Anansi Boys

Charlie looked at him, and sang about Tiger, and about Grahame Coats, and those who would prey upon the i

Tiger turned his back on Charlie. He loped through the crowd, roaring as he ran, which only made the crowd laugh the harder. Tiger angrily retreated back into his cave.

Spider gestured with his hands, a curt movement.

There was a rumble, and the mouth of Tiger’s cave collapsed in a small rock slide. Spider looked satisfied. Charlie kept singing.

He sang the song of Rosie Noah and the song of Rosie’s mother: he sang a long life for Mrs. Noah and all the happiness that she deserved.

He sang of his life, all of their lives, and in his song he saw the pattern of their lives as a web that a fly had blundered into, and with his song he wrapped the fly, made certain it would not escape, and he repaired the web with new strands.

And now the song was coming to its natural end.

Charlie realized, with no little surprise, that he enjoyed singing to other people, and he knew, at that moment, that this was what he would spend the rest of his life doing. He would sing: not big, magical songs that made worlds or recreated existence. Just small songs that would make people happy for a breath, make them move, make them for a little while, forget their problems. And he knew that there would always be the fear before performing, the stage fright, that would never go away, but he also understood that it would be like jumping into a swimming pool—only uncomfortably chill for a few seconds—and then the discomfort would pass and it would be good—

Never this good. Never this good again. But good enough.

And then he was done. Charlie hung his head. The creatures on the cliff top let the last notes die away, stopped stamping, stopped clapping, stopped dancing. Charlie took off his father’s green fedora and fa

Under his breath, Spider said, “That was amazing.”

“You could have done it too,” said Charlie.

“I don’t think so. What was happening at the end? I felt you doing something, but I couldn’t really tell what it was.”

“I fixed things,” said Charlie. “For us. I think. I’m not really sure—” And he wasn’t. Now the song was over, the content of the song was unraveling like a dream in the morning.

He pointed to the cave mouth that was blocked by rocks. “Did you do that?”

“Yeah,” said Spider. “Seemed the least I could do. Tiger will dig his way out eventually, though. I wish I’d done something worse than just shut the door on him, to be honest.”

“Not to worry,” said Charlie. “I did. Something much worse.”

He watched the animals disperse. His father was nowhere to be seen, which did not surprise him. “Come on,” he said. “We ought to be getting back.”

Spider went back to see Rosie at visiting time. He was carrying a large box of chocolates, the largest that the hospital gift shop sold.

“For you,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“They told me,” she said, “that they think my mum’s going to pull through. Apparently she opened her eyes and asked for porridge. The doctor said it’s a miracle.”

“Yup. Your mother asking for food. Certainly sounds like a miracle to me.”

She swatted his arm with her hand, then left her hand resting on his arm.

“You know,” she said, after a while, “You’re going to think this is silly of me. But when I was in the dark, with Mum, I thought that you were helping me. I felt like you were keeping the beast at bay. That if you hadn’t’ve done what you were doing, he would have killed us.”

“Um. I probably helped.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know. I think so. I was in trouble as well, and I thought about you.”

“Were you in very big trouble?”

“Enormous. Yes.”

“Will you pour me a glass of water, please?”

He did. She said, “Spider, what do you do?”

“Do?”

“For a job.”

“Whatever I feel like doing.”

“I think,” she said, “I may stay here, for a bit. The nurses have been telling me how much they need teachers here. I’d like to see that I was making a difference.”

“That might be fun.”

“And what would you do, if I did?”

“Oh. Well, if you were here, I’m sure I could find something to keep me busy.”

Their fingers twined, tight as a ship’s knot.

“Do you think we can make this work?” she asked.

“I think so,” said Spider, soberly. “And if I get bored with you, I’ll just go away and do something else. So not to worry.”

“Oh,” said Rosie, “I’m not worried.” And she wasn’t. There was steel in her voice beneath the softness. You could tell where her mother got it from.

Charlie found Daisy on a deck chair out on the beach. He thought she was asleep in the sun. When his shadow touched her, she said, “Hello Charlie.” She didn’t open her eyes.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your hat smells like a cigar. Are you going to be getting rid of it soon?”

“No,” said Charlie. “I told you. Family heirloom. I plan to wear it till I die, then leave it to my children. So. Do you still have a job with the police force?”

“Sort of,” she said. “My boss said that it’s been decided that what I was suffering from was nervous exhaustion brought on by overwork, and I’m on sick leave until I feel well enough to come back.”

“Ah. And when will that be?”

“Not sure,” she said. “Can you pass the suntan oil?”

He had a box in his pocket. He took it out and put it on the arm of the deck chair. “In a minute. Er.” He paused. “You know,” he said, “we’ve already done the big embarrassing one of these at gunpoint.” He opened the box. “But this is for you, from me. Well, Rosie returned it to me. And we can swap it for one you like. Pick out a different one. Probably it won’t even fit. But it’s yours. If you want it. And um. Me.”

She reached into the box and took out the engagement ring.

“Hmph. All right,” she said. “As long as you’re not just doing it to get the lime back.”

Tiger prowled. His tail lashed irritably from side to side as he paced back and forth across the mouth of his cave. His eyes burned like emerald torches in the shadows.

“Whole world and everything used to be mine,” said Tiger. “Moon and stars and sun and stories. I owned them all.”

“I feel it incumbent on me to point out,” said a small voice from the back of the cave, “that you said that already.”

Tiger paused in his pacing; he turned then and insinuated himself into the back of his cave, rippling as he walked, like a fur rug over hydraulic springs. He padded back until he came to the carcass of an ox, and he said, in a quiet voice, “I beg your pardon.”

There was a scrabbling from inside the carcass. The tip of a nose protruded from the rib cage. “Actually,” it said, “I was, so to speak, agreeing with you. That was what I was doing.”

Little white hands pulled a thin strip of dried meat from between two ribs, revealing a small animal the color of dirty snow. It might have been an albino mongoose, or perhaps some particularly shifty kind of weasel in its winter coat. It had a scavenger’s eyes.

“Whole world and everything used to be mine. Moon and stars and sun and stories. I owned them all.” Then he said, “Would have been mine again.”