Arachne and Minerva

Long, long ago, in a sunny land beside the blue sea, there lived a girl named Arachne. She grew up in a small village where the houses were painted terracotta and lemon, and where the olive trees whispered in the evening breeze. Arachne's father was a humble dyer who dipped wool into vats of purple, and her mother was no longer alive. But there was one thing Arachne could do better than anyone else in the whole land, and that was weaving. Even when she was very small, she would sit at her mother's old loom and thread it with fingers that seemed to know everything on their own.

The years passed, and Arachne grew into a young woman with quick hands and a steady gaze. Her weavings became famous throughout the region. When she took the wool in its rough state and rolled it, or separated the threads with her fingers until it looked as light as a cloud, or spun the spindle with practiced ease, it was like watching something magical. Farmers came from distant villages just to look. Even the wood-nymphs left their springs and groves to sit at her feet and watch her work. 'It is as if Minerva herself had taught her,' they whispered to one another.

But when the nymphs said the words 'Minerva has taught her,' Arachne's face darkened. Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, and she was also the goddess of weaving and all the arts of the hand. She lived high on Olympus, far beyond the clouds. And Arachne did not like the thought that anyone, not even a goddess, had taught her what she herself had practiced in a thousand quiet hours at the loom. 'No one has taught me,' she said aloud. 'All that I know, I know on my own. Let Minerva try her skill against mine, if she dares. If I lose, I will take the penalty.' The wind suddenly stilled. The olive trees fell silent. The nymphs looked at one another with worry in their eyes.

High on Olympus, where the clouds gathered round the white pillars, Minerva heard every word. Her owl sat on her shoulder and blinked solemnly. Other gods would have hurled down thunderbolts at once, but Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, and wise beings try first to understand. She took off her golden helmet and her shield and her spear-point. Then she laid a grey cloak over her shoulders, and her hair turned silver, and then white. Her back bent. When at last she stepped down to earth, she was an old woman with a wrinkled face and a staff in her hand. No one in the village would have known her. And so she walked toward Arachne's house.