Spider Light

The grown-up Maud half understood that there was something wrong with the people in the shadowy room: the people who had been there that morning, and who had still been there tonight when she opened the black door. She thought that some deformity, some tragic freak of nature had made them like that. But the eight-year-old Maud had not understood at all. She had thought the people were giants, ogres, who gobbled up human children or carried them off to their castles. She had stared at them in horror, and thought that if one of them were to snatch her up, he would go striding across the countryside in his seven-league boots, carrying her with him, and nobody would catch him, no matter how hard they ran.

She had started to step back into the safe darkness of the passage, thinking mamma would surely come with her now they had seen what was in here. But mamma did not move. She said, ‘Which of you is the one who attacked me one night nearly nine years ago?’ She appeared to be waiting for an answer, which Maud thought silly of mamma, because giants did not answer ordinary people’s questions.

Mamma said, ‘It’s taken me all these years to understand what happened. I didn’t know about Reaper Wing and about you. But now I do know–I’ve met the matron here and she’s talked about you, so I understand.’ She made an odd, half-ashamed, half-proud gesture at Maud. ‘But I wanted you to see the result of that night,’ she said. ‘Your daughter.’

Maud had known that there was something wrong with mamma ever since she had come into her bedroom. But now she could hear that her voice was too high, there was a cracked sound to it as if something deep inside her had splintered like when you broke a glass.

The giants were listening. Several of them had tilted their heads to one side, as if they were trying to understand. One of them, sitting at one end of the table, got up and came towards them. Maud stifled a cry because he was so tall and had shaggy hair like a thatched roof, and his hands were clenching and unclenching. Huge hands, with massive knuckles and thick nails.

There was a dreadful moment when she thought mamma was going to stay where she was, facing the man who was coming towards her. Maud glanced fearfully up and saw mamma staring at him with a look of such fear she thought mamma might be about to swoon. Maud tugged on mamma’s hand to make her come away. She thought mamma said, ‘Yes. It was you. Then this is your daughter,’ but she was never afterwards sure if she had only imagined this.

After a moment mamma seemed to realize the danger, and turned and ran hard down the passage, half dragging Maud with her. Twice Maud stumbled and almost fell but each time mamma jerked her up and they ran on.

He was following them. Maud did not need to hear the thudding footsteps; she knew he was coming after them. When they reached the little door where they had come in she glanced back, and he was still there, the thick hair flopping over his face, grinning and reaching out his hands to them.

Mamma scooped Maud up in her arms, and carried her outside. Then she began to run towards the gates.

Whether the man meant them any harm, or whether he was simply seizing the chance of freedom–whether his mind was, in fact, as distorted as his body–Maud, at eight, had not known. Thinking back, she still did not know.

The lodge-keeper must have seen them coming along the carriage-way because he came out to them. Maud had no idea if he meant to stop them, but her mother suddenly slowed to an ordinary walk and when they were near enough to be heard, she called out, ‘Could you let us out again, please? We have delivered our message.’ Her voice sounded normal and the lodge-keeper tipped his cap and went over to the massive bolts, drawing them back. It seemed to take ages; Maud willed him to hurry, but he was fumbling and the minutes stretched out and out. Maud’s mother glanced over her shoulder, and Maud did the same. Supposing the man had followed them? But nothing moved anywhere and in another minute they would be through the gates and they would be on the way home.

Sarah Rayne's books