Spider Light (30 page)

Maud was not going to open the door; of course she was not. But a little silvery voice deep inside her mind whispered that it would be better to know what the frightening thing was. Wouldn’t it be better to confront it once and for all, to stare it in the face and banish this nightmare for ever?

No! It would be the worst thing in the world! But she saw with horror that her hand had developed a life of its own; it reached out to the immense bolt and drew it back. It moved smoothly and almost soundlessly, and the door was open. It swung slightly inwards.

The first thing Maud was aware of was that the spider light was far thicker beyond the door than anywhere else in Latchkill.
At first she was aware of a huge relief, because there was nothing so very terrible in here: a long table with plates and mugs on it, and a window high up in one wall. Maud frowned, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light trickling through.

When they did she thrust a fist into her mouth to stop herself screaming, because what she saw was impossible and terrifying and must be a nightmare after all. Such things did not exist!

Drawn up to the long table were six or seven chairs, and seated on each of the chairs was a grotesque figure, bulky, repulsive,
immense
. Giant bodies and giant faces. Giant hands resting on giant knees, all sitting round their supper.

They had heard the door open, because the huge huge heads with the overhanging brows turned to look at her.

‘A new little girl,’ said one of them in a clogged kind of voice.

‘A little girl-nurse to see us,’ said another. ‘Isn’t that nice?’ It got up from the chair and came lumbering towards her, massive hands outstretched.

Of course this was what was beyond the black iron door, this was what had always been behind it, this was what mamma had warned her against.

‘…the dangerous thing about spider light, Maud, is that it hides things–things you never knew existed in the world. But once you have seen those things, you can never afterwards forget them…’

The spider light room tilted and spun. Maud gasped and tumbled dizzily back into the dark corridor, slamming the door and drawing the bolt back with a hand that shook violently. Then she ran, without looking back, through the passageways until at last–oh merciful God, oh thank you, Jesus!–she saw a door half open, and beyond it Latchkill’s grounds.

The nightmare of the black iron door went with her as she ran. It’s real, thought Maud, going through the thick shrubbery and the leafless trees, gasping when a low branch caught her cloak and half dragged it off. It exists, that door and that room–they’re both there, at Latchkill’s heart. But how could they be in my dreams all
those years ago? Don’t think about it yet, though; just think about getting safely outside.

The gates were ahead of her at last: they were like black jutting teeth in the darkness. They would be locked and guarded by the lodge keeper, but people must come and go through those gates: delivery carts with provisions, the nurses going on or off duty. In the dim light, with the dark blue Latchkill cloak around her shoulders Maud might pass as one of the nurses. But supposing the lodge keeper knew them all? He would certainly know the times they came and went. Maud thought about this, and then remembered the cheerful voice that had called out about only another hour before going off-duty. St Michael’s church clock was just chiming nine, so it was a reasonably safe guess that the changeover to the night staff would happen at ten. Very well, she would wait until ten. It was quite a cold night, but not icily so, and the ground was perfectly dry. She would trust to luck that her escape would not be discovered in the next hour, and she could slip out with the nurses going off-duty. She wrapped the cloak around her, and sat down in the thickest part of the shrubbery.

Memories came flooding in, all the way back to that last morning with mamma. The morning that was the tangled bloodied part of memory–the long-ago morning when the spider light had lain thickly over Amberwood.

It had been her eighth birthday, and Maud had understood by then that mamma lived in her own room, and did not go out. It did not seem odd; it was just what mammas did. She was taken to see her each evening by Mrs Plumtree, after she had had her milk and biscuits, and sometimes mamma said quite ordinary, quite happy things, like, ‘Oh, there’s my dearest girl,’ and, ‘What have you been doing today, my precious one?’ But sometimes she said things Maud did not understand, and that were quite scary. ‘Child of fear,’ she said. ‘That’s what you are, my dear.’ And as Maud’s birthday got nearer, she said, ‘They think I forget the date, but I don’t.’ Maud thought this must mean her birthday,
and that mamma was not going to forget it, but later she heard mamma say to papa, ‘It’s the anniversary. One day
he
should know what he did.
He
should be made to pay.’ Maud did not know who
he
was, but in reply, papa only coughed in the nervous way he had when he did not know what to say. But the next morning, he had said to Mrs Plumtree that the mistress was restless again. He dared say it would pass, but in the meantime, perhaps Mrs Plumtree would keep a close watch. Mrs Plumtree had said she would, trust her for that, sir, and was Miss Maud to be taken in as usual?

