The sight that greeted the pregnant mother’s eyes was alien. She had no idea how she'd arrived here. One moment the world was normal and she was climbing a tree, pushing between branches with the sole aim of creating a safe place for her family, and the next she was here in this strange landscape. There seemed to be no way back to her own familiar territory, no way home. Her heavy belly reminded her that she must build her nest without delay; but where to do this? Tentatively she began to explore this new place. Instead of the juts and curves of rocks and trees she saw straight lines, unyielding hollow blocks and rods poking out of the earth, connected to each other and to the mysterious blocks by sinuous fibres. Nothing looked right and she was in no condition to cope with such a major change. But the urge to survive is strong. A mother’s urge to ensure the safety of her offspring even stronger and she adapted.
Elma Mortimer stroked her small dog as she watched the giant spider from her armchair beside her front parlour window. It had built its web on a telegraph pole, using the wires that radiated from it as a framework and adding a spiral of steely thread. Large bundles tightly wrapped in thick gossamer filament dangled from the structure like sausages on strings. One had a smaller package attached by a leather strap that had one strand of the filament running down it securing the link between the two items. She saw a large vehicle pull up nearby. It was painted up all fancy with the words "Outside Broadcast" across its flank and a car was pulling up alongside it. Elma's eyes narrowed to angry slits when she saw who was inside. The pale blue linen safari suit was the unmistakable trademark of the naturalist Davy Dattenborough. Elma could see the technicians attaching a small radio mike to his lapel and watched him as he crept towards the post that supported the spider’s nest. What a fool. Did he think himself immune? Irritably she flicked on her television set.
Dattenborough was transmitting live; something he rarely did. Elma was watching, which was an even rarer event since her divorce. Her former husband Arnold had been a great fan and had insisted on watching only Dattenborough all day, every day. He wouldn't work and wouldn't move from his chair except when the call of nature forced him to. He also had an inexplicable dislike of animals, particularly of Elma’s little west highland terrier Biddie, whom her referred to as “that scrawny little bitch”. Elma could never fathom the logic of watching animals on the television night and day, whilst complaining between programs about Biddie’s behaviour, which by any standards was exemplary for a dog. She had found solace in her hobbies, but found herself still irritated every time she walked back into the sitting room to find him sitting in his sagging armchair, jaw slack and mesmerised by the cut glass Newtonian voice of Dattenborough. The divorce court had agreed his behaviour was unreasonable and had upheld Elma's claim. Jack had left, taking his television and collection of five hundred and eighty three Dattenborough videos with him. For a few weeks Elma watched no television, grateful for the silence, but finally the quiet became too intense and she brought down the small portable set from the spare bedroom. She still watched no natural history programmes whatever.
Until today.
She could see the presenter from her window. He was directly beneath the web now, crouched down under a large umbrella. On the television his clipped, very English voice, hushed to a whisper informed the camera: "Here, in this sleepy English town of Basford Thirkettle in Yorkshire, history is being made. Above my head is what must be the largest spider in the world. Nobody seems to know where she came from but experts believe her to be a gigantic form of wolf spider Lycosa [Pardosa] lugubris. She differs, though, from normal wolf spiders in that she has built a web similar to that of the garden spider Araneus diadematus and has placed what are believed to be eggs in the centre. Normal wolf spiders – and this could be called anything but normal - don't build webs as this female has done. Their eggs are rolled into a ball of gossamer and this is carried behind the female until the young spiders hatch and climb onto their mother’s back where she will carry them around until they are old enough to fend for themselves. It is uncertain whether this giant web is designed to trap prey or simply to support her nest, which might contain as many as a thousand eggs in the central spherical sheath that she has spun from the same titanic gossamer filament she used to build her web. We have no idea how long it will be before the eggs hatch. In the meantime the female, her maternal instincts overriding every other sense, will maintain a vigil, neither eating nor sleeping until the young hatch safely. She has stocked the larder for that moment, evidenced by those bundles you can see suspended from the strong structural threads of her outer webs.
