The Spiders and the Veil

“In some places, you take your shoes off for holiness. In others, you’re asked to take off something far harder to surrender.”

Stepping into Karen's caravan, a wave of apprehension washed over me, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a caged bird desperate for release. The sudden shift from the blistering glare of the desert into this dim, cluttered space made my eyes ache with the adjustment, and for a moment I stood in the threshold, unwilling to cross fully into the unknown.

The air inside felt thick, almost soupy, weighted down by a tension that seemed to radiate from the walls themselves. It clung to my skin, made it hard to breathe. Every breath I took felt shallow, as though my lungs were reluctant to draw in too much of this strange, heavy air.

Noah moved cautiously ahead of me, his broad frame ill-suited to the confines of the cramped space. His shoulders nearly grazed the thin, wood-panelled walls as he stepped forward, turning slowly in a circle to take everything in. I saw it on his face—the tight clench of his jaw, the way the corners of his mouth tugged downward. He looked like a man bracing himself for something unpleasant, half-expecting a trap behind the next cupboard door.

I couldn’t blame him. Every instinct in me screamed that we didn’t belong here.

The synthetic fabric of my pyjamas, so familiar and comforting just hours ago, now felt flimsy and absurd. I tugged self-consciously at the hem of my top, as though adjusting it could somehow restore my dignity. I felt exposed—out of place and entirely out of control. My gaze flicked anxiously from one corner to the next, searching for something solid, something recognisable, something safe.

But there was nothing.

The caravan was a patchwork of survival. Pots and pans dangled from wall hooks like forgotten relics, their surfaces tarnished but tidy. A narrow stove sat wedged against the far wall, its burners crusted with the remnants of hastily prepared meals, the smell of burnt onions or tinned soup still lingering faintly in the air.

A double bed dominated the rear of the space, its sheets tangled and sun-faded, the blanket worn thin from use. A fraying flannel dressing gown was slung over one corner of it, a pair of boots abandoned beneath. There were mismatched cushions, half-empty bottles, a tin of powdered milk with the lid off.

It wasn’t dirty, but it wasn’t homely either.

It was the kind of place someone lived when they didn’t expect to be staying long—or didn’t care much if they were.

My throat tightened as the reality of our situation settled more heavily onto my shoulders. This wasn’t a temporary inconvenience. This wasn’t some adventure, some spiritual sabbatical. This was real. Tangible. And terrifying.

I looked to Noah for comfort, but his gaze was fixed on the stove, unmoving, as if trying to understand how we had ended up here. How faith and prophecy had led us to this battered caravan in the middle of a godforsaken dustbowl.

And I had no answer to give him.

But it was the terrarium that caught my eye—the glass enclosure perched on the table like a misplaced artefact, incongruous in the midst of the caravan’s rugged, lived-in clutter. It gleamed beneath a flickering strip light, a miniature world unto itself, humming with life both intricate and grotesque. The moment I registered what it held, my breath hitched in my throat.

Inside, a writhing cluster of baby huntsman spiders skittered over mossy rocks and dried bark, their delicate legs moving with a speed and tenacity that turned my stomach. They swarmed over one another in twitching, unceasing motion, the constant rustle of their tiny limbs barely audible but wholly unsettling. I could feel them in my bones, as though they were crawling not behind glass but over my skin.

Noah leaned in, curious. His breath fogged a corner of the glass, his eyes narrowing with a strange spark of intrigue. I saw that glimmer again—that light of childlike fascination he so often reserved for wildlife documentaries or old natural history books. He tilted his head slightly, lips parting as if about to marvel aloud.

I stared at him, incredulous.

How could he find anything admirable in those creatures? What part of his mind allowed him to look upon them and feel wonder rather than revulsion? There was something unnerving in his calmness, in the way he seemed almost charmed by their jittery movements. I felt a shiver work its way down my spine, a cold thread of fear winding through my chest.

I couldn’t share in his wonder—not even remotely.

The sight of the spiders awakened something primal in me, a deep and clawing discomfort that twisted my insides. Ever since childhood, they had embodied every lurking, shapeless dread. I’d always imagined them hiding in dark corners, waiting in silence, poised to strike.