‘Oh yes,’ papa had said, after a moment. ‘I think that’s perfectly safe.’

And then, early on the very morning of her eighth birthday, mamma had come into Maud’s bedroom, and had said Maud was to be very quiet and to do exactly as she was told, because there was a secret. The secret meant that Maud had to get up at once, get dressed and go with mamma. They had to be mouse-quiet, said mamma, because it was important not to wake papa or Mrs Plumtree.

It was a bit strange for mamma to be out of her room, but Maud had thought it might be something to do with her birthday–it might be that they were going to see a puppy or a kitten. But wherever they were going, Maud almost had to run to keep up with mamma, and mamma kept looking back over her shoulder as if she was worried about somebody seeing them. Once she stopped and tightened her hold on Maud’s hand, and peered into the hedges on the side of the road. Now that Maud was a bit more awake she saw that mamma looked strange: her hair was not coiled up into a neat bun as usual; it was wispy and straggly, and the buttons of her gown were not properly done up–her chemise showed through. Maud hoped they would not meet anyone, because it would be embarrassing for people to see mamma like this. She tried to ask where they were going, but mamma said, ‘I told you, it’s a secret.’

Maud had not exactly been frightened, but she was no longer
used to being with mamma like this–it was a long time since they had taken their afternoon walks together. She started to feel cold and shivery inside, and wondered if mamma would be angry if she let go of her hand and ran back home.

When they came to Latchkill’s gates, mamma had stopped, and said, ‘That’s where we’re going.’ Maud looked up in astonishment, because it was still spider light time–there had been a huge scuttly spider on the marble washstand in her bedroom yesterday morning–and mamma had always said you must never be caught near to Latchkill at that time. Spider light was when the bad things happened.

But the spider light did not seem to matter today because mamma was tugging on an iron rope. A bell jangled and a man ran out of the little house at the side of the gates, and said, ‘Good morning madam, and little miss, and what can I do for you?’

Mamma said in her haughtiest voice, ‘I wish to come inside, if you please’ and the man looked at her for a moment, and then nodded. The gates opened, and they stepped through.

Latchkill was as frightening as Maud had always known it would be. It had high-up windows with jutting-out bits of stone so they looked like eyes under too thick eyebrows staring down at the people on the ground. It was a dirty-grey colour, and it had a crooked look as if the people who had built it had not measured it properly, so it had ended up twisted. If it had been a person, it would have been a hunchback, or a man limping.

Mamma seemed to know the way they must go. Holding Maud’s hand very tightly, she led the way around the side of the house. ‘This is the door we’ll use to go inside, Maud.’

‘Are we going to see somebody?’

‘Yes. Yes, we are. We’re going to see somebody we should have seen a long time ago.’

Mamma’s eyes were glittery, and although her face was pale, there were two spots of red on her cheeks as if she had painted them on.

As well as being dark, the inside of Latchkill smelt horrid as
if somebody had boiled cabbage for too long, or as if the people who lived here did not wash often enough. Maud hated it, but mamma was striding along a passage, still holding firmly to Maud’s hand. If they met anyone, they must say they had been sent for because a relative was ill. Did Maud understand that?

‘Yes,’ said Maud in a very small voice.

They did not meet anyone. They went into a passageway where it was quite difficult to see the way because there were no windows, and mamma said, ‘Yes, I think this is it.’ She pointed to a notice fixed to the wall. It was in big black letters, and Maud read it carefully.

Reaper Wing.

There was no reason why she should start to feel even more frightened by these words, but she did. In a small scared voice, she said, ‘What’s Reaper Wing?’

For a moment she thought mamma was not going to answer, but then she said, ‘Reaper Wing is the place where your father lives.’

The place where your father lives.

The eight-year-old Maud had not understood. Her father was at home, and on most days he went to Twygrist Mill to work. He was not here in Latchkill: he was at Toft House where they all lived.

