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The Valley of the Spiders by H. G. Wells · Weird Tales Presents: Web of the Spider!

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Section eight of Weird Tales presents Web of the Spider. This is a LibriVox
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recording. All librevox accordings were in the public domain from information not a volunteer.
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Please visit librox dot org. Weird Tails presents Web of the Spider.
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The Valley of the Spiders by H. G. Wells. Towards midday,
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the three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in the torrent bed, upon the
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site of a very broad and spacious valley. The difficult and winding trench of
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pebbles along which they had tracked the fugitives for so long, expanded to a
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broad slope, and with the common impulse, the three men left the trail
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and rode to a little eminence set with olive dun trees, and there halted
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the two others as became them. Little behind the man with the silver studded
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bridle. For a space they scanned the great expanse below them with eager eyes.
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It spread remoter and remoter, with only a few clusters of seer through
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bushes here and there, and the dim suggestions of some now waterless ravine to
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break its desolation of yellow grass. His purple distances melted at last into the
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blushed slopes of the further hills. Hills, it might be a greener kind,
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and above them, invisibly supported, and seeming indeed to hang on in
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the blue with the snow clad summits of mountains that grew larger and bolder to
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the northwestward, as the sides of the valley drew together and westward, the
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valley opened, until a distant darkness under the sky told where the forests began.
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But the three men looked neither east nor west, but only steadfastly across
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the valley. The gaunt man at the scarred lip was the first to speak.
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Nowhere, he said, with a sigh of disappointment in his voice.
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But after all, they had a full day's start. They don't know we
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are after them, said the little man on the white horse. She would
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know, said the leader bitterly, if speaking to himself. Even they can't
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go fast. They've got no beast but the mule, and all to day
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the ELL's foot has been bleeding. The man at the silver bridle flashed a
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quick intensity of rage on him. Do you think I haven't seen that?
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He snarled. It helps anyhow, whispered the little man to himself. The
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gaunt man at the squarred lip stared impassively. They can't be over the valley,
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he said, if we ride hard. He glanced at the white horse
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and paused. Curse all white horses, said the man at the silver bridle,
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and turned to scan the beast. His curse included. The little man
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looked down between the melancholy ears of his steed. I did my best,
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he said. The two others stared again across the valley for a space.
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The gaunt man passed the back of his hand across the scuarred lip. Come
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up, said the man who owned the silver bridle. Suddenly the little man
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started and jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs of the three made a
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multitudinous fate pattering upon the withered grass as they turned back towards the trail.
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They rode cautiously down the long slope before them, and so came a waste
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of prickly twisted bushes and strange dry shapes of horny branches that grew amongst the
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rocks into the levels below. And there the trail grew faint, for the
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soil was scanty and the only herbage was this scorched dead straw that lay upon
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the ground. Still, by hard scanning, by leaning beside the horses's necks
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and pausing, ever and again, even those white men could contrive to follow
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after their prey. There were trodden places, bent and broken blades of the
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coarse grass, and ever and again the sufficient imitation of a footmark. And
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once the leader saw a brown smear of blood where the half cast girl may
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have trod, and at that, under his breath he cursed her for a
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fool. The gaunt man checked, as leaders tracking, and the little man
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on the white horse rode behind, a little lost in a dream, the
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road after one another. The man of the silver bridle led the way,
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and they spoke in ever a word. After a time, it came to
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the little man on the white horse that the world was very still. He
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started out of his dream. Besides the little noises of their horses and equipment,
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the whole great valley kept the brooding quiet of a painted scene. Before
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him went his master and his fellow, each intently leaning forward to the left,
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each impassively moving with the paces of his horse. The shadows went before
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them, still noiseless, tapering attendants, and nearer a crouched cool shape was
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his own. He looked about him. What was it had gone? Then?
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He remembered the reverberation from the banks of the gorge, and the perpetual
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accompaniment of shifting, jostling pebbles, and moreover, there was no breeze.
