificed along with their silk and song. The Stone’s presence had brought the arachnids together. No longer a loose coalition of solitary hunters and web-weavers, they were now a community. And it all centered around The Stone.

The next days were a race of rituals. Offerings of more than silk were given to The Stone as leaves and smaller pebbles were brought before their idol. They paled in comparison to their idol’s majesty.

Several spiders banded together to carry a great twig, nearly a hundred times their own weight, to the glistening stone as a sign of their undying protection to its majesty. The twig was wrapped in threads and heaved onto their back by the stronger eight-legged warriors they could find. They leaned it against the stone as its final resting place, a bridge allowing for all arachnids to make pilgrimage to its peaks. The spiders became known as the Twigbringers, a title alluding to their feat of strength. The stone, it seemed, brought them power.

A queen arose amidst the web-weaving worship. The greatest artisan of them all, secreting silk more beautiful and pure than moonlight itself. She took her place on the top of The Stone. The Twigbringers became her loyal guard, protecting the stone and her rule with honor and loyalty. The queen cast judgment upon her subjects, citing The Stone as her divine source of wisdom and sagacity.

The spiders respected her rule, but the stone’s silence grew colder. Some of the priests who had arisen from the new queenship felt this shift, yet they didn’t dare disseminate this knowledge to their people. The Stone had made them strong. There was no reason to doubt its rule. By extension, the queen was the hand of The Stone; everything she did was at its silent request.

Nearby dirt-dwellers began to hear word of this Stone. Some made their own pilgrimage to the arachnids’ nest to behold its glory for themselves. Others turned away from it, fearing its influence and word.

Could wisdom really be born from silence?

Was the queen the voice of the stone or was the stone the voice of the queen?

For who does her judgment obey? 

Doubters received quick retribution. The queen’s rule expanded and those who did not obey the silent word were forced to offer their lives to it. Lives were snuffed upon its stony surface, spineless and yellow blood staining its blue-green surface. Its color of life was now tainted by the paints of death.

Priests, at the behest of the queen, began to interpret the turquoise markings upon The Stone’s pure, white splotch. They interpreted the stone’s silence, and meaning was given to the meaningless. The markings became runes through this silent association. Thus, the queen’s power grew. Interpretation was at her whims.

Intention was a weapon she could harness, deriving it from the meaning she’d place upon the stone herself. Her word became The Word, her rule would become The Rule, and The Stone would become her stone.

The Twigbringers sensed the queen’s true motive. She did not embrace their idol, she saw herself above it. By interpreting the runes, she placed her own word above The Stone’s. She did not seek faith, nor did she seek enlightenment--she only sought power. The Twigbringers would not bow to a faithless queen.

War erupted in the Araneae order. The Twigbringers launched an attack against the queenship and her forces. The kingdom’s great webs of defense crumbled as the eight-legged warriors tore through their weavings. The Stone watched as its zealots battled across its surface, millions of legs crawling and clawing for dominance.

And The Stone began to crumble with the webs.

Appendages and hubris caused the stone to deteriorate. What was once the foundation for an entire kingdom began to erode. The spiders’ legs scraped at its surface: coxa, trochanter, femur, patella, tibia, metatarsus, tarsus… An endless clamor to reach its peak. It wasn’t until the glint dimmed, its green faded, and its runes disappeared that they sensed this shift.

The Stone was angry, and so began their retribution.

Drums from the clouds thundered in a storm’s swift arrival. The heartbeat rhythm turned into a march of desolation. The skies darkened and winds whistled through the stalks of grass. Lightning flashed in The Stone’s remaining glint, an anger stretching across its surface in a faceless fury. Water poured from the skies, each droplet smelling of lightning and vengeance. The rust-colored soil succumbed to the rainfall, now a churning muck sent to cast away those who had wronged the stone. There was no questioning the storm’s meaning.

The zealots cowered, trembled, and prayed in fear. The storm was their predator now, and they were caught in its thundering web. A single drop was enough to crush the strongest warrior, breaking its back with the sheer force of its fall and washing away its mangled corpse.

While The Stone was once their protection, their war had chipped away at its outcroppings of safety. There was no more cover, no more safety from their idol. Their stone and silk fell victim to the forces to their ambitions, and now they faced the consequences.

Like their idol, retribution came from the heavens.

The storm slowed. The rain’s rhythm steadied from a march to a meandering waltz. The remaining raindrops settled on leaves and grass, a speckling of dew spreading across the territory. The sun parted the curtains of clouds, its face looking down upon the destruction with a bright smile. Its light refracted in the dewy remnants of rain, glinting almost as bright as The Stone.

And upon the stone laid the many bodies of the spiders. Their eight legs bent in every which way, their eyes glazed over into a lifeless stare. Hundreds of the arachnid warriors laid washed and wasted, their corpses crisping in the post-storm sunlight.

The remaining zealots remained hidden, watching the carcesses dry up upon the stone. Yellow ichor and brown chitin splattered across its surface. Not even the rain could wash away its stains.

It was a considerable amount of time before the arachnids began to scuttle out from their shelter. They didn’t move towards the stone. Perhaps they feared it or perhaps they had learned their lesson. Its power and allure was tainted by the dead. Their delusions had diluted. Their community had washed away.

It was time to start anew.

So, beyond The Stone they would settle. Silk stretched between the low-growing flora, nests tucked into the smaller pebbles and the bases of nearby tree roots. They refused to climb any higher. The spiders no longer looked above their soil. It was a time of grounded rebirth, a period of peace.

Despite the stone’s abandonment, something from their idol still carried with them. Its contemplative silence was woven tightly amongst the threads of their webs. There was no doubt now that wisdom came from this silence, that the power hungry squabbles upon the stone had disrupted its slumber and released all of the fury it contained. Some things were best left to slumber.

The spiders worked with their silk through endless cycles of day and night. Their idol became legend and their wars became history. Their order entered a new era.

That is, until history’s spiral circled back.

Hands From Above pierced the veil once again, their strange limbs reaching towards the dirt-root to place down another stone. Their eight-eyes stared.

Weaving legs moved to The Stone’s entrancing silence, their heartbeat rhythm returned, and the zealot’s cycle began anew.