The Spinner of Darkness

By Intan Paramaditha

When I was a child, my mother would always tell me stories about the ghostly woman who lived in the attic of our house. Back then, I was so terrified that I would hide my head under the pillow when night fell. Yet, nothing sparked my imagination more than a good mystery.

I always fancied myself a young detective with an insatiable curiosity. The nights, often filled with strange noises coming from the attic, awakened my inner desire to uncover mysteries. The sounds were just rats scurrying about, but childhood is a time of boundless imagination. I imagined a treasure hidden in a chest up there. To open it, one would have to defeat its guardian—a giant spider that wraps its victims in webs before devouring them. The room was dark, but light a candle, and you would see the rigid corpses of its human prey hanging like ghastly ornaments.

Day and night, I tried to sneak a peek into our attic, but Mother always kept it locked. I would press my ear against the door, hoping to hear the cry of a child—a pirate’s daughter imprisoned by her father’s enemies. If I found her, she would reveal the secret of the greatest treasure of the century.

My overactive imagination led me to lose interest in everything else, consumed by the mystery behind that door. When I drew with crayons, my pictures were of a dark attic with a radiant treasure inside. Other times, I drew a coiled serpent, ready to strike its prey. I conjured various versions of the attic’s contents until Mother told me what she believed truly lay within.

The attic’s greatest secret, she said, was a female ghost with long, flowing hair, always seated before a spinning wheel. Her face slashed with reddish-brown scars, as if clawed by a wild beast. Her eyes glowed red like flames. When she opened her mouth, you would see her long fangs. She sat so engrossed at her spinning wheel because she was weaving a blanket for her beloved—a human hunter who roamed the forest.

The ghost could change her form during the day, blending in with humans. She could be anyone—a woman, a man, a child, or an old hag. When she saw the hunter, she transformed into a beautiful maiden. The man was enchanted. They met in a golden field, shared stories. The man never knew that each time the woman appeared, birds scattered wildly, snails and small creatures started to fidget anxiously. Animals have keener senses than humans.

One day, the man announced he would be gone for a time. He planned to explore the forests throughout the land, searching for a golden-maned lion. This lion, it was said, was an priceless treasure that would bestow on its owner fabulously wealth. The ghost was heartbroken, but knew that she had to allow him to leave. Before setting off on his journey, they promised to meet in the woods.

That evening, the sun’s light faded like a dimming neon light. The hunter leaned against a tree with his lover, dreaming aloud about the wonderful life they would have once he had found the lion. “Be my wife, and let’s live by the river,” he said. “Our house will be small, but we will always hear the sound of water and children’s laughter.” The ghost was entranced, unaware that night was falling. Trees blackened as dark clouds swallowed the sky. Dogs began to howl, sensing the supernatural. The full moon rose silently from its lair.

The poor ghost forgot she could only change her form during the day. Night stripped away her disguise, and the moonlight exposed her true face. Her lover screamed in horror. The beautiful woman he knew had transformed into a hideous creature. Words were incapable of capturing his terror. He fled, leaving the ghost behind alone.

“Lucky, he escaped!” I exclaimed, clutching my pillow in a mix of fear and relief.

“You don’t know what happened to the ghost,” my mother interrupted.

“Does it matter?”

“Hey! She’s our main character!”

Oh, of course, I nodded. We often lose focus, when we disregard things we feel are unimportant.

Mother said the ghost was devastated. She had never revealed her true self, and her lover had fled before she could. Furious, she roamed from house to house, causing disturbances and unsettling humans. Babies cried sensing her presence, and priests chanted to ward off her presence. But one day, she realized that causing havoc would not quench her love for the hunter. She remembered that he had no warm clothes for his long journey. No thick blanket to protect him from the forest’s chill. So, the ghost chose a dark hiding place to weave a blanket for him. Yes, she worked at her spinning wheel in our attic for thousands of nights.

“And she’s still there?”

Her work, Mother said, would never end. For the ghost was not using thread for her blanket. She was spinning the darkness.

I stopped thinking about the Spinner of Darkness when my mother divorced my father. Since I turned 13, it has been just the two of us. She still told stories, but somehow, they lost their charm. I guessed that Mother had grown tired of storytelling. Her eyes were vacant. Her tales lacked energy. Unlike when Father was with us, she now seemed weary. She often returned home late.

Mother tried to ensure our life did not change. She still drove me to school, made breakfast, called me from work, and kissed me goodnight. She was always sweet, but as I said, she had lost her spark. As I grew into a teenager, I grew bored with the quiet house and preferred being with friends. I saw Mother less, but she continued to do her duty: driving me places, cooking, calling, kissing me goodnight.

