The Valley Of Spiders: A Bedtime Story

The Valley of Spiders by H.

G.

Wells Towards midday,

The three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in the torrent bed upon the site 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.

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

It spread remoter and remoter,

With only a few clusters of seer 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 snow-clad 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 where 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 hooves 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 horse's 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-cast 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.

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.

Against 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 attendance,

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 somber 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 whetted 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.

All this was for a girl,

A mere willful child,

And the man had whole city-fulls 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.

Hello?

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 arise and came bearing down upon them.

It was a big wild dog,

Coming before the wind.

Coming out at a steady pace and running with such an intensity of purpose that he did not seem to see the horseman 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 passed.

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 had been saying that.

If I said it,

Thought the little man.

People marveled when the master was disobeyed,

Even in the wildest things.

This half-caste girl seemed to him,

Seemed to everyone,

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 as 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 a 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 jellyfish 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.

Then 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 all together.

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 the 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 loud 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 gray 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 gray 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,

Reigning 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 spiderweb 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,

And with a 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 him,

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 the 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 gray that streamed and wrapped about them both.

And thick and fast as thistle down on wasteland 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 endeavoring to lug the struggling brute back with the strength of one arm,

While with the other he slashed aimlessly.

Tentacles of a second gray mass had entangled themselves with the struggle,

And this second gray 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 gray.

He made ineffectual movements with his sword.

Gray streamers waved from him.

There was a thin veil of gray across his face.

With his left hand he beat something on his body,

And suddenly he stumbled and fell.

He struggled to rise and fell again,

And suddenly,

Horribly,

Began to howl.

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 gray 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 gray 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,

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 realize the ravine ahead,

And then he realized 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 a 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 gray 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,

Gray,

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 he was sure 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 hooves,

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 dependent's eye.

Well,

He said at last,

With no pretense 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 alength.

The little man was a little more than a coward,

And he was a little more than a coward.

With his eye on his inferior,

Don't call me a coward,

He said alength.

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 spider's 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.

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 that 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?

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 gray.

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 hooves,

They fled.

Their time had passed.

From the ground without either a wind to carry them or 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.

Next time I must spin a web.