Valley of Spiders

by H. G. Wells

Towards mid-day the three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in

the torrent bed upon the sight of a very broad and spacious valley.

The difficult and winding trench of pebbles along which they had

tracked the fugitives for so long, expanded to a broad slope,

and with a common impulse the three men left the trail, and rode

to a little eminence set with olive-dun trees, and there halted,

the two others, as became them, a little behind the man with

the silver-studded bridle.

 

For a space they scanned the great expanse below them with eager eyes.

It spread remoter and remoter, with only a few clusters of sere

thorn bushes here and there, and the dim suggestions of some now

waterless ravine, to break its desolation of yellow grass. Its purple

distances melted at last into the bluish slopes of the further hills–

hills it might be of a greener kind–and above them invisibly

supported, and seeming indeed to hang in the blue, were the snowclad

summits of mountains that grew larger and bolder to the north-westward

as the sides of the valley drew together. And westward the valley

opened until a distant darkness under the sky told where the forests

began. But the three men looked neither east nor west, but only

steadfastly across the valley.

 

The gaunt man with the scarred lip was the first to speak. “Nowhere,”

he said, with a sigh of disappointment in his voice. “But after all,

they had a full day’s start.”

 

“They don’t know we are after them,” said the little man on the white

horse.

 

“SHE would know,” said the leader bitterly, as if speaking to himself.

 

“Even then they can’t go fast. They’ve got no beast but the mule,

and all to-day the girl’s foot has been bleeding—”

 

The man with the silver bridle flashed a quick intensity of rage

on him. “Do you think I haven’t seen that?” he snarled.

 

“It helps, anyhow,” whispered the little man to himself.

 

The gaunt man with the scarred lip stared impassively. “They can’t

be over the valley,” he said. “If we ride hard–”

 

He glanced at the white horse and paused.

 

“Curse all white horses!” said the man with the silver bridle,

and turned to scan the beast his curse included.

 

The little man looked down between the melancholy ears of his steed.

 

“I did my best,” he said.

 

The two others stared again across the valley for a space. The gaunt

man passed the back of his hand across the scarred lip.

 

“Come up!” said the man who owned the silver bridle, suddenly.

The little man started and jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs

of the three made a multitudinous faint pattering upon the withered

grass as they turned back towards the trail. . . .

 

They rode cautiously down the long slope before them, and so came

through a waste of prickly, twisted bushes and strange dry shapes

of horny branches that grew amongst the rocks, into the levels below.

And there the trail grew faint, for the soil was scanty, and the only

herbage was this scorched dead straw that lay upon the ground.

Still, by hard scanning, by leaning beside the horses’ necks and

pausing ever and again, even these white men could contrive to follow

after their prey.

 

There were trodden places, bent and broken blades of the coarse

grass, and ever and again the sufficient intimation of a footmark.

And once the leader saw a brown smear of blood where the half-caste

girl may have trod. And at that under his breath he cursed her for

a fool.

 

The gaunt man checked his leader’s tracking, and the little man

on the white horse rode behind, a man lost in a dream. They rode

one after another, the man with the silver bridle led the way,

and they spoke never a word. After a time it came to the little man

on the white horse that the world was very still. He started out

of his dream. Besides the little noises of their horses and equipment,

the whole great valley kept the brooding quiet of a painted scene.

 

Before him went his master and his fellow, each intently leaning

forward to the left, each impassively moving with the paces of his

horse; their shadows went before them–still, noiseless, tapering

attendants; and nearer a crouched cool shape was his own. He looked

about him. What was it had gone? Then he remembered the reverberation

from the banks of the gorge and the perpetual accompaniment of

shifting, jostling pebbles. And, moreover–? There was no breeze.

That was it! What a vast, still place it was, a monotonous afternoon

slumber. And the sky open and blank, except for a sombre veil of haze

that had gathered in the upper valley.