In scripture, spiders carried sinister symbolism—deceivers, weavers of illusions. Their webs, so delicately spun, were traps, invisible snares crafted in silence and designed to capture the unaware. I had often pictured them in sermons as metaphors for sin—enticing, intricate, near-invisible until you were entangled beyond rescue. That imagery stayed with me, stitched into the fabric of my faith. And now, here they were, in plain sight, in the heart of this strange woman’s home, displayed like harmless pets.

As if there was nothing wrong with it.

As if we were not being constantly watched by the very embodiment of manipulation and cunning.

The nausea came on swiftly, rolling in my gut as I tore my eyes from the terrarium. My palms were slick, my fingers trembling slightly, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck. I wrapped my arms around myself, instinctively protective, as if I could somehow shield my soul from the creeping sense of danger that the glass box stirred in me.

This was not a place of safety. And I no longer knew what kind of people we had found ourselves among.

“Ah, don't mind those,” Karen said, waving dismissively at the terrarium, her tone light and airy, as if she were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. “They're just my little eight-legged roommates.”

Roommates.

My stomach twisted, my skin tightening with a revulsion that crept beneath my collar and settled in my bones. Roommates implied familiarity, tolerance—worse, acceptance. The very thought of cohabiting with those vile things was inconceivable. They were not pets. They were not curious novelties. They were intrusions. An affront to everything a home should be.

“Roommates?” I gasped, my voice pitching up involuntarily, trembling with horror. “In the Bible, spiders are a symbol of—”

But Karen cut across my protest, her tone abruptly sharp, her eyes narrowing with the sort of exasperation that left no room for dissent.

“Hard work and diligence,” she snapped, as if delivering a correction to a wilful student. She gestured vaguely at the terrarium, her hand slicing through the air with finality. “But let's focus on finding you some clothes. I don't think Chris's clothes will fit Noah, but I have something for you, Greta.”

A flush of heat surged up my neck, blooming across my cheeks in a rush of shame. I hadn’t expected her to agree with me—but the swiftness of her dismissal, the way she brushed aside the depth of what I was trying to express, stung in a way I hadn’t anticipated. It was like being told my faith—my lens on the world—was quaint. Outdated. Irrelevant.

To Karen, they were just spiders. Nothing more. Harmless, even helpful. She didn’t see the danger. Couldn’t see the symbolic decay they carried with them, the creeping spiritual erosion they represented.

But I did. I had lived my whole life immersed in the sacred framework of scripture. I'd memorised verses before I knew how to spell properly, sat through thousands of hours of lessons and sermons, each one layering on deeper meaning, deeper vigilance. I had been taught to see the world not only with my eyes but with my spirit—to read the patterns and signs that others ignored.

And in that worldview, spiders were not neutral. They were not benign.

They were warnings.

They were the subtle, glinting threat of temptation—snares laid by the enemy in places you wouldn’t think to look. Their webs, intricate and silken, were metaphors for deception. They spoke to the need for discernment, for constant vigilance. Because once you stepped into the trap—unknowingly, foolishly—it was already too late.

And now, here I stood in the heart of a stranger’s domain, surrounded by things I couldn’t trust, symbols I couldn’t ignore, and being told, with a dismissive flick of the wrist, to forget what I knew. To just... wear a borrowed outfit and carry on.

But how could I pretend everything was fine, when even the spiders knew something I didn’t?

As Karen rummaged through a pile of clothes, muttering something about Chris and sizes, I felt a sudden wave of vulnerability wash over me—a raw, disquieting sensation that went far beyond the mere discomfort of being seen in my pyjamas.

It wasn’t just the thinness of the fabric, or the way it clung unflatteringly in the heat, or even the absurdity of standing here like this in a stranger’s cramped caravan. It was the deeper, more profound sense of exposure, the kind that made my skin prickle and my chest tighten with a hollow sort of shame.

Because underneath the cotton and the elastic and the ridiculous print that had once made me smile, lay something sacred.

My temple garments.

They were hidden, yes—but only just. And the thought of someone, anyone, catching a glimpse of them, even inadvertently, made me feel as if I were being spiritually undressed.

Those garments were not simply underwear. They were consecrated. Holy. A covenant quite literally woven into the fabric of my daily life. They had been bestowed upon me with solemnity, their purpose etched into my soul through whispered oaths and tears of devotion. They were my reminder—to be modest in thought, pure in action, constant in faith. To live as if watched by God in every moment.

