The Syntax of Silk

In the small hours of the morning, I forage, taking care to nibble leaves both fibrous and tender, for the stories of a world are woven not only from what is young, what is hopeful, or what is easy. When the sun is high, and the air is thick and hot with blossoms, I retreat to my well-camouflaged habitat and extrude. My clumsy fingers, far less dexterous than the inhabitants’ claws, work the lustrous strand and experiment with braids and knots.

My colleagues are correct. The task is impossible. But why not this world? Why not this people? Strangeness is no reason to stand aside and let them be forgotten. I know I’ve poisoned myself; I may be as doomed as they are. But every night, I choose to stay, and on no cloudless, perfumed morning do I regret it. Never before have I encountered a world where wisdom resides in youth.

***

My first day on this planet I came across what I knew in my soul were books, each of them tucked into a tree bole or the crotch of a branch. But I failed to see them for all that they were. Instead, I confused these enormous, multicolored egg-shaped arrangements of fibers for mere artifacts and, investigating, soon found I’d opened a cocoon before its time. An adult so large it could not have fit inside my ship alighted beside me and folded its wings, mesmerizingly patterned in brown and grey, but instead of putting me to the end I deserved, stood by and watched as a half-formed thing emerged, flightless, an abomination. Together, we bore witness until it died.

After that, I tried to keep my distance from the larvae, but before long, curiosity got the better of me. I sat and watched the monstrous segmented worm-children, imitated the clicks of their mandibles. They showed neither fear nor interest. I cannot say I was free from fear myself, but I watched the larvae spin and weave their lives’ work. Adults cast wide shadows from the spaces in-between the higher branches, but despite my one terrible mistake, they let me be. It was difficult not to touch the larvae’s iridescent strands of violet, fiery red, and sunset pink, but by then, I knew better.

***

Imagine my surprise when the first thread dripped from my rectum. Extrusion is less uncomfortable than you might think, not unlike excretion, which can, of course, be welcome. My threads are not as strong or smooth as the threads of my young mentors; they are certainly less beautiful. But no copy is ever perfect, and I will spin the story of this place as best I can.

I will not weave my own cocoon on stem or branch but on the cold contours of my ship’s interior. And when I emerge from my masterwork on the world that is my home, I will not be the creature I am now. Will I crawl forth, unfurling wet wings stamped with the unblinking eyes of my deepest fear? Perhaps. For now, I extrude, and I meditate on what I know, which is that the people of this world have shown me a grace I do not deserve. And I will give them everything I have, in memory of the child whose strand I broke.

Originally published in the Librarian Card Catalog project from Air and Nothingness Press.