 

He straightened his back, fretted with his bridle, puckered his lips

to whistle, and simply sighed. He turned in his saddle for a time,

and stared at the throat of the mountain gorge out of which they

had come. Blank! Blank slopes on either side, with never a sign

of a decent beast or tree–much less a man. What a land it was!

What a wilderness! He dropped again into his former pose.

 

It filled him with a momentary pleasure to see a wry stick of purple

black flash out into the form of a snake, and vanish amidst the brown.

After all, the infernal valley WAS alive. And then, to rejoice him

still more, came a little breath across his face, a whisper that

came and went, the faintest inclination of a stiff black-antlered

bush upon a little crest, the first intimations of a possible breeze.

Idly he wetted his finger, and held it up.

 

He pulled up sharply to avoid a collision with the gaunt man, who

had stopped at fault upon the trail. Just at that guilty moment

he caught his master’s eye looking towards him.

 

For a time he forced an interest in the tracking. Then, as they rode

on again, he studied his master’s shadow and hat and shoulder,

appearing and disappearing behind the gaunt man’s nearer contours.

They had ridden four days out of the very limits of the world into

this desolate place, short of water, with nothing but a strip

of dried meat under their saddles, over rocks and mountains,

where surely none but these fugitives had ever been before–for THAT!

 

And all this was for a girl, a mere willful child! And the man

had whole cityfulls of people to do his basest bidding–girls, women!

Why in the name of passionate folly THIS one in particular? asked

the little man, and scowled at the world, and licked his parched lips

with a blackened tongue. It was the way of the master, and that

was all he knew. Just because she sought to evade him. . . .

 

His eye caught a whole row of high plumed canes bending in unison,

and then the tails of silk that hung before his neck flapped and fell.

The breeze was growing stronger. Somehow it took the stiff stillness

out of things–and that was well.

 

“Hullo!” said the gaunt man.

 

All three stopped abruptly.

 

“What?” asked the master. “What?”

 

“Over there,” said the gaunt man, pointing up the valley.

 

“What?”

 

“Something coming towards us.”

 

And as he spoke a yellow animal crested a rise and came bearing

down upon them. It was a big wild dog, coming before the wind,

tongue out, at a steady pace, and running with such an intensity

of purpose that he did not seem to see the horsemen he approached.

He ran with his nose up, following, it was plain, neither scent

nor quarry. As he drew nearer the little man felt for his sword.

“He’s mad,” said the gaunt rider.

 

“Shout!” said the little man, and shouted.

 

The dog came on. Then when the little man’s blade was already out,

it swerved aside and went panting by them and past. The eyes of

the little man followed its flight. “There was no foam,” he said.

For a space the man with the silver-studded bridle stared up

the valley. “Oh, come on!” he cried at last. “What does it matter?”

and jerked his horse into movement again.

 

The little man left the insoluble mystery of a dog that fled from

nothing but the wind, and lapsed into profound musings on human

character. “Come on!” he whispered to himself. “Why should it be

given to one man to say ‘Come on!’ with that stupendous violence

of effect. Always, all his life, the man with the silver bridle

has been saying that. If _I_ said it–!” thought the little man.

But people marvelled when the master was disobeyed even in the wildest

things. This half-caste girl seemed to him, seemed to every one,

mad–blasphemous almost. The little man, by way of comparison,

reflected on the gaunt rider with the scarred lip, as stalwart as

his master, as brave and, indeed, perhaps braver, and yet for him

there was obedience, nothing but to give obedience duly and stoutly. . .

 

Certain sensations of the hands and knees called the little man back

to more immediate things. He became aware of something. He rode up

beside his gaunt fellow. “Do you notice the horses?” he said in an

undertone.

 

The gaunt face looked interrogation.

 

“They don’t like this wind,” said the little man, and dropped behind

as the man with the silver bridle turned upon him.

 

“It’s all right,” said the gaunt-faced man.

