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I remember the Yarn Spinner only vaguely. She didn’t call herself that, but I gave her the name at some point between then and now, when my recollection of her was more clear. The title just felt right. She didn’t simply tell stories; she spun lush yarns, all the while smiling broadly, her wild eyes flashing as she drew us in, like lambs to the slaughter.
She’s something of a mythical creature to me now. If you were to tell me she only really existed in some fevered dream, I probably wouldn’t argue. That feels about right, too.
I was in fourth grade at Carver Elementary when I encountered her. Sometime after lunch, our teacher ushered the entire class to the library, where we joined a roomful of other students, all sitting on the well-worn carpet, under which might have been the hardest concrete known to man. In the center of the crowd, the Yarn Spinner sat upon a rickety wooden chair, and she looked out over the children and grinned and greeted us in a syrupy voice.
And then she launched into the first of her stories.
She spun at least four yarns, and I’ll admit I only remember bits and pieces. Something about the way she told her tales — the cadence of her words — caused them to slip beneath my conscious register.
One of the stories concerned the Devil and how he asked riddles of a child whose soul he wished to claim. His questions always began with, “On the week you were born, on the day you were born, on the hour you were born, on the very minute you were born …” Every time Old Scratch posed a question, he went through this litany. And each time, the child would answer correctly, foiling the Devil’s plans.
“YEEAAAARRRRRRRGGGHHHHH!”
The Yarn Spinner shrieked in her Devil’s voice when the child answered a question. The cry took us all by surprise, and we jumped and gasped and screamed and giggled. The first time the Yarn Spinner shrieked, the girl sitting next to me scrambled to her feet and scurried for the door. The teacher herded her back with a minor scolding. The second time the Yarn Spinner shrieked? The girl ran for the door again.
The Yarn Spinner told another story about a boy who loved playing the fiddle, and he wanted nothing more than for the world to hear. He found a spot atop a hill where his music would echo across the valley, but he was warned the hill was infested with rattlesnakes. Ignoring the warnings, he climbed the hill and — sure enough — found himself surrounded by venomous snakes. As he started playing his fiddle, though, the snakes were enchanted by the sound and could do him no harm. In the end, he accidentally dropped his bow, and as he reached down for it –
You guessed it.
“YEEAAAARRRRRRRGGGHHHHH!”
The story ended. And the girl who had been sitting next to me was nowhere to be found. The only sign of her escape was the slowly closing library door.
The Yarn Spinner struck me as something of a magician, and her stories were like spells. She charmed us the same way the fiddle player charmed those snakes. And she could make us dread her words or feel joy or run for the door at her whim.
Mighty potent magic.
To this day, I think about the stories — the yarns — I heard that day. I daydream about them, trying to put them back together. My own short story, “Nothing Lives Under Rattlesnake Hill,” was obviously inspired by her tale of the boy and his fiddle. I imagine fragments of the Yarn Spinner’s stories have worked their way into much of my own work.
The Yarn Spinner taught me the power of words and the force of a tale well told. She’s right there with me every time I sit down to write something, watching over my shoulder with those wild eyes, whispering to me in her syrupy voice.
And I only hope I the yarns I spin manage to capture a bit of her magic.
By the way, if anyone knows anything about the folktales I mentioned in this entry, I’d love to hear from you. Maybe she made them up herself, but I get the feeling she was telling stories of a much older vintage. I’ve done a little research myself, but haven’t had much luck.
