Arachne

The Girl who would outdo the Gods

Story By StormDancer

The desk in the art room was almost painfully neat, the piles of papers and supplies and pens in strictly regimented lines. For all that, however, the sturdy oak was not unapproachable. The box of pencils on the end was open to everyone, all the students knew; the trophies on the shelf behind it spoke of a coach who had led her lacrosse team to victory every year she had been at the school. The books that surrounded the trophies could be looked at, glossed over, and generally absorbed- but only in the art room. That way, she could keep an eye on how you were treating her precious property. The easel next to the desk was always occupied by something, be it a painting in progress or a teaching aid or even just a blank canvas- the DO NOT TOUCH sign draped between its legs worked more as a formality than anything else. No one messed with Ms. Athena’s stuff, not in the history of her job. People feared Mr. Hades, gave Mr. Zeus cheerful and wary respect, but for her, the students tempered their respect with adoration, and her commands were never disobeyed.

The woman sitting at the desk sighed and rested her elbows on the small free space in the center of the table, rubbing her temples. Her grey eyes traced the grain in the stained wood, almost unconsciously- patterns here, patterns there, you just have to learn how to see them, well she’d learned- but the headache was receding. She loved to teach, enjoyed passing on her considerable stores of knowledge, but she did not suffer fools gladly, and the art room seemed to attract an uncommon amount.

First there was Mr. Hephaestus, the shop teacher, coming in to “see if she needed any help,”- Athena had not needed help since she was in diapers, and the clubfooted teacher had a wife, for heavens sake, even if Aphrodite spent enough time with his brother that even Athena could see between the lines. Then there was Mr. Poseidon, posturing as usual, telling her that he could do anything she could (when he had decided she was his rival, Athena didn’t know, but she really wished he would stop. He couldn’t do everything she could, and he had to get over it). And then Zeus himself dropped by, hiding from one or another of his paramours – she had sent him on straightaway; he had to learn how to deal with the consequences of his actions, even if that wouldn’t stop him.

And those were only the teachers. Her classes had been particularly rowdy today, what with that Theseus braggart telling the story of how he braved Hades’ lair and came back without being sent to DIS (Zeus couldn’t allow the star of the soccer team to go to detention), and then Merope adding in her own story about her beloved Sisyphus to much approval (Athena couldn’t see how anyone could like that little rat, and didn’t they know he had gotten caught?). That spirit had only inspired the rest of the class to new heights of noise and distraction, and not even her formidable willpower and even more formidable influence with Zeus could keep them in line- she hadn’t gotten anything done.

Soft footsteps made Athena look up warily- and then glance back down when she saw who it was. Hestia was no threat to her, and one of the few people in that school who didn’t back down in the face of Athena’s bad moods.

“Is everything alright, my dear?” she asked, her soft brown eyes sweeping up and down the disheveled woman’s countenance, not judging, only looking.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Athena managed to squeak out between gritted teeth. Hestia gave her a Look that said very obviously she didn’t believe it, but she didn’t press; she knew that Athena would never tell her anything that way, and she did like to get a hold of all the gossip she could.

Instead, she began to wander around the room, humming idly under her breath, straightening up the small messes the children had left throughout the day, the dropped scraps of paper and mislaid pens and unheeded staples. Athena’s stormy gaze followed her- couldn’t the woman see she was not in the mood for company?

Finally, she prompted, “Did you want something?”

“What?” Hestia looked up from the stack of portfolios she was moving across the room into their place. “Oh, no, darling, not if you’re so put out. It was unimportant.”

Athena let out an inaudible groan and straightened her back, setting her chin up high. If she had to- goddamit, why did Zeus have to depend on her so much? She wasn’t supposed to be his de facto assistant, but somehow, he had roped her into it. Why, oh why did she have to be so competent? “What is it?” she inquired, managing not to sound too reluctant, she was happy to say, “I’ll deal with it.”

“Oh, no, dearie, its really nothing- I just wanted to know which forms I had to fill out to get permission for a fire in the back field, but I can ask anyone that. You just go back to musing. I won’t be but a moment.” She bustled to the back of the room, where the last students had left their latest pieces to dry, and collected brushes that a few careless ones had left out, and Athena could only wonder when she had been adopted.

Still, Hestia was only doing what she would have done anyway, so she went back to staring at her desk and wondering why on earth a woman as promising as her, with such brains, had ever gone into teaching- a thought which told her right away how bad of a mood she was in, because in her right mind she loved to teach. But still- Hestia had stopped moving.

Athena raised her head. Hestia was studying a painting, a detailed rendering of a still life that was still set up across the room- the student hadn’t quite finished.

“Good, isn’t it?” Hestia jumped when Athena spoke over her shoulder. For such a big woman- six feet if she was an inch, and muscled well enough that even Hades had trouble beating her in arm wrestling- she moved irritatingly silently.

“It’s not yours?” Athena never complimented her own work- but Hestia couldn’t see anything wrong with this work, and she had thought only Athena had that level of skill.

