. .
Characteristics. – – . . . Nunez is our chief authority. He instigated the proving and collected much outside information on the action of the poison. ‘Tarantella’ is a dance named from the city of Tarentum. ‘Tarantism’ is a dancing mania, set up in persons bitten by the
Tarentula
, or in those who imagine themselves bitten. The cure is music and dancing . . . Francis Mustel, a peasant, was bitten by a tarentula on the left hand, about the middle of July, as he was gathering corn. He went home with his companions but on the way fell as if struck by apoplexy. Dyspnoea followed, and face, hands, and feet became dark. Knowing the remedy, his companions fetched musicians. When the patient heard their playing he began to revive, to sigh, to move first his feet, then his hands, and then the whole body; at last getting on his feet he took to dancing violently, with sighing so laboured that the bystanders were almost frightened . . . Two hours after the music began the blackness of his face and hands went off, he sweated freely, and regained perfect health.
John Henry Clarke MD,
A Dictionary of Practical
Materia Medica
1
Silas told me that it took about three weeks for his dope supply to run out. He couldn’t be certain, in fact he had no firm idea of how long he spent wasting his days on Thai’s verandah, but that was his guess.
It was Thai who first noticed, reaching into the bag, only to find it empty. The plants she and Matt had grown had long since died, but she was sure Steve could fix them up. He knew someone in the town on the other side of the gulf. The problem was the money, and her eyes had narrowed as she had looked at him.
Silas had just nodded, but when he saw her reach for the phone, he knew she thought he’d agreed to pay. He opened his mouth to speak, and then decided against it. He didn’t have the energy to argue with her.
Stepping out into the hard glare of the morning, he saw the dirt choking the yard, the ruin that had once been his mother’s place, the pot-holed road, the few desert oaks hanging limp in the heat, and beyond all that the undulating roll of those ranges, baking under the unrelenting sun. Hismouth was dry and his skin clammy as he surveyed the scene, not wanting to see what was undeniably there in front of his eyes.
The night before, as he had attempted to stretch out on his single bed, he had let his mind float, luxuriating in images of how wild and inhospitable this country was, how empty, how unaccommodating to even the most basic of human needs. With his neck against the iron bedstead and his feet hanging over the edge, he had been amazed at the change he had made in his life. He was here and he liked it. He would start on the house soon, and as his thoughts had rolled lazily across the possibilities, he had heard the huskiness of Thai’s laughter as Steve had slammed the bedroom door shut, the whole house shuddering for a moment, and the peace in which he had immersed himself had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Wanting only to sleep, he had found himself remembering one of his last conversations with his mother. They had talked as they had always talked, Silas knowing she was half listening, the alcohol blurring all he said so that his words had simply formed a pleasant cloud to be shaped as she pleased. It was only when he had been about to hang up that he had asked her, uncertain as to why the question had suddenly come to his mind, whether he had been a difficult child.
She had been silent for a moment. When she had finally spoken, her voice had been small.
I loved you
.
I know
, he had said.
It was a hard time
.
Lying on the bed out the back of Thai’s, Silas had recalled the peripatetic nature of their lives and how, through it all, his mother had never thought to leave his father. Even when she was hopelessly drunk, her misery at their homelessness palpable beneath the taut surface of her inebriated joy, there was a softness in her gaze, a
Characteristics. – – . . . Nunez is our chief authority. He instigated the proving and collected much outside information on the action of the poison. ‘Tarantella’ is a dance named from the city of Tarentum. ‘Tarantism’ is a dancing mania, set up in persons bitten by the
Tarentula
, or in those who imagine themselves bitten. The cure is music and dancing . . . Francis Mustel, a peasant, was bitten by a tarentula on the left hand, about the middle of July, as he was gathering corn. He went home with his companions but on the way fell as if struck by apoplexy. Dyspnoea followed, and face, hands, and feet became dark. Knowing the remedy, his companions fetched musicians. When the patient heard their playing he began to revive, to sigh, to move first his feet, then his hands, and then the whole body; at last getting on his feet he took to dancing violently, with sighing so laboured that the bystanders were almost frightened . . . Two hours after the music began the blackness of his face and hands went off, he sweated freely, and regained perfect health.
John Henry Clarke MD,
A Dictionary of Practical
Materia Medica
1
Silas told me that it took about three weeks for his dope supply to run out. He couldn’t be certain, in fact he had no firm idea of how long he spent wasting his days on Thai’s verandah, but that was his guess.
It was Thai who first noticed, reaching into the bag, only to find it empty. The plants she and Matt had grown had long since died, but she was sure Steve could fix them up. He knew someone in the town on the other side of the gulf. The problem was the money, and her eyes had narrowed as she had looked at him.
Silas had just nodded, but when he saw her reach for the phone, he knew she thought he’d agreed to pay. He opened his mouth to speak, and then decided against it. He didn’t have the energy to argue with her.
Stepping out into the hard glare of the morning, he saw the dirt choking the yard, the ruin that had once been his mother’s place, the pot-holed road, the few desert oaks hanging limp in the heat, and beyond all that the undulating roll of those ranges, baking under the unrelenting sun. Hismouth was dry and his skin clammy as he surveyed the scene, not wanting to see what was undeniably there in front of his eyes.
The night before, as he had attempted to stretch out on his single bed, he had let his mind float, luxuriating in images of how wild and inhospitable this country was, how empty, how unaccommodating to even the most basic of human needs. With his neck against the iron bedstead and his feet hanging over the edge, he had been amazed at the change he had made in his life. He was here and he liked it. He would start on the house soon, and as his thoughts had rolled lazily across the possibilities, he had heard the huskiness of Thai’s laughter as Steve had slammed the bedroom door shut, the whole house shuddering for a moment, and the peace in which he had immersed himself had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Wanting only to sleep, he had found himself remembering one of his last conversations with his mother. They had talked as they had always talked, Silas knowing she was half listening, the alcohol blurring all he said so that his words had simply formed a pleasant cloud to be shaped as she pleased. It was only when he had been about to hang up that he had asked her, uncertain as to why the question had suddenly come to his mind, whether he had been a difficult child.
She had been silent for a moment. When she had finally spoken, her voice had been small.
I loved you
.
I know
, he had said.
It was a hard time
.
Lying on the bed out the back of Thai’s, Silas had recalled the peripatetic nature of their lives and how, through it all, his mother had never thought to leave his father. Even when she was hopelessly drunk, her misery at their homelessness palpable beneath the taut surface of her inebriated joy, there was a softness in her gaze, a
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