And now, in this godforsaken place, I was being asked—no, compelled—to cast them off. To strip away the shield that had been my silent companion through childbearing, illness, grief, and joy. To remove, even briefly, the one physical thing that had always marked the boundary between the world and me.

I felt the blasphemy of it down to my bones.

It wasn’t just discomfort. It was desecration. A tearing away of something sacred in the name of practicality.

A part of me longed to protest, to find a reason, any reason, to delay. But what would I say? That I couldn’t wear someone else's borrowed clothes because they might taint my covenants? That changing garments in a stranger's caravan was a spiritual wound I might never recover from?

The words were ridiculous even as they formed in my head. And yet, the pain was real.

As Karen continued her search, oblivious to the internal maelstrom she had unleashed, I stood rooted to the spot—my hands at my sides, fists clenched, heart pounding. The caravan felt smaller now, pressing in on me from all sides, a cage lined with spiders and secular indifference.

I swallowed hard and prepared myself for the next betrayal I would be forced to endure—for the sake of decency, for the sake of appearances, for the sake of this strange and unwelcome new beginning.

Noah, perhaps sensing my discomfort, made a hasty retreat, mumbling something about waiting outside. I watched him go with a pang of longing—a desperate desire to follow, to escape the claustrophobic confines of the caravan, to breathe in air that wasn’t thick with heat, spiders, and suppressed dread.

But Karen was already pressing a set of clothes into my hands, her fingers brushing against mine with a casual familiarity that felt almost invasive. It was a small gesture, a fleeting touch, but it pierced through me like an arrow. I wasn’t used to such lack of boundaries, to such abrupt physicality, especially not in a moment that felt so personal, so raw. The walls I had spent decades building—the boundaries that kept me poised, composed, safe—quivered under the weight of her indifference.

I looked down at the clothes, tracing the fabric with trembling fingers. They were plain, functional, creased with signs of wear. But it wasn’t their appearance that unsettled me. It was the symbolic weight of what they represented. To put them on was to cast off the last fragments of the life I had known. To change was to submit—to this place, to these people, to a reality that bore no resemblance to the one I had spent my whole life cultivating.

My eyes flicked towards the terrarium once more. The spiders, restless and watchful, seemed to pulse with a strange energy. I couldn’t explain why I looked—some cruel compulsion, perhaps. Or maybe a twisted kind of bravery. To see them again, and still carry on.

“Don't worry,” Karen said, her voice shifting into something gentler, almost maternal. “We're both women here. No need for modesty.”

I managed a weak smile, but it didn’t reach my eyes. Because it wasn’t about modesty. Not really.

It was about something older, something deeper. About the holy vows I had made beneath the bright lights of the temple, clothed in white, bathed in the presence of the divine. It was about holy garments and sacred promises. About faith that lived not just in words but in the folds of fabric, in ritual and obedience.

To bare myself here, in this foreign place, under the eyes of a woman who kept spiders for pets and treated sanctity as sentiment—it felt like betrayal. Not to Karen. Not even to Noah. But to God.

And yet, what choice did I have?

The Lord had asked for sacrifice. I just never imagined it would come in the form of cotton and elastic, or that it would sting so sharply.

“It's not about modesty,” I said, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and reverence, a potent cocktail of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me at any moment. “It's my temple garment. It's sacred to me.”

I looked up at Karen, my eyes searching hers, hoping—no, pleading—for some flicker of understanding. Some recognition of the depth of my devotion, the intimacy of my conviction. But what I found was a blankness, a mild confusion settling over her features like a fog. Her gaze didn’t soften. There was no dawning comprehension. Only the sterile detachment of someone peering into a belief system too alien to grasp.

She paused. Her brow furrowed as if she were trying to calculate something difficult in her mind. “Your what?” she asked at last, curiosity nudging at the corners of her voice. There was a note of incredulity there, barely concealed, like someone trying to be polite in the face of something absurd.

The prickle of defensiveness crept up my spine.

I drew in a deep breath, the air thick in my lungs. And then, with a silent prayer for strength, I opened my mouth and let the truth spill out.

I spoke of the temple—the hush of its marble halls, the reverence in every whispered word, the sacred ceremonies that had marked the most profound spiritual turning points of my life. I told her of the covenants, spoken and eternal, that had sealed my soul to a higher purpose, that had tethered me to God’s will with a binding I wore daily beneath my clothes.

