The beautiful rolling grass fields of Myrtleford were dappled with an extra lushness after the morning rain. Clouds, still grey overhead, ambled through the sky above the quiet village nestled within the grasslands of Western Stallinger.
Waking to the dew of a typical Autumn morning, Captain Roland Longsmithe let out a satisfied yawn and resolved to achieve as little as he humanly could mange today. The Captain, a perennial bludger, daydreamed of a quiet morning that stretched off before him into the far distance of a nap filled afternoon.
Yes, he decided almost immediately after positing the question to the vaccant room, a nap would be a grand idea, well deserved too!
Autumn was kind to Myrtleford: A verdant countryside of rolling dales their grass made soft from passing rains that never did seem to linger. It was, as the town motto proclaimed, A place where not much goes wrong.
Not much of a cloud grew on the hill: whispy and white.
Such a small cloud lingering below the overcast cloudline would be easy to miss on such a day, but as Roland gazed thoughtlessly out of his window he noticed and considered it a curiosity. That’s a funny little rain cloud he thought while drawing back the curtains to get a better look.
Before him the cloud suddenly grew in a pulsating tremble, edges of an apparent thunderhead building from the dimpled horizon. It grew larger by the second, slowly massing into a bulbous ball of tangled white, Roland wondered if it was not just growing but slowly approaching.
Tumbling from his home, the guard captain quickly ducked back inside to grab his hat and then returned, attempting to appear calm this time, to gawk at the growing cloud beyond the village green.
Tendrils of flitting white were torn off from the cloud’s bulk and carried away by the wind above. Strands of what looked to be web stretched and swayed within the stilted breeze
‘My gods, it looks like a giant ball of cobwebs’ Roland muttered to no one in particular.
‘I reckon it looks more a bit like a ball o’ yarn me Agness once left near the stove’ Joe the baker had stepped from his shop and joined Roland in the street ‘What do you think it is?’
‘Nothing I’ve ever seen Joe, but I’m suddenly regretting burning that witch last week, she probably would have known a thing or two about…this whole nonsense.’ said Roland gesturing to the ever nearing clot of web ‘Old darl could have been good for the town too; I’ve always said it’s better to amalgamate than to burn at the steak, haven’t I Joe?’ he quipped in levity but found that the baker had absconded back indoors and drawn the shutters. ‘Hmm, as you were then.’
Walking down to the square the Roland noticed that a small crowd of villagers had gathered and were worriedly pointing at the ever nearing cloud of web.
‘Right-o folks nothing to see here, just a low hanging cloud, quite common this time of year.’ he said attempting to dispatch the gawkers.
Young John in a moment of childlike curiosity ran forward and tried to catch one of the tendrils that had separated from the mass, ‘Look ma, it’s silk’ he laughed reaching up becoming immediately stuck to the wisp.
Screams rung out as the cloud passed over the town with impassive force.
Looming into the edge of town, a drifting patch of webbing hung low, snagging itself upon the ornate stonework of Myrtleford’s church roof.
Snapping taught, the cloud lurched forward with a stutter, roughly crumbling the old building and barreling onward, reefing a nearby belltower from its foundations.
Shuddering against the collision, the mass of webs trembled and shook free hundreds of pure white strands that were then blown outward over Myrtleford, consuming all before it in shadow.
Wind, impossibly strong, tore through the street and shattered windows as the force easily plucked fence palings from the ground and flicked tiles off roofs into the distance. Stray cobwebs landed across the whole town, tangling their way around buildings and through trees, the strands then holding fast as if they were iron.
Roland, clasping onto a street lamp with grim determination, was thrown backward, skipping off the cobblestone square and into the open door of the stables.
Flipping up over a small fence, the petrified Guard landed bodily against a hay bail and then scrambled into the cellar; far too out of his depth for any attempts at heroism. Breathing heavily roland holed up, in the most fortunately placed wine cellar that he’d ever fallen into, as cuts of hay stormed into the grey sky above.
In time the wind calmed, rage returning to stillness.
‘Now now people, nothing to worry about!’ Roland waved his hat in the air and attempted to sound authoritative. ‘I’m sure that this kerfuffle has run its course and everything is all back to normal. Tom, go grab some brooms, Margerie dear, put the kettle on; let’s all just sit down, have a cup of tea, and then we’ll start to think about cleaning this all up. Look, I think I can even see the sun.’ Roland paused, squinting into the sky above ‘Wait, what is that!?’
…And so, as the cloud finally passed overhead, the spiders began to rain down in its wake.
J.McCray
2020
Sunday Short Stories 