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That was it. What a vast still place it was, the monotonous afternoon
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slumber, and the sky open and blank except for a somber veil of haze
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that had gathered in the upper valley. He straightened his back, fretted with
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his bridle, puckered his lips to whistle, and simply sighed. He turned
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in his saddle for a time and stared at the throat of the mountain gorge
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out of which they had come, blank, blank slopes on eather side,
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with never a sign of a decent beast or tree, much less a man.
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What a land it was, What a wilderness? He dropped again into
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his former pose. It filled him with a momentary pleasure to see a rise
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stick of purple black flash out into the form of a snake and vanish amidst
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the brown. After all, the infernal valley was alive and Then to joice
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him still more, came a little breath across his face, a whisper that
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came and went the faintest inclination of a stiff, black antlered bush upon a
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little crest, the first imitations of a possible breeze. Idly, he wetted
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his finger and held it up. He pulled up sharply to avoid a closion
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with the gaunt man, who had stopped at fault upon the trail. Just
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at that guilty moment he caught his master's eye looking towards him. For a
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time he forced an interest in the tracking. Then, as they rode on
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again, he studied his master's shadow and hat and shoulder appearing and disappearing behind
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the gaunt man's nearer contours. They had ridden four days out of the very
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limits of the world into this desolate place, short of water, with nothing
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but a strip of dried meat under their saddles. Over rocks and mountains were
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surely none but these fugitives had ever been before for that and all this was
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for a girl, a mere wilful child. And the man had whole city
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fulls of people to do his basest, bidding girls women whine the name of
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passionate folly, this one in particular, asked the little man, and scowled
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the world, and licked his parched lips with a blackened tongue. It was
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the way of the Master, and that was all he knew, just because
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she sought to evade him. As eye caught a whole row of high plumed
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canes bending in unison, and then the tails of silk that hung before his
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neck flapped and fell. The breeze was growing stronger. Somehow it took the
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stiff stillness out of things. And that was well, hallo, said the
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gaunt man. All three stopped abruptly. What, asked the master? What
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over there? Said the gaunt man, pointing up the valley. What suddenly
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coming towards us? And as he spoke, a yellow animal crested a rise
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and came bearing down upon them. It was a big wild dog, coming
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before the wind tongue out a steady pace, and running with such an intensity
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of purpose that he did not seem to see the horsemen he approached. He
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ran with his nose up following. It was plain either sent nor quarry.
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As he drew nearer, the little man felt for his sword. He's mad,
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said the gaunt rider, shout, said the little man, and shouted.
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The dog came on. Then, when the little Man's blade was already
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out, it swerved aside and went panting by them, and passed the eyes
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of the little man followed its flight. There was no foam, he said,
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brestpaced. The man with a silver studied bridle stared up the valley.
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Oh, come on, he cried at last, what does it matter,
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and jerked his horse into movement again. The little Man left the insoluble myschiy
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of a dog that flared from nothing but the wind, and lapsed into profound
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musings on human character. Come on, he whispered to himself. Why should
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it be given to one man to say, come on? With that stupendous
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violence of effect? Always all his life the man of the silver bridle had
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been saying that if I said it, thought the little man. But you
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were marveled when the master was disobeyed, even in the wildest things. This
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half caste girl seemed to him, seemed to every one mad, blasphemous.
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Almost. The little man, by way of comparison, reflected on the gaunt
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rider with the scarred lip, the stalwart as his master, as brave and
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indeed perhaps braver. And yet for him there was obedience, nothing but to
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give obedience dulie and stoutly. Certain sensations of the hands and knees called the
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little man back to more immediate things. He became aware of something who rode
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up beside his gaunt fellow. Do you notice the horses, he said in
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an undertone. The gaunt face looked interrogation. They don't like the wind,
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said the little man, and dropped behind. And as the mount of silver
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bridle turned upon him, It's all right, said the gaunt faced man.