I described the garments, soft but purposeful, unassuming yet profound. Not merely underwear, not mere fabric—but a symbol. A shield. A holy mantle worn by those who had chosen the path of devotion, humility, and obedience. A daily reminder of who I was, of who I was striving to become.

“They mark me,” I said quietly, almost to myself, “as part of a covenant people. A peculiar treasure unto the Lord.”

My words, fragile and sincere, drifted into the close air of the caravan. And still Karen said nothing. Whether out of disbelief or discomfort, I couldn’t say. But I stood there, my heart exposed, my faith laid bare, waiting—hoping—that something I’d said might resonate.

Even if just a little.

But even as I poured out my heart, even as I laid bare the deepest, most cherished beliefs of my soul, I could see the scepticism in Karen's eyes—the way her practical, earthly mind struggled to comprehend the intangible, the ephemeral.

“Well, I guess in Clivilius, practicality trumps tradition,” she blurted out.

Her words landed sharp and unceremonious, jarring in their blunt finality. A harsh reminder of the vast chasm that separated our two worlds, our two ways of making sense of the universe. I stood frozen for a moment, the sting of her dismissal searing into my skin.

My cheeks burned, not just with embarrassment but with a furious heat—a volatile mix of anger and humiliation that made my breath hitch and my eyes smart. How dare she? How dare she reduce my covenants, my sacred identity, to a passing inconvenience? How dare she dismiss my faith—my very centre—as though it were nothing more than a quaint cultural artefact, a piece of outdated decor from a life she could never begin to understand?

The words surged within me, furious and cutting, ready to leap from my tongue and strike. But then, just as the flood threatened to break, something stilled me.

A voice.

Soft. Gentle. Familiar.

“Love your enemies,” it whispered. “Bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”

The Saviour’s words, learned by heart, returned to me not as commandment but as comfort. A rope to cling to in this storm of unbelonging. A reminder that faith, true faith, is not measured by the ease of its expression but by the grace with which it endures rejection.

I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed—deep, long, steadying. The retort I had been crafting in my mind fell away, dissolving into the quiet strength of obedience.

Instead of speaking, I turned to the clothes she had provided. The fabric felt foreign under my fingertips, the fastenings clumsy and unfamiliar, but I focused on the task with as much dignity as I could muster. One sleeve, then the next. A tug here. A button there. Movements brisk and deliberate, my jaw set in silent resolve.

But inside, my mind churned, still reeling from the weight of her words, from the realisation that even here, even in this sun-scorched nowhere, the battle for the soul was far from over.

As I stormed out of the caravan, my heart pounded in my chest, each thud a painful echo of the hurt I was trying so desperately to contain. My breath came in short, sharp gasps, ragged and shallow, as though the very air of this place rejected me as much as its people did. The harsh sunlight struck my face like a reprimand, searing and blinding, but I welcomed it—it was better than the stifling atmosphere I had just escaped.

Karen’s words still rang in my ears, sharp and dismissive, echoing louder than they should have. Her careless rejection of my beliefs—my sacred covenants, the very framework of my life—cut deeper than I’d expected. It wasn’t just a disagreement. It was a dismissal of me, of my essence. A kind of spiritual betrayal that left me raw and exposed, as if she'd reached into my chest and torn out the very thing that made me who I was.

I walked briskly, blindly, tears threatening to well in my eyes. Not from weakness, but from sheer exhaustion—from the relentless onslaught of this forsaken world, from the feeling of being constantly misunderstood, constantly at odds with the rhythm and reason of Clivilius.

But even as the anger threatened to burn through my resolve, even as the sting of humiliation curled like smoke within me, I knew I couldn’t let it take root. I couldn’t let the careless actions of one woman unravel the years of devotion, the lifetimes of promises whispered in sacred halls and spoken aloud before God.

This was a test. A crucible. And I would not fail.

I slowed my steps. Planted my feet on the dry, dusty earth. Drew in a breath—long and deep and steady.

Then, lifting my face to the blinding sky, I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer. Not for retribution, not even for understanding, but for strength. For the grace to endure. For the clarity to remember that my worth did not lie in someone else’s comprehension of my faith—but in my unwavering commitment to it.

When I opened my eyes again, the world had not changed. The sun still burned. The dust still clung. But something within me had settled.

I squared my shoulders.

And I stepped forward into the light—not unscathed, but unbroken. My Heavenly Father walked beside me. He always had. And that, in the end, was all the assurance I needed.