It’s pop art!”
“The terms,” Thalia reminded her, “were that each artist would be judged on the standards of their medium. Yes, your weaving was more technically proficient than his comic.”
“But,” Melpomene added, “your piece was nothing but a blatant attempt to intimidate your competitor and cow him into making an error. You made the same mistake he did in the first round: there’s no heart in what you created. Tyler’s…art, if I must call it that, was inferior in style but plainly depicted his love for his friends. Enough so, we decided, to earn him the round.”
“It was corny,” Arachne seethed.
“Yes,” Thalia agreed. “Love can be like that. Round three. This is the final round, and with the score tied, the winner takes all. You may begin.”
“Doesn’t even matter.” Arachne glanced up. “Tyler. You know you just lost, yes?”
He taped down his final sheet of paper. He didn’t look up at her.
“How do you figure that?”
“You heard the judges. You can’t beat me in terms of technical skill. All I have to do is create a piece with both skill and emotion, just like I did in the first round, and you lose. This contest is over. There is simply no route to victory for you. Why don’t you concede and save a little face?”
He frowned at the page. He reached for a marker.
This time, he completed his piece first. Arachne was taking her time, making sure she turned out a masterpiece. He sat and fidgeted and stared at his desk, resisting the urge to go back and revise the finished page. Finally, the weaver’s loom rolled to a stop.
“All done,” she said. “Tyler, why don’t you go first? I can’t wait to see what sort of…artistic brilliance you’ve produced for your final piece. Will there be robots? Bug-eyed monsters?”
“No,” Tyler said.
He gently peeled away the tape. Then he lifted the page, turning it so she could see.
He had drawn a portrait of her. Not the goddess, and not the spider. He captured her as a mortal girl, bright-eyed and beaming with pride, in the warm glow of a Mediterranean sun. She held aloft what he imagined to be her first creation, a handwoven toga with golden stitching. The people of the marketplace were vague shadows standing eclipsed by Arachne’s light, but he drew the impressions of their joyous faces, their hands raised in acclaim for her.
“You gave me the idea,” he said. “See…last round, your piece—you showed me at my worst.”
He nodded to the page.
“I wanted to show you at your best.”
The goddess sat frozen, transfixed. Her lips parted, but she didn’t say a word.
“Arachne?” Thalia asked. “Would you like to present your work?”
Arachne’s eyes glimmered, faintly wet. She glanced down at her loom. Her fingers took hold of the dangling tapestry.
Then she ripped it free and threw it to the ground at her sandaled feet.
“There was a mechanical problem with my loom,” she said, staring at the fallen weave. “I wasn’t able to finish my piece.”
The Muses looked at one another, uncertain. Melpomene turned back to her.
“We don’t want to be unfair. If you would like more time—”
“There was a problem,” Arachne said, her voice tight, “with my loom. I can’t fix it. We’re out of time. There’s only one verdict you can render.”
“And so there is,” Thalia said.
She raised her open hands and lowered one, fingers curling as she pointed to Tyler.
“Due to being unable to continue, Arachne is counted out by disqualification. The winner, by technicality, is Tyler. The mortals are free to go.”
Nell ran over and threw her arms around Tyler, squealing as she squeezed him tight. Seelie was right behind her, the three of them hugging and bouncing on their feet.
“C’mon,” Tyler laughed. “C’mon, you heard the woman. We have to go. Way’s clear, and we’ve got a package to deliver. Let’s finish this.”
* * *
Arachne sat slumped before her loom, gazing into the gray distance.
Thalia drifted over to her. The giantess crouched, and her marble fingers scooped up the fallen tapestry. Her eyes went wide.
“Arachne,” she breathed, “this is…”
She lowered her hands and clutched the tapestry to her robe.
“This is the best thing you’ve ever created.”
Arachne didn’t answer. Thalia stared at her, dumbfounded.
“You would have won the contest if you had presented this. Easily.”
Arachne lifted her face. She stared at the three mortals, hugging, smiling, holding each other tight.
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t have.”
78.
They were free to go.
Tyler and Seelie turned their sights to the mountain trail and the mist-wreathed peak above. It