 

They rode on again for a space in silence. The foremost two rode

downcast upon the trail, the hindmost man watched the haze that

crept down the vastness of the valley, nearer and nearer, and noted

how the wind grew in strength moment by moment. Far away on the left

he saw a line of dark bulks–wild hog perhaps, galloping down

the valley, but of that he said nothing, nor did he remark again upon

the uneasiness of the horses.

 

And then he saw first one and then a second great white ball,

a great shining white ball like a gigantic head of thistle-down,

that drove before the wind athwart the path. These balls soared

high in the air, and dropped and rose again and caught for a moment,

and hurried on and passed, but at the sight of them the restlessness

of the horses increased.

 

Then presently he saw that more of these drifting globes–and then

soon very many more–were hurrying towards him down the valley.

 

They became aware of a squealing. Athwart the path a huge boar rushed,

turning his head but for one instant to glance at them, and then

hurling on down the valley again. And at that, all three stopped

and sat in their saddles, staring into the thickening haze that

was coming upon them.

 

“If it were not for this thistle-down–” began the leader.

 

But now a big globe came drifting past within a score of yards

of them. It was really not an even sphere at all, but a vast, soft,

ragged, filmy thing, a sheet gathered by the corners, an aerial

jelly-fish, as it were, but rolling over and over as it advanced,

and trailing long, cobwebby threads and streamers that floated

in its wake.

 

“It isn’t thistle-down,” said the little man.

 

“I don’t like the stuff,” said the gaunt man.

 

And they looked at one another.

 

“Curse it!” cried the leader. “The air’s full of it up there.

If it keeps on at this pace long, it will stop us altogether.”

 

An instinctive feeling, such as lines out a herd of deer at the

approach of some ambiguous thing, prompted them to turn their horses

to the wind, ride forward for a few paces, and stare at that advancing

multitude of floating masses. They came on before the wind with a sort

of smooth swiftness, rising and falling noiselessly, sinking to earth,

rebounding high, soaring–all with a perfect unanimity, with a still,

deliberate assurance.

 

Right and left of the horsemen the pioneers of this strange army

passed. At one that rolled along the ground, breaking shapelessly

and trailing out reluctantly into long grappling ribbons and bands,

all three horses began to shy and dance. The master was seized

with a sudden unreasonable impatience. He cursed the drifting globes

roundly. “Get on!” he cried; “get on! What do these things matter?

How CAN they matter? Back to the trail!” He fell swearing at his horse

and sawed the bit across its mouth.

 

He shouted aloud with rage. “I will follow that trail, I tell you!”

he cried. “Where is the trail?”

 

He gripped the bridle of his prancing horse and searched amidst

the grass. A long and clinging thread fell across his face, a grey

streamer dropped about his bridle-arm, some big, active thing

with many legs ran down the back of his head. He looked up to discover

one of those grey masses anchored as it were above him by these things

and flapping out ends as a sail flaps when a boat comes, about–

but noiselessly.

 

He had an impression of many eyes, of a dense crew of squat bodies,

of long, many-jointed limbs hauling at their mooring ropes to bring

the thing down upon him. For a space he stared up, reining in his

prancing horse with the instinct born of years of horsemanship.

Then the flat of a sword smote his back, and a blade flashed overhead

and cut the drifting balloon of spider-web free, and the whole mass

lifted softly and drove clear and away.

 

“Spiders!” cried the voice of the gaunt man. “The things are full

of big spiders! Look, my lord!”

 

The man with the silver bridle still followed the mass that drove away.

 

“Look, my lord!”

 

The master found himself staring down at a red, smashed thing

on the ground that, in spite of partial obliteration, could still

wriggle unavailing legs. Then when the gaunt man pointed to another

mass that bore down upon them, he drew his sword hastily. Up the

valley now it was like a fog bank torn to rags. He tried to grasp the

situation.

 

“Ride for it!” the little man was shouting. “Ride for it down the

valley.”

