Shedding the Fears

“We can't stop here”, whined Highbrow, wiping his fogged glasses with a sodden neckerchief that had long since ceased to prove effective.

“Why the heck not?” countered Shandy, coaxing the floppy map back into its protective sheath. “It'll get us out this bloody rain, for a start.”

“The rules”, said Highbrow, quoting “'Competitors must spend each evening under canvas, without external support'. It's there in black and white. Look.” He stabbed his finger at the laminated print-out, which, by now, the other three were totally fed-up with.

“You can't argue with the rules,” he continued, “Break them, and we'll be thrown out of the competition.”

“So what?” said V-Sign, “It's chucking it down out here, and unless we get some proper sodding shelter, we'll be soaked and die of hypochondria.”

“Hypothermia”, corrected Highbrow.

“My point exactly”, said V-sign, shouldering his rucksack and heading for the old barn, which was the only sign of civilisation in the barren landscape. “This barn is big enough that we can pitch the tent inside, still stick to the rules and ensure that we get a good dry night's sleep.”

“But, ” began Highbrow, before Shandy and Pyro both began following V-Sign to the barn.

“C'mon, Hignbrow, don't be such a stick-in-the mud ”, said Pyro, ducking beneath the cobwebs that hung over the barn's entrance. “There's loads of hay here and it's bone dry inside.”

“And that's another thing. If we light a fire in there, the whole place will go up like a firework. We really ought to try to get to the checkpoint tonight, or the organisers will be worried about us.”

“Chill a little” replied Pyro. “In this storm, there'll be so many less experienced teams lost and up to their necks in mud that the organisers'll have their work cut out to get them all to safety before they even get to think about worrying about last year's runners up. When we get back to base, they'll probably pat us on the back, and praise our initiative.

“Thanks, man”, said Shandy, who was already laying out the canvas of their 4-man tent in the centre of the barn. “I'm just being like Lord Byron, who bent the rules at Trinity College which banned students from keeping dogs in their rooms.”

“Yeah, I know”, said Highbrow, “He kept a bear instead, but it's hardly the...”

“Exactly the same”, said Shandy. “We'll still be under canvas, but the canvas will just be under the rainproof roof of this barn, that's all.”

Everyone else nodded in agreement, so Highbrow, a slave to logic, decided to pitch in with the preparations for a good night's sleep. Surely the organizers would have bigger things to worry about during the biggest storm of the decade?

“That's it then. We'll have to get them all off the moors”, asserted Anita, picking up her clipboard in a manner she hoped would seem authoritative to the rest of the team.

“Absolutely”, said DI Polworth, glad that his lecture had touched a nerve in at least one of the Torhike organisers. “It's just not worth the risk. Spandrell may be an amputee, but my officers have enough to worry about right now, without having to factor in two dozen teams of teenagers hiking in the vicinity of an escaped child rapist and murderer. We can draft in a plenty of officers to help round them all up, but it would be a tremendous help if you could give us an indication of how many kids we're looking at here.”

Anita consulted her clipboard and looked at Gareth for confirmation as she said “There's 16 teams of four at this checkpoint so far, which leave two teams still out there somewhere . One of the teams is pretty experienced, but the other is completely new to Torhike, so may need a little more assistance.

“Eight kids”, mused Polworth, “Could be worse I s'pose. Any way of contacting them?”

“'Fraid not”, admitted Gareth, with a shrug. “Even if we allowed mobiles, the coverage up on the moors is patchy at best. I can radio to the last checkpoint, if you like, and see when the teams came through.”

“Best do that then”, said Polworth, grudgingly. This looked like being a long night...

“Bloody hell fire”, screamed V-Sign, windmilling his arms frantically around his head as he knocked the last peg of the 4-man tent into the floor of the barn. “Cobwebs everywhere. This place'll be crawling with spiders, and there's no way I'm sleeping with them anywhere near me. They'll 'ave me for breakfast. I've got allergies and everything.”

“Calm down”, pleaded Shandy, plucking a large yellow and black spider from one of the webs which V-Sign had managed to wrap around his right arm. “These are just barn spiders, Araneus cavaticus, they're pretty-much harmless, but I've no idea what they're doing here.”

“It's a barn, innit”, drawled Pyro, who was currently nurturing a small flame in a pile of hay and moss, “Where else d'you expect to find them?”

“Not in this country I mean”, countered Shandy. “ Araneus cavaticus is a North American species – I've never heard of them being endemic to the United Kingdom”.

“En- bloody – what?” said Pyro, lobbing a flaming twig at Shandy.

“Endemic”, said Highbrow, “It means prevalent in a particular locality, although it's usually used in relation to diseases, rather than arachn...I mean spiders.”

“Spiders are diseases, as far as I'm concerned”, said V-Sign, backing away from the specimen Shandy was now examining at close quarters. “It's on my health form and everything.”

“Let's all just calam down now, shall we?” urged Highbrow, “It was all your idea to camp here, and I'm knackered, so let's just get this tent up and have some grub, shall we? You got that fire going yet, Pyro? I've a packet of sausages with my name on it and I reckon we all could all do with something to keep our strengths up for tomorrow.”