Then mamma said, in a different voice–a voice that brought all the shivery fear back, ‘This is the place, Maud. They thought I didn’t know where he lives–George thought I didn’t know–but I do know because I listened to people talking. I’ve known for a very long time. We have to go through the black iron doors and we have to do so today because it’s your birthday. That’s the right day to do this.’

Maud saw they were standing in front of huge black doors–like the doors people put in books about giants. She wanted to shout to mamma not to open the doors because there might be something terrible beyond them–something that they must not see. But she had been too frightened to speak, and mamma had drawn back the bolt.

Maud, curled into the shrubbery of Latchkill’s grounds, waiting to slip out, could see the ghost of her eight-year-old self clearly. She could see mamma’s hands–thin, white hands because mamma
had not gone out into the sun for all those years–drawing back the bolt.

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.

The gates finally opened. The lodge-keeper smiled at Maud as they walked through and Maud smiled back a bit uncertainly. They were outside, and they were safe. When she glanced back the lodge-keeper was standing there waving to them so she waved back.

Mamma did not speak as they went along, but she held Maud’s hand very tightly, and her hand was cold and trembly. Maud wondered if she dared ask about the man, but she was afraid mamma’s voice might take on the dreadful mad sound again so she said nothing. They were just over the little crossroads, and nearing the turning to Scraptoft Lane when a figure stepped out from behind a tree. The man was in front of them, barring their way.

There was no time to wonder what had happened or how he had got out. Mamma gasped, and then keeping tight hold of Maud’s hand began to run back the way they had come. The lane was bumpy and rutted; Maud stumbled several times and struggled to keep up. She thought the man was following them, but surely at any minute they would be bound to meet someone who would help them–a carter or a farmer about an early-morning task.

But there was no one. There were not even any cottages where they might have knocked on the door and asked to be taken inside. Her mother hesitated, and then took the road that led past Twygrist. ‘We’ll have to go this way,’ she said, gasping with the effort of running. ‘We can’t go home because he’s behind us. Blocking the way. So we’ll go towards Amberwood Magna–there are houses just beyond the bridge. We’ll ask for help at one of them.’

‘I can’t run any more–mamma, I can’t—’

‘Then I must carry you.’ But they had only gone a very short
way before mamma had to set Maud down and double over, gasping for breath. The bridge was still some way ahead of them and clearly they were not going to reach it before the man caught them. There was only one building along this stretch of the road where they might hide. Twygrist.

Mamma, still struggling to get her breath, stared at it, and when Maud said, ‘In there? Can we hide in there?’ she shuddered. But then she said, ‘Yes. Yes,’ there’s nowhere else.’

They had gone up the slope together and in through the door–Maud could not remember now if it had been open or if her mother had broken the lock to get them in–and then they had been in the safe dark silence of the mill. Mamma pushed the door nearly closed, and they stood behind it.

‘We’ll stay here, Maud. He won’t see us and even if he does, he won’t dare come inside. He must have slipped through the gates while the lodge-keeper was waving to us, that’s what must have happened.’

Her voice was strained and frightened and Maud saw she was listening very hard for the sound of footsteps. Maud was listening for them as well, but everywhere was quiet.

Her mother peered through the chink in the nearly closed door, and said suddenly, ‘He’s coming. Oh God, he’s coming. We’ll have to hide–but where? Where?’

‘Up there?’ said Maud, pointing.

‘Yes, clever girl. Quickly then. We can crouch down and even if he does come in, he’ll never see us. Don’t make a sound.’

So they had gone up a little flight of flimsy wooden stairs, and had hidden in the corner behind the stone grinding wheels. Maud, whose teeth were chattering with terror, thought they should not really hide from a giant behind grinding wheels: giants liked things like that, they sang a song about grinding men’s bones to make their bread. If the giant knew there were grinding stones in here, he would be sure to come inside. She glanced nervously behind her at the waterwheels towering into the shadows.

Here he came now. The door was pushed open, and the dull morning light came in. There was the sound of heavy footsteps, and of the floor creaking under them. It was an old floor and it creaked a lot.