“Shockingly,” he paused dramatically, “those bundles contain human victims of this fearsome predator. One bundle, the one almost directly above my head, contains a dog, attached to its owner by a lead. Even more shocking,” he paused again, more dramatic effect, “they are all likely to be still alive, held in suspended animation until required to nourish the giant infants. All is in readiness. Her eggs laid, the larder stocked, she has moved to a nearby post to watch and wait.
“The authorities have decided not to act yet – any rescue attempt is likely to prompt the spider to attack and the ensuing struggle might destroy the only living example of this new species. An expert is being flown in from Brazil as I speak and she will advise on the best way forward. Until then, like the spider, we must watch and wai……”
Dattenborough did not finish his sentence; he had become the latest victim of the she-wolf spider. Countless millions witnessed the spectacle of the supreme naturalist grasped in the jaws of nature.
Elma rose briskly from her chair and snapped the television off, calling to her dog: “Come on Biddie, time for a walk. The little dog trotted obediently at her mistress’ heel. Elma decided it was time to practice her favourite hobby. She tugged open the door to the understairs cupboard and pulled out what could have been mistaken for a deformed violin case, which she slung across her shoulder by its carrying strap. On an afterthought she fetched the dog lead and clipped it to Biddie’s collar, then the two set off for the park, being careful to keep out of sight of the spider, now busy wrapping her latest bundle. Her tread was heavier than she would have liked, but there was little she could do about that. Less courageous without their figurehead, other members of the outside broadcast team were now running for cover. Elma had to dodge to one side to avoid being trampled by a young man in army style camouflage trousers and a purple tee shirt.
The park was quiet nowadays. Children no longer played out so close to the spider’s lair so Elma and Biddie found themselves alone amongst the cool trees. Much of the pleasure had gone out of their walks since that dratted creature had taken dear Mister Pettigrew and his little Jack Russell terrier Sparky, whom Biddie adored utterly
She unslung the carrying case from her shoulder and opened it to reveal the components of a crossbow. It took but a few moments to assemble the weapon and prepare it to fire, dropping a small metal tipped bolt into place. She looked around for a suitable target. There were any number of trees, but Elma was fond of trees. In any case, a tree trunk was not much of a challenge. She looked further afield and saw the ideal thing. A flag had been raised a year before in the centre of the park to commemorate the quincentenary of the birth of Herbert Bassforde, founding father of the town. Elma raised the bowstock and pulled it securely into her shoulder, taking careful aim before releasing the shot. The bolt flew an arcing course to strike the flagpole neatly in the centre. Within seconds she was ready to fire again, refining her aim this time, she sliced straight through the rope holding up the flag. ‘Well, Biddie,’ she murmured with satisfaction, it looks as if I haven’t lost my touch.” Collecting her bolts Elma set off back across the park towards her home, walking softly and avoiding gravel paths in favour of the grass that was now long and unkempt. No park keeper had come near since the spider took the last one for her larder.
Silently signalling to Biddie to follow closely, Elma moved stealthily, more anxious than ever to avoid the attentions of the giant arachnid. The hedge around her front garden was a source of great pride for Elma. She had planted it thirty years before while Dattenborough’s early programmes ensnared her husband’s attention. Since then it had grown and flourished under her tender care. Careful use of clippers and shears had kept it neat as it thickened out to form a four-foot tall impenetrable boundary. Short of money and unable to persuade Arnold to help her she had attended carpentry classes at the local technical college and had made a sturdy, yet attractive gate from pallets and old packing cases that won her first prize in the end of year craftwork show. The walls of the packing cases had been sandwiched together to make a strong ply and from this she had created an abstract fretwork panel framed by pallet slats, smoothed down and decorated with delicate chisel work. So many years on the gate had changed colour year on year, according to Elma’s choice of paint, but was still in one piece and looked set to continue for a hundred years or more. Mister Pettigrew had greatly admired Elma’s skill and had shown a keen interest in her handiwork.
