Mosomai the Spider Girl

by Mathew McCurley

Coffeeshop Stories is a collection of experiences, stories, and inspirations from De Wallen in Amsterdam.

11:13pm, The Feel Good

She skittered around the bar and sidled up next to me, Mosomai the spider girl. Propping her furry, heaving hind up on the stool, legs dangling and curling around cold metal struts, bristly arms propped on the bar, she ordered a tea and 5 grams of some random kush. I didn't get the name but I could smell it.

Two hands ground the weed, two prepped the filter; never been jealous of a spider before, but she was so efficient. She saw me staring; I tripped her web.

"Hey buddy, my eyes are up here."

I can't stop staring.

"You've got a beautiful cephalothorax." 

Four hands spun her joint, trapped, cocooned, destined for consumption.

"You only get away with that because you pronounced it correctly."

A long lick across the paper seals her vessel.

"Got a light?"

I slide her a red lighter. The flame sucked but it's what we had. Garbage played on the speakers.

"Where are you from?"

"The States."

"Which one?"

"California."

"You have good wiet there. I have not ever been."

Her Dutch was tempting.

"Our weed is amazing. To be completely honest with you, it's much stronger than Amsterdam's."

"I've been smoking for 3,000 years on this continent."

"You need to get out more."

"I would love to travel."

"You'd have to buy two seats."

"Excuse?"

"Nothing. It's an airplane joke. And it wasn't very funny. Why can't you travel?"

"Unfortunately, I have a.... how do you say it in English? A shackles?"

"Like a magic spell?"

"No no no... but you know.... Like a burden."

"Oh, some kind of religious thing? Exactly how religious are you?"

She didn't think that one was funny. 

 Artist: Rachel J Corey ( @kirryface )

Artist: Rachel J Corey (@kirryface)

"Oh, a curse?"

"YES, like a curse."

She finally took a long hit from her joint, the smoke wisps passing cold, leathery lips.

"There's a gem that I'm cursed to guard for eternity and whatever, it's a whole thing, forget it."

"No, no, that... That sounds important."

"It's not. It's stupid. I was a teenager. Teenagers make mistakes."

We all make mistakes.

"I went to law school and have a lot of debt that I regret. I feel you."

"The Scorn Sapphire, it's called. A powerful artifact that binds our priestess to her eternal prison."

"And if you leave she gets out?"

"Pretty much."

"How bad could she be?"

"She enslaved our race and forced us to capture the souls of men to feed her eternal engine of suffering."

"Europe HAS seen worse."

"Want a hit?"

I eagerly pulled the joint out from her porcelain fingers and puffed without saying a word. The tiniest speck of purple venom still precariously dangling from the filter; splashing through the senses, a cold chill stabs the spine...

"And now... I guard her prison, deep down under de Oude kerk... Alone and forgotten."

My temple slammed into the bar, only sounds and shivers now.

"And hungry."

Mosomai, she told me her name... Why can't they see her dragging me down Sint Olofssteen. Screams don't pierce the stunning ringing in my brain.

The joint finally begins to hit, and it's wonderful. Over the canal, the Oude kerk stands in the near distance.

Red lights and a fry shop sign dot the alley. She lays me against the old brick wall, resting her human hands on the odd bricks surrounding a Vermeer street exhibit. Scraping against each other, sinking into the wall, the passage appears... steps down into the abyss. I'm finally frightened. She finally looks back into my eyes.

"There is only pleasure now. Release yourself from a fragile existence."

Many eyes blink in the darkness. The venom begins running down her face and neck, viscous, clingy, pooling on her chin. A long lick up the nose to the forehead paints my face her color of death, searing the mark of her master. Cauterizing burns sizzle but throb heavenly, like stretching after a long sleep.

It is dark again. Dripping and echoes, she effortlessly slides down the impossibly narrow staircase, as I lay still in the snug crack in her abdomen.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the consumption chamber."

"Of course."

Down on the ancient altar, dried blood stains carvings of old, long dead gods. Candles flicker; fire and shadow dance on the wall. My feet suddenly come back alive, but only the bottoms. She places my body in the center.

"You should soon feel it."

I feel it.

Sleep now, for many nights. Hazy eyes watch Mosomai pray to her gem, ancient and unearthly, she sustains herself another cycle of the stone. It turns, an hourglass of blood, the carvings spring to life, humming an unsettling lullaby.

The Scorn Sapphire, treasured by a warlock King and cast into history by those tormented by him most. Mosomai taps the stone; she awakens from a dark sleep.

"Priestess, slumber, your undying guardian brings you the heat of man."

My body goes light. Unholy transfusions, my own blood pouring from runic burns, replaced with her goopy, sinewy plasma, expertly woven from hidden mouth glands, the silverylx. I didn't know before she replaced my blood with hers.

Mosomai, the spider girl, she lives another cycle. She says goodbye, her breasts pressed unnaturally against the giant relief of her priestess.

We sit together, outside The Feel Good. Eyes are whiter than usual.

Days go by. Maybe years. We share a smoke. Nothing is different, but she's always in my thoughts, Mosomai, my spider girl.

"Should we get some fries?"

"I love fries."