 

What happened then was like the confusion of a battle. The man

with the silver bridle saw the little man go past him slashing

furiously at imaginary cobwebs, saw him cannon into the horse

of the gaunt man and hurl it and its rider to earth. His own horse

went a dozen paces before he could rein it in. Then he looked up

to avoid imaginary dangers, and then back again to see a horse

rolling on the ground, the gaunt man standing and slashing over it

at a rent and fluttering mass of grey that streamed and wrapped

about them both. And thick and fast as thistle-down on waste land

on a windy day in July, the cobweb masses were coming on.

 

The little man had dismounted, but he dared not release his horse.

He was endeavouring to lug the struggling brute back with the strength

of one arm, while with the other he slashed aimlessly, The tentacles

of a second grey mass had entangled themselves with the struggle,

and this second grey mass came to its moorings, and slowly sank.

 

The master set his teeth, gripped his bridle, lowered his head,

and spurred his horse forward. The horse on the ground rolled over,

there were blood and moving shapes upon the flanks, and the gaunt man,

suddenly leaving it, ran forward towards his master, perhaps ten paces.

His legs were swathed and encumbered with grey; he made ineffectual

movements with his sword. Grey streamers waved from him; there was

a thin veil of grey across his face. With his left hand he beat at

something on his body, and suddenly he stumbled and fell. He struggled

to rise, and fell again, and suddenly, horribly, began to howl,

“Oh–ohoo, ohooh!”

 

The master could see the great spiders upon him, and others upon

the ground.

 

As he strove to force his horse nearer to this gesticulating,

screaming grey object that struggled up and down, there came a

clatter of hoofs, and the little man, in act of mounting, swordless,

balanced on his belly athwart the white horse, and clutching its mane,

whirled past. And again a clinging thread of grey gossamer swept

across the master’s face. All about him, and over him, it seemed

this drifting, noiseless cobweb circled and drew nearer him. . . .

 

To the day of his death he never knew just how the event of that moment

happened. Did he, indeed, turn his horse, or did it really of its

own accord stampede after its fellow? Suffice it that in another

second he was galloping full tilt down the valley with his sword

whirling furiously overhead. And all about him on the quickening

breeze, the spiders’ airships, their air bundles and air sheets,

seemed to him to hurry in a conscious pursuit.

 

Clatter, clatter, thud, thud–the man with the silver bridle rode,

heedless of his direction, with his fearful face looking up now right,

now left, and his sword arm ready to slash. And a few hundred yards

ahead of him, with a tail of torn cobweb trailing behind him, rode

the little man on the white horse, still but imperfectly in the saddle.

The reeds bent before them, the wind blew fresh and strong, over his

shoulder the master could see the webs hurrying to overtake. . . .

 

He was so intent to escape the spiders’ webs that only as his horse

gathered together for a leap did he realise the ravine ahead. And then

he reaIised it only to misunderstand and interfere. He was leaning

forward on his horse’s neck and sat up and back all too late.

 

But if in his excitement he had failed to leap, at any rate he had

not forgotten how to fall. He was horseman again in mid-air.

He came off clear with a mere bruise upon his shoulder, and his horse

rolled, kicking spasmodic legs, and lay still. But the master’s sword

drove its point into the hard soil, and snapped clean across, as

though Chance refused him any longer as her Knight, and the splintered

end missed his face by an inch or so.

 

He was on his feet in a moment, breathlessly scanning the onrushing

spider-webs. For a moment he was minded to run, and then thought

of the ravine, and turned back. He ran aside once to dodge one drifting

terror, and then he was swiftly clambering down the precipitous sides,

and out of the touch of the gale.

 

There under the lee of the dry torrent’s steeper banks he might

crouch, and watch these strange, grey masses pass and pass in safety

till the wind fell, and it became possible to escape. And there

for a long time he crouched, watching the strange, grey, ragged

masses trail their streamers across his narrowed sky.

 

Once a stray spider fell into the ravine close beside him–a full

foot it measured from leg to leg, and its body was half a man’s hand–

and after he had watched its monstrous alacrity of search and escape

for a little while, and tempted it to bite his broken sword, he lifted

up his iron-heeled boot and smashed it into a pulp. He swore as he did

so, and for a time sought up and down for another.