Stationing herself behind the gate, Biddie at her side, Elma nosed the front of her crossbow towards a piece of particularly open fretwork where she had a good view of the spider and her web. Elma had always had a soft spot for spiders, partly because Arnold hated them so much. Come to think of it, he hated all animals that weren’t safely behind the glass of his television screen. As she began to select her target, Elma realised that she had no idea where best to aim. The worst thing she’d ever done to one in the past was to lift it gently and carry it outside. What was a spider’s most vulnerable place – if she merely wounded it would it rampage around like a mad bull on stilts? She had no way of knowing and so retired indoors to do some research.
The spare bedroom had in recent years become her study and now boasted a modest computer connected to the Internet. Elma had learned how to do this on a part time college course and had become quite an adept. The computer buzzed into life at the touch of a button and automatically opened a connection to Elma’s personal website: “Crafty Codgers” where she liked to encourage other “silver surfers” to share their knowledge about anything and everything. There were contributions on all kinds of subjects from all over the world that ranged from “Repairing Macramé Egg Cosies” and “Reed Thatching for Beginners” to “Inspirational Sexual Practices for the Morally Impaired Octogenarian”. Scrolling down the list of articles she came across one entitled: “Understanding Spiders for Arachnophobes – how to deter them, how to kill them”. Most of the article covered various preparations that would discourage a spider from venturing into one’s house and suitable items with which to crush them. The author seemed to prefer a heavy book wrapped in a newspaper, but near the end was an account of how a spider had “bled” to death after its abdomen had been punctured. It had appeared unaware of the injury for several minutes until its life was almost at an end, whereupon it dragged itself into a dark corner and expired.
Armed with the necessary knowledge – and her crossbow – Elma went back outside with Biddie following curiously behind.
* * *
The mighty Fozz looked down through the layers of creation and was aghast. The mirror he had fashioned to keep everything in its allotted place had shattered, scattering shards of reality throughout the various planes of existence. Quickly he set to work gathering the fragments together. He would need to find them all before he could rebuild it. On was situated on the earthly plane directly above a small spider’s web. He was just about to retrieve it when he saw that the spider, whilst seeming small to him, was several thousand times larger than others of the same species in that place. It was obviously out of its natural habitat. He reached through and gently gathered the creature, making a cage of his fingers as he pulled it back to where it belonged. The spider, maternal instincts raging grabbed firmly onto the egg case and this was lifted too, the filaments of the web stretched and then gave up their hold on their supports
* * *
Elma started in surprise. She had just taken aim at widest part of the spider’s plump body when a huge, disembodied hand had appeared from above and grabbed it. Both had then slipped into some invisible place, along with the snapping sinews of the web and all its eggs. The bundles suspended underneath began to swing violently from side to side. Most fell to the ground, but one, the freshest of them, looked very securely fastened to the web and was in great danger of vanishing. Checking the temptation to allow Dattenborough to go off into obscurity, Elma aimed quickly and fired off a shot. It flew straight and true , slicing the filament and causing the bundle to drop heavily to the floor. The gossamer thread had given way to her crossbow bolt, but that had been under great pressure and Elma wondered what implement might be most effective for cutting open the bindings of her neighbours, and the outsider – that supreme outside broadcaster.
After considering for a minute or two she decided to toss a selection of cutting tools into a shopping trolley and learn by doing. In the event, she found her hedging shears the best, using them like giant scissors to slice through several layers of the threads at a time. The released hostages lay where they had fallen, seemingly no better off for their release. Elma hoped that fresh air might restore them. On little Sparky she chose to use pruning secateurs for fear of injuring his small frame, but he was just as lifeless as the others. Biddy licked his face whimpering forlornly. Last of all she released Dattenborough. Apparently the venom had not yet fully taken effect for his foot twitched as she snipped the sinews binding his legs. Perhaps sensing her mistress’ hostility, Biddy turned her attention away from her canine sweetheart and sank her teeth into the great man’s ankle. A sharp intake of breath and another twitch made Biddy bite again. Dattenborough’s eyes flew open and he let out a howl. Then he seemed to come to himself a little and, seeing Elma, sat up.
