Once upon a time—  

No wait. 

I said, once upon a–  

Absolutely not. 

 ONCE UPON– 

I may have flunked out of narrator school but even I know no one cares about a story that starts with once upon a time. So. Sorry about that. Let’s start again.

In the valley between two enormous mountains, there was a town called Lydia, a town so miniscule that it was barely a pinpoint on a map. And yet, Lydia was famous for its beautiful and mysterious purple fabric, and every merchant who passed through spead the tale of it, somehow strong as steel but smooth as silk. Everyone wondered how the fabric gained its color, and only two people knew the secret.

A lovely nineteen year old girl named Arachne lived with her father in a small cottage in Lydia, and, when asked for the dyes, refused to give anything but the fabric. Every morning, Arachne would journey down to a secret grove of violets stuck on the side of one of the mountains and pick them, running back home to brew a new pot of dye so that they could continue to be the fabric’s only producers, and then sit at her loom in peace while her father sold it. 

Thousands lined up to buy it every day, but one morning everything changed. Arachne, after making the dye, had lost track of time and did not realize it was almost the hour when they usually sold the fabric. So as the first customers arrived, they became wonderstruck watching her at her loom, creating her unique designs in total unaware bliss. Before long, an enormous crowd had formed and Arachne was the talk of the tiny town.

News of her talent spread far and wide, and every new story added more to the mystery. Everyone could agree that she was beautiful, but no one could agree on what she looked like. She was quite tall and curvy, with brown curls reaching to the floor, one poet crooned. She was shorter than a young child, with red hair cut so short it could be a boy’s, a merchant argued. 

But her beauty wouldn’t matter; when it reached the gods that one of Arachne’s new slogans was bragging about how much better her work was then Athena’s, Athena was enraged. For weeks she plotted about how to get her revenge, but then she arrived at a brilliant idea: she would humiliate her, and best of all, prove her wrong.

Dressed as a teenage beggar, Athena arrived to see, much to her fury, that there was a small crowd gathered around Arachne’s loom. How dare she, she thought, after I’ve worked on my craft tirelessly for thousands of years. No one gathers at my loom. And then she caught a glance at the superstar. 

None of the poets had come close in their descriptions. Arachne was neither thin nor fat, neither brunette nor redheaded, neither exceedingly tall nor exceedingly tiny. Instead, she was average height, with black waves shinier than oil, eyes the color of a grassy meadow, and skin tanned from nearly two decades toiling in the sun. Her callused hands stroked the loom as she worked. Athena blinked. She had been steeling herself for anything. But not someone so…utterly ordinary.

Athena, still in her disguise, asked Arachne if the slogan was true. Arachne grinned at her, the kind of reckless grin that invites trouble, and much to Athena’s surprise, she found herself grinning back. 

“Well,” Arachne said, “I don’t know. Maybe she should come here and we’ll find out.” 

“Maybe she should,” Athena responded, raising an eyebrow..

“What’s your name, curious traveler?” There was that grin again. And Athena found that she understood the poets.

“Uh…” Athena scoured her mind for a name. This…was not going as she’d planned. Her eyes landed on the sprig of flowers haphazardly tucked behind Arachne’s left ear. “Lila.”

“Well, Lila,” Arachne replied, moving slightly aside on her bench. “Would you like to come here and find out?”

In the days that followed, Athena found herself visiting Arachne’s loom in her disguise every morning. Arachne was kind enough to attempt to teach her.

And then Athena found herself visiting Arachne’s loom in the afternoons too. 

And the evenings. 

And then before she knew it, months had passed. 

Athena learned much about Arachne. How really she was sick to shadows of violet purple and truly had a deep fondness for dandelion yellow (Athena preferred a calming royal blue), how she thought the best time of day was those fifteen or so minutes after the sun has fallen below the horizon and the sky is a soft gray (Athena preferred the sunrise), and, perhaps most uncomfortably, how Arachne’s pearl-black hair gained an auburn tinge when the sun hit it just right.

One day they were sitting in the dewy green meadow having an unimportant, meandering conversation about fabric choices when Athena thought to ask one of the most dangerous things you can ask someone: Why? She asked Arachne why she liked to wear her hair in braids, simply curious, as goddesses of wisdom are known to be.

Arachne frowned. “It’s a long story. I doubt you’d want to hear it.”

“We have time.” At that, her stomach twisted. She had time, forever in fact. But her companion did not.

Arachne sighed, leaned back in the grass, and began. Her mother had braided her hair every morning when she was a child, she said. Her mother was a weaver by choice, as well, but one day she forgot to uphold a promise made to the goddess of wisdom—”Athena”, Arachne hissed with scorn—and in revenge, the goddess had struck her with a horrible sickness. 

Arachne nursed her through it for two weeks, but to no avail. Since then, her promises to the gods were made through gritted teeth and barely restrained fury. 

Through it all, Athena remained silent, shamed for her past actions. Silently, she vowed to do better.

But one day while they sat at the loom and the crowd began to gather, Arachne was asked the same question again by a famous weaver. In response, she sat up a little straighter, as though a wire traveled from her toes to the crown of her head, and replied, “Well, I think so. And if she disagrees she should come here and we’ll find out.”

Athena, for all that the love between them meant to her, could not withstand this insult. In a blaze of fury, she revealed herself before the crowd, much to Arachne’s horror. Remembering the fate of her mother and all the others who had crossed Athena, Arachne threw herself on the floor and screamed her apologies. But Athena refused to listen, and demanded that they have a contest to determine, once and for all, who was truly the better weaver.

Athena spun like crystal webs woven from the sky, grasping clouds in her hands and turning them into spun silk. The crowd ooed and ahhed, turning their heads back and forth as though watching a tennis match between two so evenly talented that no one knew who would win. When Athena was done she smiled broadly and serenely, and took a gentle bow, standing in front of a golden scene of godly power.

But then she saw Arachne’s. The girl, unlike the goddess, was panting, her black hair falling in her face and her dress askew. So painfully human. And yet, she had created a work detailing every public failing of the gods, every thread a knife of fury that she had twisted into a tapestry. Zeus and his philadering. Hera and her jealousy. Ares and his bloodlust. And…Athena and her vindictiveness. It was exquisite. 

The anger boiled over. “How dare you!” Athena roared, shoving the loom onto the ground. Arachne, terrified, ran away into the meadow that had been her home for so long and hid amongst the trees. Athena, when she entered, saw a horrific sight: Arachne, hanging by her own lovely purple silk. She wept for her own viciousness at causing it, and, out of remorse, cast the spell to turn Arachne into a spider. Little did she know, it was only a trick of the mirrors, and the magic bounced back on her, turning Athena herself into the creature she dreaded.

Walking out of the grove, Arachne picked up the spider and let it lay on her shoulder. Knowing the magic could only be undone through forgiveness, the two of them made a deal, sealed with tearful apologies and an equally tearful kiss. 

Together, they crafted the story of Arachne, the ungrateful maiden turned into a spider, and Athena transformed back into herself, turning her friend into a majestic bird that would sit upon her own shoulder always, ready to soothe the goddess’ temper when it got out of hand. Perhaps you listened for the story of the evil spider. But Arachne merely became a wise owl. As the legends go, the goddess changed after Arachne’s death, perhaps due to crushing guilt. Or…perhaps due to something else entirely. 

Once upon a time, a goddess and a maiden created a myth together in a meadow far away from the rest of the world. Once upon a time, Arachne became one of the few mortals to outwit the goddess of wisdom. And perhaps even now, they look down from the clouds in each others’ arms, Athena with a small smile and Arachne giggling behind her, amused that someone has finally figured out the truth.