“Not mine. A student’s- Arachne. Do you know her?” Athena viewed the painting with the pride of a teacher whose protégée excelled, though she noted that the lighting on the apple was the slightest bit off in the center, and that the shadow between the candle and the watch couldn’t have been only one color. “A junior, little, mousey sort of girl with a face like a squirrel’s?”

Hestia chuckled- Athena had a knack for choosing precisely the right comparisons. “I know her; she’s in my class. Her embroidery is lovely, but apparently her painting is better- she’s almost as good as you are!”

Athena’s thin lips clenched into a grimace that might have passed for a smile with less observant company. “Why yes, yes she is.”

“You know,” Hestia continued artlessly, looking up at the taller woman with innocent oak-tree eyes (Because it was Athena’s right to know this, it was about her after all, and Hestia did love to pass on her knowledge) “I think I overheard her saying something like that yesterday.”

“Oh?” Athena’s voice gave nothing away. Hestia knew better. The mind behind those grey eyes never stopped moving, and she could never have anyone best her at anything. She hadn’t managed two degrees, a semi-professional lacrosse position, and a teaching job with anything less than that absolute competitiveness.

“Yes. Something about how she was a better artist than you, and you were just a relic anyway?” Athena’s eyes blazed like lightning flashing across a stormy sky, and her fists tightened, the knuckles turning white. Oh. That was a bit more of a reaction then Hestia was hoping for. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it, though, dearie,” she finished hastily, hoping to placate Athena before the battle line of her anger broke on the enemy host.

“For her sake, I hope not,” Athena agreed with deadly quiet, studying the painting again with frozen eyes and a smile that anyone who had ever played against would know to fear. She would give the girl one more chance, just in case Hestia was wrong- let it never be said that Athena was unjust. One chance. “I certainly hope not.”

Arachne was, as always, painting when Nike found her- in the art room, no less. As far away from Athena’s desk as possible, in a sole beam of light that the cloudy sky sent through the plate windows, she would have looked almost angelic if her face hadn’t been so unpleasantly screwed up in concentration, her incisors digging into her thick lower lip and her eyes narrowed into nearly a slit. Her expression barely changed when Nike tapped her on the shoulder.

“Yes?” she snapped, her stool squeaking as it spun. ‘I have a painting to finish, if you please.” The streak of scarlet paint across her cheek did nothing to lessen her querulous air.

Nike nodded cheerfully. She had a message to deliver- well, not a message per se- and anyway, the person who could defeat Nike’s perpetual optimism was unknown. “That’s a really cool painting,” she observed jauntily, her blonde waves catching the light and setting her hair afire. She wasn’t even lying- the painting was good. Unfinished, of course, but she could see the circle of dancing girls emerge out of the blank white canvas, swirls of reds and peaches and browns that somehow came together to make a picture.

“I know,” Arachne agreed shortly, not grateful at all for the compliment, biting off the end of each word. “I’m the best. Now what do you want? I have things to do.”

“I just like to watch you work,” Nike prevaricated, looking over the girl’s head at her painting. She had almost all of her mentor’s height, and a good bit of her overall proficiency. There was a reason Athena trusted her with jobs like these. “You know, that’s almost as good as Athena’s.”

“Almost!” Arachne let out a rusty laugh, like it was dragged out of a door unused to opening. She went back to painting, speaking in quick, short bursts that echoed the stroke of her brush. “It’s better. Way better.”

For form’s sake, Nike glanced around, as if checking for the teacher she knew very well was lurking outside the door. “Shush!” she admonished the younger girl sharply, though with a kindly edge- Athena had a nasty temper, and Nike pitied anyone who got on the bad side of her acidic tongue. She had hoped that Arachne would be wary enough not to blatantly challenge Athena. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that, not where people can hear you.”

“Why not?” The painting was growing under Arachne’s clever fingers, for she was paying little attention to the conversation, and more to the brush and paint before her, “It’s the truth.”

“Maybe-” Nike was fairly sure it wasn’t, but that didn’t matter- “But don’t question the teachers’ skills. They don’t like that- and they’re the ones with the power around here.” Hopefully Athena hadn’t heard this little declaration of Arachne’s, maybe someone had distracted her. “Just be content to be the best artist among the students, and leave-”

“No.” A flick of her fingers, and a daring smirk appeared on one of the girl’s faces, a slash of pink across a pale face. “I’m better than she is. There’s no reason for me not to tell the world that. If Athena herself were to come and challenge me right now, I would say the exact same-”

Oh shit. Now she’d done it.

“Oh really?” Athena swept in, all six feet of icy anger, leeching all the light from the windows and pouring it as a spotlight onto her as she strode to the corner where Arachne sat, frozen with shock. “A challenge, you want? A contest? I’m game.” Her eyes glinted coldly, like a bitter winter sun on a frozen lake.

Arachne gulped- a raging Athena was no joke- but she knew that she would win anyway, and Athena’s gauntlet, proclaimed in a voice used to being heard in the middle of a game, had carried enough to bring other students to the door in a blood-thirsty crowd. “So am I,” she agreed, in a voice that broke a little and, though loud enough to be heard, didn’t carry.