 

Then presently, when he was surer these spider swarms could not

drop into the ravine, he found a place where he could sit down,

and sat and fell into deep thought and began after his manner

to gnaw his knuckles and bite his nails. And from this he was moved

by the coming of the man with the white horse.

 

He heard him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs,

stumbling footsteps, and a reassuring voice. Then the little man

appeared, a rueful figure, still with a tail of white cobweb trailing

behind him. They approached each other without speaking, without

a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch

of hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last, face to face with

his seated master. The latter winced a little under his dependant’s

eye. “Well?” he said at last, with no pretence of authority.

 

“You left him?”

 

“My horse bolted.”

 

“I know. So did mine.”

 

He laughed at his master mirthlessly.

 

“I say my horse bolted,” said the man who once had a silver-studded

bridle.

 

“Cowards both,” said the little man.

 

The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments,

with his eye on his inferior.

 

“Don’t call me a coward,” he said at length.

 

“You are a coward like myself.”

 

“A coward possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear.

That I have learnt at last. But not like yourself. That is where

the difference comes in.”

 

“I never could have dreamt you would have left him. He saved

your life two minutes before. . . . Why are you our lord?”

 

The master gnawed his knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.

 

“No man calls me a coward,” he said. “No. A broken sword is better

than none. . . . One spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry

two men a four days’ journey. I hate white horses, but this time

it cannot be helped. You begin to understand me? . . . I perceive

that you are minded, on the strength of what you have seen and fancy,

to taint my reputation. It is men of your sort who unmake kings.

Besides which–I never liked you.”

 

“My lord!” said the little man.

 

“No,” said the master. “NO!”

 

He stood up sharply as the little man moved. For a minute perhaps

they faced one another. Overhead the spiders’ balls went driving.

There was a quick movement among the pebbles; a running of feet,

a cry of despair, a gasp and a blow. . . .

 

Towards nightfall the wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity,

and the man who had once possessed the silver bridle came at last

very cautiously and by an easy slope out of the ravine again; but now

he led the white horse that once belonged to the little man.

He would have gone back to his horse to get his silver-mounted

bridle again, but he feared night and a quickening breeze might

still find him in the valley, and besides he disliked greatly

to think he might discover his horse all swathed in cobwebs

and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.

 

And as he thought of those cobwebs and of all the dangers he

had been through, and the manner in which he had been preserved

that day, his hand sought a little reliquary that hung about his neck,

and he clasped it for a moment with heartfelt gratitude. As he did so

his eyes went across the valley.

 

“I was hot with passion,” he said, “and now she has met her reward.

They also, no doubt–”

 

And behold! Far away out of the wooded slopes across the valley,

but in the clearness of the sunset distinct and unmistakable,

he saw a little spire of smoke.

 

At that his expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed

anger. Smoke? He turned the head of the white horse about, and

hesitated. And as he did so a little rustle of air went through the

grass about him. Far away upon some reeds swayed a tattered sheet of

grey. He looked at the cobwebs; he looked at the smoke.

 

“Perhaps, after all, it is not them,” he said at last.

 

But he knew better.

 

After he had stared at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white

horse.

 

As he rode, he picked his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some

reason there were many dead spiders on the ground, and those that

lived feasted guiltily on their fellows. At the sound of his horse’s

hoofs they fled.

 

Their time had passed. From the ground without either a wind to carry

them or a winding sheet ready, these things, for all their poison,

could do him little evil. He flicked with his belt at those

he fancied came too near. Once, where a number ran together over

a bare place, he was minded to dismount and trample them with his boots,

but this impulse he overcame. Ever and again he turned in his saddle,

and looked back at the smoke.

 

“Spiders,” he muttered over and over again. “Spiders! Well, well. . . .

The next time I must spin a web.”

 

Advertisements

Speak Up

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s