“I’m most terribly sorry, did I cry out? I just felt the most fearful pain in my ankle.” He looked down at his foot to see a small white dog now firmly attached to his shoe, which was robust and scarcely affected by her best efforts. Embarrassed, Elma ordered Biddy to drop it and picked up the still growling westie, hugging her tightly to prevent further mishap.
“I must apologise for my dog – she saw you move as you were coming round and must have
thought you were going to attack me or something.”
The broadcaster looked dazed, clearly still suffering from the effects of the spider bite, but he smiled weakly and said: “You have a valiant pet. I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.” He looked around him and became thoughtful. After a few moments he said: “Was I taken by the spider? I don’t remember much about it, it was all a bit of a blur. How did you manage to save everyone?”
“I’m not entirely sure I have. You are the only one to move so far. I think we need to get everyone to hospital.”
Dattenborough pulled a small mobile telephone from his pocket and summoned ambulances. He then looked more closely at Elma. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
She shook her head decisively. “Definitely not. We’ve never met.”
“But there’s something about you.” His face creased into a broad smile of recognition. “Mortimer! You’re Elma Mortimer the figure skater, aren’t you! Oh, I was a great fan of yours. It broke my heart when you had to retire – such a terrible thing to happen to a skater.”
Elma had managed to push the accident to the back of her mind and hardly thought about it at all now, although the prosthetic leg was an inconvenience. The original had been taken by a supposedly tame crocodile at the 1968 world figure skating championships. It had been the first year that the African state of Cumbayazaland had hosted the competition and they had chosen the crocodile as their mascot, leading it out onto the ice clad in a pink leotard and specially made boots during the opening ceremony. On its way past the ranks of contestants it had grabbed Elma’s leg in a sideswipe and sheared it clean off before anyone had time to react. Elma had fought her way back to health, but never again skated competitively. During her convalescence she had taken up the crossbow and was now senior Paralympic world champion, although she didn’t like to talk about it too much. Elma was not one for boasting. She had not expected Dattenborough to be interested in sports and was momentarily lost for words, but then managed to mutter: “Ah, my husband – ex husband – is a great admirer of your work.”
Then the ambulances arrived and it was all over. Some of the victims survived, but those taken first were beyond help. Elma was quizzed by a variety of agencies, none of which believed her explanation about the giant hand. She was warned that she might face prosecution for killing and endangered species, but since no corpse could be found and it was discovered that nobody had thought to put the spider onto the endangered list, nothing came of it and things quickly settled down.
Happily Sparky somehow managed to survive and Elma took him in while Mister Pettigrew – who now insisted on being called William - recovered in hospital. Dattenborough sent Elma a huge bouquet of red roses as a thank you and joined the Crafty Codgers website, adding his own contribution to the natural history section. When William came out it made sense for him to move in with Elma for a while until he was strong enough to fend for himself again, an arrangement thoroughly approved of by both little dogs who became inseparable. As time went on the household slipped into a comfortable routine and it seemed foolish for William and Sparky to go back to their cold empty house when Sparky and Biddie were clearly so happy together. The friendship between Elma and William warmed to love and then there seemed only one thing to do.
Since Elma’s parents were long dead, Davy Dattenborough was invited to take on the role of father of the bride and was honoured to do so. The headlines read “Dattenborough Gives Away One Legged Spiderwoman”. The spider was never seen again and soon slipped from people’s minds, as if it had never existed at all.
Copyright 2002 Susan M Phillips
No part of this work or associated illustration may be copied without the consent of the author
