An Old Spider Tale from Romanian Folklore

Discover this October an old spider tale from Romanian folklore that crawled here from an ancient book by Tudor Pamfile, a 19th-century Romanian writer and folklorist.

An Old Spider Tale from Romanian Folklore

It was autumn. The last of the golden leaves had found their restful place on earth and only a few red ones still hung in the trees. Remainders of a lost summer. With most branches bare, like gnarling fingers reaching for a cold sky, the spider was hard at work.

And so were the women, knitting thick, rough thread out of hemp. Clothing for winter, new shirts for New Year’s Day (the way tradition called for), and grateful for their warmth. Amongst them, and hard to tell apart, Our Lady. Her shoulders stooped from the long hours of spinning and knitting, her eyes blinking more often over tired, teary eyes. Fingers cramped, now and then, but the spinning never stopped. How could it, when the work was not done?

Along the hemp thread, thick and rough, crawled a spider. It came fast, now it wasn’t, now it was and close to Our Lady’s finger.

“I can spin a thinner thread,” said the arachnid in a thin voice, almost like a screech.

 Our Lady smiled, holding her breath for a moment there. She loved all creatures, but the spider, so quiet and skilled in sudden appearances, not so much.

“And if you don’t?” she said quietly, lowering her hand so the spider would get off and she be able to go on with her work. Lips could move, but so the hands ought to.

“If my thread is not thinner than yours, and lacier, then you shall set my web on fire,” the spider declared, and loud. Brave. Outside, a dog cocked his head. Inside, a log fell among flames. Whoosh, they spoke flames and fumes reaching for the higher ground. A woman crossed herself. Our Lady nodded, to herself.

“…and kill me,” added the spider.

How could she? She knew, in her heart, that she would not. Yet she agreed.

Time passed, more leaves found the peace of the ground, and the bears made it for their winter dens. Sun teased some shade, from behind the clouds, and a babe was born too, on a Sunday, the sign of great happiness for he shall be joyful.

Then the spider returned. Empty-handed. His web, in a tree. In the forest. Among beasts.

Our Lady closed the work on her sleeve, cut the thread, then set her spindle aside, and stood, slowly; her knees were aching, and her back too, but she’d promised. She followed the spider. And her breath, as she entered the forest pulling her shawl closer to her frail body. She admired his intricate work. Fine weaving indeed. She wouldn’t have expected anything less from the spider.

“True work. You win,” and before she was even back by the fire, her spindles were burning, crackling in the flames, the discreet scent of oak spreading, like an invisible net, over the small room.

“Why,” screeched the spider suddenly sorry for his doing, “why you let me burn your spindles?”

Eyes cast into the flames, but seeing something else, above them, and further into the life of a spider, Our Lady said, “your web might be thinner, and fancier, your work more intricate, but still where no one lives you shall cast it; and, still, none will love it and wish to adorn themselves with it. While my hemp, rough as it may be,  will always be thought after, born from this earth, spun with honest hands, and for everyone in need.

From that day the spider was avoided, to say the least, while the hemp was planted everywhere.

Copyright © Patricia Furstenberg. All Rights Reserved.

I hope you enjoyed my retelling.

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