You needn't be an artist

On a coast somewhere, there’s a rose garden and a spider admiring its beauty, the crimson colors he couldn’t dream of producing himself. His web rested beneath the metal arch entrance. It was there a prismatic butterfly flew into his net. The spider felt the tremblings in the web, approaching the new captive.

He sighed. “You know, I’m not too keen for a meal right now.” The spider said to the butterfly.

“Is that so?” The butterfly raised an antennae to the spider. “Then if you wouldn’t mind cutting me from this snare.”

“But it can’t be done,” the spider replied. “You’ve tangled yourself right up and good.”

“Then I suppose this is it for me.” He calmed his shakings. “I hadn’t long anyway, passed on the seed just moments ago as you would have it.”

“Apologies that I stole the last moments of your life.” The spider bowed his eight eyes.

“Ah, think nothing of it. Like the rest of us, I wrapped up my purpose. Though despite that I find you defying such nature and refusing to dine upon me, why is that?” The butterfly asked.

“I seemed to have lost such purpose somewhere.” The spider sank into his net. “I fear I have taken to the arts.”

“The arts?” The butterfly recoiled. “What has you taking to the arts of all things?”

The spider responded, “It’s been a long while, living in this garden. From the first day, I remember those gargantuan creatures perusing the grounds to simply look at the roses. They see so little with those two narrow eyes but they use all its focus to gaze upon flowers. I began to watch them, and watch what they watched and soon I too became smitten with the roses. Soon I saw more and I realized that even with my eight eyes I had been blinder than the giants. I saw the artistry of this garden; the elaborate pathing that pleases the eyes above; the brick patterns that drew one’s attention along the walls; even this arch that I built my crib upon, has the precise metal engravings that one must ponder the origin of its artistry. I found a respect for the goliaths, that they could make such beautiful things and I began to desire the ability to do so as well.”

The butterfly scoffed. “Preposterous, there is no need for such things. This ‘art’ has no purpose in the natural order. You would waste your existence on such triflous things, you’d be no better than a caterpillar who doesn’t eat, or even no better than I, had you caught me moments sooner.”

“Oh but it is exquisite, and I do have the means.”

“The means?” The butterfly twitched his antennae. “By what means is this?”

“My web—I’ve been practicing if you will.”

“Your web?” The butterfly questioned. “My dear friend, I relent to be the bearer of this news but your web is far too thin to be any sort of art. Had it been any amount visible I wouldn’t be in this state.”

“But still I dream that it could be seen. If the sun shined well upon it and the giants could see the slim reflections of light upon it. What I wouldn’t give for that day to come.” The spider gazed to the sky with all eight of his eyes, glimmering with hope.

The butterfly flapped a wing in ridicule. “Give it up, there is no chance, and you’d defy your nature in pursuit of it.”

“Why is it then that the giants can pursue such pleasures but I may not?” The spider retorted.

“They have earned that right! They’ve served their purpose, bred to edges of known world. No matter how far I fly there are always giants in droves. Every cousin I meet and no matter how exclusive our paths were, those giants are a constant. Truly, it is a pitiful life without nature to guide them that they must seek fulfillment in meaningless pastimes.”

“Right? Purpose? What good is one measly spider to my species. Surely nothing would change if I burnt to a crisp in the very stars I admire and pray to every night.” The spider glared upon the captive butterfly, his fangs dribbling venom. “You wish to speak of nature do you? Then know that the very first spider was weaver of the finest tapestry, said to put even the god’s works to shame!”

“And my ancestors were the very gods of death—yet here I am holding off my final moments bickering with you!” The butterfly beat his wings tremendously. “If my words displease you, then devour me as you see fit. I will die content with my purpose fulfilled and even more so in helping you find your way.”

“I couldn’t do such a thing.” The spider covered his eyes with his many legs.

“Still you refuse. Does your appetite escape you?” The butterfly asked mockingly.

“No, it’s not that.” The spider turned away from the butterfly. “I could not harm such a gorgeous creature.”

The butterfly rolled his orb eyes. “Utterly ridiculous.”

From his angled cage, the butterfly had to look upon the rose garden the spider spoke of. The many spotted bushes and warm red brick walkways; and the many giants who strolled along the paths, stopping to look at flowers aplenty. “Of all the things,” the butterfly thought. It wasn’t displeasing to his elaborate eyes, but then again, very little was. The roses drew streaks of red into butterfly patterns, their false eyes appraising their natural cousin. The wings would wrap and caress the viridescent trees, like a charm of greenfinch napping on winter oaks. A leaf winged bird would glide down to the shaded bench that has slowly become closer to nature over the years, the moss growing at its legs feeding smaller white flowers underneath. These things, could not be mimicked in a web.

“It could be said…” the butterfly said, relaxing into his deathbed. “That you’re something of my savior, at the very least a benefactor, and it isn’t my place to disrespect you in such a manner.”

The spider turned to face the captive butterfly.

“Might I offer you some counsel to perhaps soothe your troubles—bearing in mind that I still find all quite pointless.”

The spider nodded his eight eyes.

“Very well.” The butterfly sagged his antennae. “Look upon this garden, what do you see?”

The spider gazed upon his beloved home for a moment. “A pristine gathering place for exquisite art.”

“Yes, I’m sure, but this pristinity is not some coincidence and there are many who seek to threaten it, my own kind’s young included.”

The spider watched the butterfly with many contemplative eyes.

“Say we were to run rampant, reproduce like aphids. Then the caterpillars would desecrate every leaf in this garden, and very much harm its pristinity.” The butterfly waved his wings as if presenting the garden. “And it is not just the likes of mine that threaten your haven. Weevils, grasshoppers, the aforementioned aphids even, all enemies of your sanctuary. Yet the garden remains healthy in no small part thanks to spiders like you.”

“I don’t understand,” admitted the spider.

“I mean you are a protector of this garden. You and your kin all contribute to keeping these many pests in order. Had you caught me sooner, you'd be doing your part too. I imagine you’ve even feasted upon a less fortunate brother of mine in your earlier days—-worry not, I don’t hold ill will against you, this is once more just the nature of things.” The butterfly sighed. “This is to say, though you may not be an artist yourself, you’re the exoskeleton that holds this entire habitat together. If not for you, there would be no artistry here. Yet in abandoning this post you may jeopardize the whole home you’ve come to admire. Is this what you want?”

“No, of course not,” the spider replied timidly.

“Then you must understand. We are not meant to be artists; we’re creators of only our young. But that doesn’t mean we forgo our contributions to the… finer things. It simply isn’t meant for us, and there is no shame in being the branch that holds up the web.”

“You may be right.”

“This I am. You may not be the artist, but without your kind there is no art nonetheless. So I must again ask you to dine upon me so that you might regain your strength to shield our home and protect its beauty.”

“But—”

“Think not that you’re destroying beauty, but rather sacrificing a fraction to maintain a whole. This is how it’s to be, balance.” The butterfly rested deeper, content with his work.

“Very well, at the very least, as thanks, I’ll heed your advice.” The spider climbed closer to the butterfly and bared his fangs. In a swift bite he took the head like a rose clipped from its stem, and the spider dined, leaving a wing to be left in his web, hoping still that someone might gaze upon it and ponder the majesty of a sole floating wing.