She could not see what the man was doing, not without peering around the edges of the stones, and she was not going to do that, not even for a tiny moment. But she could hear the screech and scrape of machinery a bit further down and she frowned, because this was not what she had expected. She had expected the giant to come stomping over the floor, bellowing to know where they were.

But he did not, and after a moment Maud realized that something was happening, something huge and frightening like the first dull rumble of thunder before a great crashing storm. There was a heavy scraping–something going groaningly up and up, and then a great roaring and splashing.

She looked questioningly up at mamma. Her mother started to speak, but in that moment Twygrist began to shudder to its bones. Behind them, in the dimness, something began to move, and Maud looked round in terror.

Slowly, with the agonized groaning of a struggling monster, the great waterwheels began to turn, and Maud understood that the sound had been the sluice gates opening. Water was pouring into Twygrist, and the mill’s huge machinery was starting to move.

It ought not to have been so fearsome–Maud had often heard and seen the waterwheels turn–and probably it would not have been fearsome at all if they had not been there on their own with a giant on the floor below hunting for them.

Her mother said they must move away from the machinery, and she thought the man had gone, although it was quite difficult to hear her properly, because the water was rushing down and down and the waterwheels were swishing round much faster. Maud glanced up at them. Huge oak and iron wheels, they were, and if you went on looking at them for too long, you began to see them as gobbling teeth, chomping down and down.

As mamma stood up and began to move forward, Maud saw two things both at the same time.

One was that it was not the giant who had opened Twygrist’s sluice gates, it was papa. Her father must have come into Twygrist early as he sometimes did. Maud could see him clearly; he was bending over a wheel near the ground, frowning as if there might be something not quite right with it. Did he know they were there? No, he could not know or he would have called out to them.

The other thing she saw was the man from Latchkill–the giant-man with the reaching hands–who must have come into Twygrist while the machinery was groaning and clattering. He was coming up the stairs towards them.

Mamma gave a cry of fear, and her father looked up and saw them for the first time. As the giant-man reached the top of the steps, the waterwheels spun faster and there was a hard flinty sound as the grinding stones directly in front of them began to turn. Her mother screamed. The giant-man lunged forward, his hands outstretched to her, knocking her off her feet, knocking her onto the grinding stones.

There was a hard crunching noise that sent a terrible pain through Maud’s whole body–like having your teeth torn out, or having all your fingernails ripped off. Then her father wrapped his arms tightly around her, and carried her outside, saying over and over that she must not look, everything would be all right, so long as Maud forgot everything she had seen and heard. Would she promise that? From a long way away, Maud heard her own voice obediently promising.

Papa had nodded, and said something about never forgiving himself, but how was he to know Louisa would be here, he had come in early because there was a lot to be done today. Maud must stay out here, just for a very little while, because papa must go back inside the mill. There was a thing he had to do.

So Maud had stayed outside. It had been very cold outside the mill and she could hear the waterwheels still gobbling and
clanking. But she would do what papa had told her, and keep the promise she had made to forget everything that had just happened.

She had kept her promise, and she had forgotten. Or so it had seemed.

After mamma’s funeral she had been sent to stay with some cousins of mamma’s, then she had gone to school, and she had forgotten the morning when mamma had fallen between the grinding millstones inside Twygrist.

But she could see now that she had not really forgotten. She could remember how, after a few minutes, the waterwheels had slowed down and then stopped, so she knew papa had closed the gates to stop the water pouring in. It was quite a long time before he came out–far longer than the very little time he had said–but when he did come out, Maud saw there was a frown between his eyes that had not been there before. It had frightened her, but then papa had smiled and they had gone home, and talked about Maud visiting mamma’s cousins for a while.

Throughout all these years, the memory of what had happened that morning had remained so deeply buried Maud had not known it was there. All that had remained were nightmares of the black iron doors that opened onto Reaper Wing.

St Michael’s clock was chiming ten when two nurses, both unknown to Maud, came along the path. They were talking animatedly, and one of them called cheerfully to the lodge keeper to let them out, Albie, and be sharp about it because it was freezing enough to turn you to ice out here.

It was too dark for the lodge keeper to make out the individual features of people who went in and out. Maud waited a moment, and then ran out onto the path, as if she had been trying to catch the nurses up. The gate keeper saw her, sketched a good-night salute, and let her through.