“Good.” Athena raised a hand- two students scrambled to do her bidding, and two easels were set in the good light of that corner, with a matching pair of blank canvases. Brushes, paint, pencils quickly followed, as murmurs of the face off flew through the hallways and the number of spectators grew. Two stools were placed- Athena sat down on one, her back rigid, each muscle showing beneath the rippling fabric of her blouse. Arachne took the other, her shoulders set proudly but unable to make as intimidating a figure as the teacher.

Nike had taken the unofficial position of referee. “Go!” she declared, stepping away.

Athena painted as she did everything else- with dignity. Her strokes were calm and composed, her face, with those strong features that almost all the teachers shared and gave rise to whispers about illegitimate children and nepotism, blank of emotion. She painted in cool colors, greens and blues and whites; her lines were strong and well defined.

Arachne was all movement and color, jerking around in her seat, her thin arms going first this way, now that, in a frenzy of scarlets and emeralds and yellows that all blended together in an Impressionsist concoction of light and laughter. Her lower lip bled from the teeth that dug into it, her cheeks bulged with the breath she rarely remembered to take, her eyes were too close-lidded to detect any emotion in them. Not even her legs could keep still, crossing and uncrossing and twitching with the motion of her brush.

And then, finally- they were done. Each stepped off her stool and took a step back to survey the other’s work, the warrior woman and tiny girl oddly similar in their critical poses of contrapposto and tilted heads. The crowd gasped at the twin canvases.

Athena had depicted a classical scene, of the battle of Troy- Hector about to die. A triumphant Achilles towered over him, the once proud man brought low, upon a background of a dusty field and hard stone walls. In the clouds, gods and goddesses watched- she had, for lack of better models, but the teacher’s faces on them- each with a different expression at the tragic ending. Behind Achilles stood a goddess, glaring down at the defeated hero with all the harsh vengeance of the victor of a hard won fight- and she had Athena’s face. Arachne saw, saw the precise artistry of the strokes, the elegance of the composition and exact rightness of the colors- and knew hers to be better.

Arachne had chosen boldly, mocking, and Athena knew it was to make a point. Her canvas was classical as well, rollicking nymphs and gods in an orgy of decadence and hedonism- except she as well had given her figures faces. Zeus sat in the corner, surrounded by fawning nymphs, a few of whom could be identified as students; Thantos hung in a net from a tree; Mr. Apollo, the chorus teacher, chased a nymph visibly recognizable as Daphne, that tease he had been obsessed with a few years back. The many embarrassments, the many missteps of the teachers were there, beautifully depicted- even Athena had to admit the skill of the work-with bitter disrespect.

A few of the students were laughing beneath their hands. Murmurs were dashing through the crowd, of ‘Ohmigod, did you see Arachne’s,’ and ‘look at Zeus there! That’s totally Leda with him! Can you believe it?’ and ‘Wow, Hades looks so silly running away from Typhon. Why were all the teachers so afraid of Etna High’s Principal?’

Athena couldn’t allow it to go on. Already, the kids were uniting, noticing the fallibility of the teachers- that realization would spread, and chaos would follow, unable to be stopped. Athena needed order. This could not be allowed to disperse out from here. They needed a lesson. All of them. But especially-

Athena crossed the space between her and the opposite easel in one long stride. Before Arachne had more than a chance to hold out her hands in impotent horror, or the crowd could gasp, she had picked up the still drying painting, raised it over one knee, and – crack, the frame was broken. Rip- the canvas was in two, and the audience was hushed by the tangibility of Athena’s anger as much as by the display of strength.

“What- why- how- that was my best work!” Arachne could hardly form a sentence. She had fallen to her knees, holding the ruined painting in both hands, her dark eyes blazing up at Athena, full of hatred.

“Your last.” Athena grabbed Arachne’s brushes- the ones she had scraped every penny for and went without to get for the last six months- and snapped them between her fists. “You will never paint here again. Not in this room, not in this school- not for as long as I am here, and that, girl, will be longer than you are.”

The hatred drained out of Arachne’s face, and her jaw gaped open as if she had been stabbed through the heart. “But- I’m a painter,” she stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and why couldn’t Athena see what this would do to her and she had never meant it like this and now what would she do “Without it, I’m, I’m, I’m-” a spider had crept onto the chair in the midst of the drama, a tiny thing, picking its way across the metal with mincing, creeping steps, “I’m nothing! I’m no better than that!” she pointed to it.

“Then a spider you will be.” There was no mercy in those grey eyes, no pity or hope for appeal. Athena had listened, judged, and executed her sentence- none would dispute the woman known for her justice. Already the crowd was drifting away, away from the terrible storm of anger that poured out of Athena like cold out of an iceberg. They would not dare to disrespect her, or any of the teachers, again. “Still better than me, are you?”

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room with her head high and her step calm, Nike at her back without a look behind her. They left in that sunny, well-lit corner a finished painting, a ruined one, and a girl who had become a spider.