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There rode on again for a space in silence. The foremost too, rode
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downcast upon the trail. The hindmost man watched the haze that crept down the
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vastness of the valley nearer and nearer, and noted how the wind grew in
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strength a moment by moment. Far away on the left, he saw a
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line of dark bulks, wild hogs, perhaps, galloping down the valley.
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But of that he said nothing, nor did he remark again upon the uneasiness
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of the horses. And then he saw his first one, and then a
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second, great white ball, a great shining white ball, like a gigantic
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head of thistledown that drove before the wind athwart the path. These bulls soared
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high in the air, and dropped and rose again, and caught for a
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moment, and hurried on and passed. But at the sight of them,
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the restlessness of the horses increased. Then presently he saw that more of these
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drifting globes, and then soon very many more were hurrying towards him down the
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valley. They became aware of a squealing, I thought the path. The
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huge boar rushed, turning his head but for one instant to glance at them,
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and then hurling on down the valley again. And at that all three
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stopped and sat in their saddles, staring into the thickening haze that was coming
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upon them. If it were not for this thistle down began the leader.
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But now a big globe came drifting path within a score of yards of them.
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It was really not an even spirit at all, but a vast,
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soft, ragged, flimsy thing, a sheet gathered by the corners, an
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aerial jellyfish, as it were, but rolling over and over as it advanced,
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and trailing long cobberby threads and streamers that floated in its wake. It
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isn't thistle down, said the little man. I don't like the stuff,
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said the gaunt man, And they looked at one another. Cust it,
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cried the leader. Yes, full of it up there. If it keeps
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on at this pace long, it will stop us altogether. An instinctive feeling,
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such as lines out a herd of deer at the approach of some ambiguous
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thing, prompted them to turn their horses to the wind, ride forward for
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a few paces, and star at the out advancing multitude of floating masses.
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They came on before the wind with a sort of smooth swiftness, rising and
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falling noiselessly, sinking to earth, rebounding high, soaring, all with the
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perfect unanimity, with a still deliberate assurance, right and left the horsemen,
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the pioneers of this strange army, passed at one that rolled along the ground,
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breaking shapelessly and trailing out reluctantly into long, grappling ribbons and bands.
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All three horses began to shine and dance. The master was seized with a
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sudden unreasonable impatience. He cursed the drifting glow broudly get on he cried,
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Get on, what do these things matter? How can they matter? Back
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to the trail. He fell, swearing at his horses, and swared the
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bit across its mouth. He shouted aloud with rage. I will follow that
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trail, I tell you, he cried, where is the trail? He
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gripped the bridle of his prancing horse, and so touched amidst the grass.
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A long and clinging thread fell across his face. A gray streamer dropped about
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his bride alarm. Some big, active thing with many legs ran down the
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back of his hand. He looked up to discover one of those gray masses,
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anchored as it were, above him by these things, and flapping out
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ends as a sail flaps when a boat comes about, but noiselessly. He
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had an impression of many eyes, of a dense crew of squat bodies,
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of long, many jointed limbs, hauling at their mooring ropes to bring the
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thing down upon him. Press Spacey stared up, reining in his prancing horse
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with the instinct borne of years of horsemanship. Then the flat of a sword
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smote his back, and a blade flashed overhead and cut the drifting balloon of
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spider web free, and the whole mass lifted softly and drove clear and away.
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Spiders cried the voice of the gaunt man. The things are full of
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big spiders. Look, my lord. The man with the silver bridle still
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followed the mass that drove away. Look, my lord. The master found
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himself staring down at a red smashed thing on the ground that, in spite
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of partial obliteration, could still wriggle unavailing legs. Then, when the gaunt
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Man pointed to another mast that bore down upon them, he drew his sword
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hastily up the valley. Now it was like a fog bank torn to rags.
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He tried to grasp the situation, ride for it. The little man
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was shouting, ride for it down the valley. What happened then was like
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the confusion of a battle. The man that the silver bridle saw the little
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man go past him, slashing furiously to imaginary cobwebs, saw him cannon into
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the horse of the gaunt Man and hurl it and its rider to earth.
