“The females are the critics.”
A Amber weaver of The Wolf Runners
3 known connections · an open question
Brushleg is a drummer. The males of his kind beat their brushy forelegs on dry leaves to serenade the females — percussion as courtship — and Brushleg has rhythm. The females are the critics, and they are brutal.
He is currently mid-performance on a curl of dead oak leaf, forelegs drumming a complex syncopated routine he has been rehearsing all week. A female is watching from three inches away. Her expression is unreadable. This is the worst part.
If the drumming lands, there will be a nursery web and a hundred babies by summer. If it does not, Brushleg will revise the arrangement and try again tomorrow. The show must go on. The leaf is already booked.
“The tarantella was danced for her, but the rhythm predates every village that claims it. Brushleg tried to drum it once and stopped after four beats, pale. That is not a dance, he said. That is a summons. He has not drummed since without checking the shadows first.”
Tarantella's dance is older than the villages.
No webs, all heart. The wolf spiders run their dinner down on foot and carry their babies on their backs for weeks. The chase is sacred; the babies are everything.
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