Bright Hair

Hair? Imbeciles. It is not hair.

No more than there was ever a girl child taken in exchange for some life-giving herb that revived the gravid mother from the point of death. That tale is the hook. It reaches the ear of some youth who fancies himself a hero, and he is caught.

He goes searching in my forest. He hears my song and finds my tower. He sees the impossible tresses of gold hanging from the single window and makes the climb. Then I have him. It is as simple as that.

Lately I have been very fortunate. I have no less than three gently squirming cocoons of golden silk hanging from my rafters. Well, two still squirm. The other is almost spent.

With careful nurturing, those three will last me several months. Then I will snip myself free from my golden web and go down once more to spread the tale of a bright-haired maiden imprisoned by a witch. I think this time I will go East. Then I will return to my tower to sit, and wait, and spin.