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His own horse went a dozen paces before he could rein it in. Then
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he looked up to avoid imaginary dangers, and then back again to see a
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horse rolling on the ground, the gaunt man standing and slashing over it at
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a rent and fluttering mass of gray that streamed and wrapped about them both,
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and thick and fast as thistledown and waste land. On a windy day in
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July, the cobweb masses were coming on. The little man had dismounted,
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but he dared not release his horse, who was endeavoring to lug the struggling
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brute back with the strength of one arm, while the other he slashed aimlessly.
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The tentacles of a second gray mass had entangled themselves with the struggle,
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and the second gray mass came to its moorings and slowly sank. The master
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set his teeth, gripped his bridle, lowered his head, and spurred his
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horse forward. The horse on the ground rolled over. There were blood and
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moving shapes upon the flanks, and the gaunt man, suddenly leaving it,
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ran forward towards his master, perhaps ten paces. His legs were swathed and
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encumbered with gray. He made ineffectual movements with his sword. Gray streamers waved
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from him. There was a thin veil of gray across his face. With
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his left hand, he beat at something on his body and suddenly he stumbled
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and fell. He struggled to rise, and fell again, and suddenly horribly
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began to howl, oh, oh oh. Master could see the great spiders
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upon him and others upon the ground. As he strove to force his horse
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nearer to this gesticulating, screaming great object that struggled up and down. There
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came a clatter of hoofs, and the little man, in act of mounting,
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swordless, balanced on his belly athwart the white horse and clutching its mane,
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whirled past and again a cleaning thread of gray gossamers swept across the Master's
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face, all about him and over him. It seemed this drifting, noiseless
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cobweb circled and drew nearer him. To the day of his death, he
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never knew just how the event of that moment happened. Did he indeed turn
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his horse, or did it really of its own accord stampeded after its fellow.
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Suffice it that in another second he was galloping full tilt down the valley,
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with his sword whirling furiously overhead and all about him on the quickening breeze,
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the spiders, his airships, their air bundles and air sheets seemed to
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him to hurry in a conscious pursuit. Clatter, clatter, third third,
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the mount of the silver bridle rode, heedless of his direction, his fearful
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face looking up, now, right, now, left, and his sword
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arm ready to slash. After a few hundred yards ahead of him. With
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the trail of torn cobwebs trailing behind him, rode the little man on the
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white horse, still but imperfectly in the saddle, the reeds bent before them,
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the wind blew fresh and strong over his shoulder. The Master could see
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the web's hurrying to overtake. He was so intent to escape the spiders his
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webs that only his horse gathered together for a leap did he realize the ravine
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ahead, And then he realized it only to misunderstand and interfere. He was
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leaning forward on his horse's neck, and sat up and back all too late.
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But if in his excitement he had failed to leap at any rate,
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he had not forgotten how to fall. He was horseman again in mid air
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and came off clear with a mere bruise upon his shoulder, and his horse
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rolled kicking spasmodic legs and lay still. But the Master's sword drove its point
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into the hard soil and snapped clean across, as though chance refused him many
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longer at her night, and the splintered end amiss his face by an inch
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or so. He was on his feet in a moment, breathlessly scanning the
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unrushing spider webs. For a moment he was minded to run, then thought
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of the ravine and turned back. He ran aside once to dodge one drifting
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terror, and then he was swiftly clambering down the precipitous sides and out of
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the touch of the gale. There, under the lee of the dry torrent
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steeper banks, he might crouch and watch these strange gray masses pass and pass
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in safety till the wind fell and it became possible to escape. And there
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for a long time he crouched, watching the strange, gray, ragged masses
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trailed their streamers across his narrowed sky. Once a stray spider fell into the
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ravine close beside him, a full foot it measured from leg to leg,
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and his body was half a man's hand. And after he had watched its
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monstrous alacrity of search and escape for a little while, in tempted it to
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bite his broken sword, he lifted up his iron heeled boots and smashed it
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into a pulp. He swore as he did so, and for a time
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sought up and down for another Then, when he was sure of these spider
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swarms could not drop into the ravine, he found a place where he could
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sit down, and sat and fell into deep thought. Began, after his
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manner, to gnaw his knuckle and bite his nails. And from this he
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was moved by the coming of the man with the white horse. He heard
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him long before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs, stumbling footsteps,
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and a reassuring voice. Then the little man appeared, a rueful figure,
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still with the tail of white cobweb trailing behind him. They approached each
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other without speaking, without a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed
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to the pitch of hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last,
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face to face with the seated master. Latter winced a little under his dependent's
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eyes. Well, he said, at last, with no pretense of authority,
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you left him. My horse bolted. I know, so did mine.