When I turned 16, Mother started to see someone. A tall, burly man often visited. I called him Uncle Ferry. I liked him because he told me stories about his travels abroad. But a few months later, there was another man. Uncle Riza. After that, different men came, and went, until I could no longer remember their names. One neighbor asked me while I was watering the garden, “Which one is going to become your new father?” Too many men visiting our house sparked gossip.

“What does your mother do?” Nina, the girl next door, asked.

I shrugged. My mother made breakfast, and kissed my cheek at night. What need had I to know more if that was enough for me?

“My mom says your mother’s hiding something,” Nina whispered conspiratorially. “Can she really support you just by working in an office?”

The neighborhood gossip grew louder. People accused my mother of exploiting her boyfriends, draining their wallets. Others doubted whether she was even really dating them. Some spread rumors that she was embezzling money from her job. The essence of all these accusations was that as a widow my mother occupied a precarious position. All this swirled in my head, but I dared not ask Mother about any of it.

As I grew older, I became more certain that my mother was hiding something. I realized that she had been acting strangely for a long time. I remembered waking up one night to my parents fighting, hurling words at each other that should never have been spoken. The next morning, Mother made me a strawberry jam sandwich and chocolate milk. Hummed cheerfully. Voice as sweet as a canary’s song.

One Sunday, I heard her break a plate, she was screaming in the kitchen. She claimed her hands had been slippery as she washed the dishes. But I was sure she had done it on purpose. After, she quickly covered over the incident by taking me to the movies.

Sometimes I heard strange noises from her room. One night, the silence was shattered by a scream mixed with angry sobbing. I rushed to her door and knocked. After a long wait, she finally opened it. But she accused me of waking her. She insisted I had imagined hearing someone screaming.

“You just had a bad dream,” she said.

But I was certain I had heard her voice.

Mother’s lovers and the accompanying hot gossip faded with time. Eventually, she retired, and it was my turn to support us as I had started working. We often went out together on weekends, but I knew there was a mystery within her that I could never unravel. She always kept something hidden, including the illness that had been silently ravaging her body.

She had cervical cancer. She went to the doctor in secret, using her savings. When I began to suspect, she related to me that it was just a cyst that had been discovered recently. Not malignant cancer. I didn’t know whether to be angry or sad. I tried to spend more time with her. I wanted to make her happy. Somehow, though, I felt I never truly knew my mother.

One day, she said her time was running out. Without allowing me to protest, she took my hand. “I want to show you something.”

She led me to the attic. Yes, the attic that had once fascinated me. But I had forgotten about it, just as I had forgotten my mother’s face when she was the greatest storyteller.

As the door opened after she turned the key, I saw a disappointing sight. The attic smelled musty. It was filled with dust and cobwebs. Inside was some old, termite-eaten furniture. It was dark and cramped, no treasure or giant snake to be seen.

Ignoring my reluctance, Mother led me to a mirror. She stood directly in front of the mirror. She pointed at the reflection.

She said firmly, “Look. That is the Spinner of Darkness.”

I was shocked. I did not expect her to say that. The Spinner of Darkness was just a figment of my childhood imagination, something I thought we had both long forgotten about. But out of respect for her, I glanced at the reflection in the mirror, Mother’s reflection, of course.

“Look again!” she urged.

I sharpened my gaze. I reached back to those times when we reveled in the mysteries of the attic, welcomed wild, boundless imagination, and the nights curled up under blankets. Suddenly, I felt a shiver. I did see Mother. Yes, that woman. Her flowing hair, her face etched with painful lines, her eyes blazing like fiery orbs consuming everyone who dared to gaze. A ghostly woman harboring love, longing, pain, desire, rage—spinning an intense passion, ceaselessly, without end.

Mother had been honest at last. No mystery, no riddles.

My mother was the Spinner of Darkness.

Jakarta, August 21, 2004

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Retrieved from https://cerpenkompas.wordpress.com/2004/10/31/pemintal-kegelapan/#more-275. [Accessed 1/06/2024] This is an unauthorized experimental translation for internal consumption only.

A little background on the author:

Profile and Interviews:

• The Guardian: An article featuring Paramaditha discussing her novel The Wandering and its themes. The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/mar/06/the-wandering-intan-paramaditha-review-indonesian-writer-debut-novel.

Academic Background:

• Macquarie University: Faculty page with details on her academic career and research interests. Macquarie University, https://researchers.mq.edu.au/en/persons/intan-paramaditha.

Literary Contributions:

• Penguin Random House: Publisher’s page for The Wandering with a biography and summary of her works. Penguin Random House, https://www.penguin.com.au/authors/intan-paramaditha.

Recognition and Reviews:

• The Jakarta Post: An article discussing Paramaditha’s influence on Indonesian literature and reviews of her works. The Jakarta Post.
• Asia Society: A review of her collection Apple and Knife and its impact on readers. Asia Society.