“Ready when you are”, said Pyro, “Chuck us them sausages and I'll have them sizzling in the pan before you can say “Our anus cavaticus.”

“Araneus,” corrected Shandy, carefully placing the specimen back onto an empty web. “Bloody hell, there are dozens of them here. Look!”

“Keep 'em away from me then”, said V-Sign. “I'm having them bangers and then it's straight to bed. Sleeping back zipped all the way up, so none of 'em can creep in during the night to dine on my face.”

“They're not interested in your ugly face, you spaz” said Shandy. “Not unless you're a sodding fly . Best leave 'em to it, I reckon. You know what they say? 'If you want to live and thrive, let the spider run alive.'”

“Superstition”, said Highbrow, “But yes, I concur. No need to panic. We'll be out of here tomorrow, and if they really are as rare in this country as Shandy says, they'll make an interesting note in our hike journals.”

There was a collective sigh at this reminder that the participants were expected to complete a diary of their expedition upon their return, and Pyro promptly resumed his work on the fire to put this as far from his mind as possible. Shandy began gently replacing spiderlings into their nests, whilst V-Sign zipped himself into the tent praying for redemption.

Ninety minutes later, the fire was nothing more than embers, their stomachs were filled with sausages, which, to be honest, had been largely charcoal, and all four boys had joined V-Sign, a single torch providing the only illumination in the crowded tent.

As it had so many times before, the conversation eventually turned to V-Sign's “accident”. All the boys knew the real story – V- Sign had earned his nickname through having lost two fingers and a thumb when his brother had dropped a drain cover on his left hand when he was six – but the real entertainment was always in hearing their friend's latest explanation for his disability.

“So what happened then?” cajoled Shandy, whose own soubriquet had been earned simply because he'd once accidentally bleached his hair when selecting the wrong bottle in the shower. As one of the few kids at the school with Indian parents, his appearance that morning had sealed his fate, and despite all entreaties to be known as “bugboy”, his classmate had latched on to “Shandy”, and it wasn't going to fade, despite his growing fascination with all things insect-like.

“Like I said”, said V-Sign, “I was down on the grass and he came looming out of the darkness, this axe, dripping with the blood of his previous victims. Six or seven according to the TV documentary. Not counting the poodle. “

“Yeah, go on”, said Pyro, the flame of his lighter passing over his outstretched hand. “What happened then?”

“As he raised the weapon above his head, he let out this blood-curdling scream...”

Outside of the barn, a wretched scream cut through the noise of the storm. All the boys hushed instantly. Pyro clicked the lighter closed and he joined them, listening intently.

“What the hell was that?” whispered V-Sign as a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the four figures hunched in sleeping bags, ears straining for reassurance that all was well.

“Just a barn owl, probably”, said Highbrow, “Also known as the screech owl. You just heard why.”

Despite these assurances, the friends' appetite for more creepy V-Sign stories had already evaporated, and it wasn't long before they all nodded off, attempting to shut their minds away from the source of the noise and all thoughts of axe-murders, or, God forbid, hike journals.

“Now it's just one team still unaccounted for”, said Anita, back at HQ. “The police have a couple of choppers up looking for them, but in this weather, they aren't holding out much hope. Let's all pray that 'Hoppalong' Spandrell has had the good sense to try to find somewhere dry for the night, rather than camping out on the moors with four vulnerable thirteen-year-olds in his sights.”

Back at the barn, the nocturnal spiders worked their abdomens, weaving as they had never weaved before. The dark boy had appreciated their rarity and saved their spawn. That, in itself was enough to earn their respect and protection. Darkness was coming, but they possessed the means to offer salvation.

Dawn came, a dappled sunlight falling on the barn, mist rising from the saturated ground as Pyro dug his elbow into Highbrow's ribs

“Time to get up, HB. Long day ahead of us. I'll start a brew, shall I?”

“Good idea”, said Highbrow, rousing V-Sign and Shandy from their slumbers to be met with muffled groans. “Looks like the storm has passed.”

“'Bout bloody time”, said Shandy, “My pants are soaked through – here let me out will you – I really need a piss.”

Shandy elbowed his way past the others out of the tent and headed for the darkest corner of the barn where the roof had fallen in many years before.

“Hey, what the heck's this?” he exclaimed, pointing to a tangle of silk about 6-feet long which was partially blocking the entrance to the barn. Projecting from the tangle was a single shoe which appeared to be attached to some sort of metal pole. “Looks like a bloke or something.”

“Can't be”, said Highbrow, “Who'd've been daft enough to be out on the moors in last night's storm..”

“Well, it ain't moving”, said Shandy, giving the pile a kick just to make sure.

A hive of activity followed. Pyro made toast and tea whilst the others packed everything away, shouldering their packs for one last push to the finish line, exiting the barn in single file.

“Well, thank you barn”, said Highbrow, “For keeping us dry and safe for the night”.

No-one, not even Shandy, noticed the words picked out in gossamer tendrils above the immobile body of Spandrell.

“UR WELCOME”.