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He laughed at his master mirthlessly. I say, my horse bolted,
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said the man who once had a silver studded bridle. Cowards, both,
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said the little man. The other gnawed his knuckle through some meditative moments with
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his eye on his inferior. Don't call me a coward, he said at
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length. You are a coward, like myself. A coward. Possibly there
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is a limit beyond which every man must fear. That I have learnt at
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last, but not like yourself. That is where the difference comes in.
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I could never have dreamt you would have left him. He saved your life
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two minutes before. Why you are lord? The Master gnawed his knuckles again,
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and his countenance was dark. No man calls me a coward, he
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said, No, A broken sword is better than none. One spavined white
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horse cannot be expected to carry two men of four days's journey. I hate
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white horses, but this time it cannot be helped. You begin to understand
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me. I perceive that you are minded on the strength of what you have
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seen, and fancy to taint my reputation. It is men of your sword
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who unmake kings. Besides which I never liked you, my lord, said
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the little man. No, said the no. He stood up sharply as
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the little man moved for a minute, perhaps they faced one another overhead despides.
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As his balls went driving, there was a quick movement among the pebbles,
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a running of feet, a cry of despair, a gasp, and
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a blow. Towards nightfall, the wind fell, the sun set in a
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calm serenity, and the man who had once possessed a silver bridle came at
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last, very cautiously, and by an easy slope out of the ravine again.
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But now he led the white horse that once belonged to the little man
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would have gone back to his horse to get his silver mounted bridle again,
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but he feared night and a quickening breeze might still find him in the valley.
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And besides, he disliked greatly to think he might discover his horse or
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swathed in cobwebs and perhaps unpleasantly eaten. And as he thought of these cobwebs,
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and of all the dangers he had been through, and the manner in
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which he had been preserved that day, his hand sought a little reliquary that
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hung about his neck, and he clasped it for a moment with heartfelt gratitude.
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As he did so, his eyes went across the valley was hot with
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passion, he said, And now she has met her reward. They also
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no doubt, and behold far away, out of the wooded slopes across the
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valley, but in the clearness of the sunset, distinct and unmistakable, he
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saw a little spire of smoke. At that his expression of serene resignation changed
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to an amazed anger. Smoke. He turned the head of the white horse
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about and hesitated, And as he did so, a little rustler of air
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went through the grass about him. Far away, upon some reeds swayed a
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tad the cheet of gray. He looked at the cobwebs. He looked at
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the smoke. Perhaps, after all, it is not them, he said
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at last, But he knew better. Afrid stared at the smoke for some
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time. He mounted the white horse. As he rode, he picked his
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way amidst stranded masses of web. For some reason, there were many dead
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spiders on the ground, and those that lived feasted guiltily on their fellows.
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The sound of his horses hoofs they fled. Their time had passed from the
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ground, without either a wind to carry them or a winding sheet. Ready.
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These things for all their poison could do him little evil. He flicked
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with his belt at those he fancied came too near. Once, where a
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number ran together over a bare place, he was minded to dismount and trample
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them with his boots. But this impulse he overcame. Ever and again he
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turned in his saddle and looked back at the smoke spiders. He muttered,
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over and over again, spiders, Well, well, next time I must
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spin A verb end of section eight The Valley of Spiders by H. G.
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Wells, read by INKL