The land of Lydia lay on the eastern shore of the Aegean Sea, a rich land noted for its gold, but also for the wonderful fabrics that were woven there.
Of all the great weavers of Lydia, the most talented was a young woman named Arachne.
It is said that Arachne’s fine woven tapestries were of such beauty and delicate craftsmanship that the nymphs would leave the vineyards of the mountainside and dryads climb out of the rivers to come and see what she had done.
She could not boast of noble birth or wealthy parents, but she did have a way with the loom that no-one else could match, and Arachne was more than a little proud of that talent.
The goddess, Minerva, is the patron of the loom, and it was common to say of a weaver, “Minerva has taught her well!” But if anyone said that of Arachne, she would laugh and say, “Minerva has taught me nothing. I learned on my own!”
This would have been bad enough, but if anyone said that she had the talent of Minerva, Arachne would reply, “Her talent, and a bit more! If there could be a contest between us, I would show the world who is the better weaver!”
Such talk is not wise. The stories of Arachne’s great talent had already reached Minerva’s ears, but they were quickly followed by stories of her pride and her boasting. Minerva herself is a proud goddess, and does not have great patience for those who disrespect her.
So it was that one day an old woman came slowly up a street in Lydia, leaning on a cane, and entered Arachne’s doorway.
“Young woman,” she said, in a voice that crackled with age, “you do fine work, the finest work of any mortal in the world. But let me tell you what I have learned from my long years of life: Be careful not to anger the gods. Don’t brag that you are better than Minerva.”
She spoke in a gentle voice, but Arachne answered her fiercely. “You gray-haired old fool! Save your advice for your own children, if you have any. If I am the best, why should I not say so? Should I lie to preserve the feelings of Minerva? If her feelings are hurt, let her come and challenge me to a contest and we’ll see who is the better weaver!”
The gray hair and stooped posture disappeared in a flash, and a tall, young and furious goddess stood before Arachne. “Minerva is here,” she declared.
Arachne grew pale for a moment, but did not bow down or apologize. The two women set up their looms and gathered up their skirts so they could move freely as they worked.
A crowd gathered, both mortal and immortal, as Arachne and Minerva stretched the cords and fixed the beams, then began to weave the intricate patterns of their cloth with their shuttles, banging home the threads with their heavy combs.
They worked quickly, but without making errors in their haste. Each added colors to show the sunrise, and sunset and the rainbows, and each depicted in her fabric the mountains and lakes and rivers, the rich orchards and wide deserts, and all the features of the earth.
Each weaver, too, showed the gods and goddesses, but here there was a difference in their work.
Minerva showed the glories of Olympus, with Jupiter and Juno on their thrones, and all the gods and goddesses, the nereiads, dryads, centaurs and other immortals all arranged about the cloth with rays of gold spreading outward.
But Arachne showed the immortals in quite another manner. On her tapestry, she recorded all the evil done to men and women by the gods, all the betrayals and the cruelties. She added, too, pictures of the feuds they had had with each other, and the mistakes they had made, and every time that a god or goddess had looked particularly foolish or weak.
There was not a mistake in the entire cloth Arachne had woven, no thread was loose and there were no lumps or gaps. The pictures, too, were clear and bright, and each well-placed to make a pleasing combination.
But Minerva was not pleased with Arachne’s insulting pictures, no matter how perfect her weaving might be. If she had been angry before she was furious now. She grabbed the heavy bar with which she had beaten the threads of her tapestry into place and smashed Arachne’s loom, tearing the tapestry to pieces.
As Minerva’s rage exploded, Arachne suddenly lost her prideful manner, and fell to the floor. She tried to crawl away, but Minerva came after her and struck her with the tip of her shuttle.
At once, Arachne began to shrivel, and as her body became tiny, her legs and arms grew in number and in length. At last, she was no larger than a coin, and scuttled away through a crack in the wall on eight long legs.
But to this day, you can see the skilled weaving of Arachne and her children in neglected corners and dewy fields everywhere, for she became a spider, and practices her craft all around the world.
retold by Mike Peterson, c. 2005 - illustrated by Dylan Meconis, c. 2005