by V M Jones
Anger and resentment mingled uncomfortably with the scrambled egg, making me feel sick, ashamed and miserable. My pack a lead weight on my back, my heart a lead weight in my chest, I trudged dismally on.
The River Ravven
The forest didn’t go on forever. Before lunch time the trees began to thin, soon giving way to rough grassland. Apart from the rutted track stretching ahead of us there was no sign of life — just birds wheeling in the pale sky, and the sigh of the wind in the grass.
To our left loomed a jagged mountain range, the topmost peaks lost in a bar of white cloud. The stone cliffs behind the entry point to Karazan must be part of them, I realised; they stretched behind us to the south and ahead to the north, dissolving into the grey haze of the distant horizon.
‘Hey — good place for a picnic!’ chirped Jamie hopefully.
‘It’s way too soon to stop,’ objected Richard. ‘Think how long the afternoon would be — and then ages till dinner time!’
‘Rich’s right,’ I agreed reluctantly. So we heaved our packs onto our aching backs and put one weary foot in front of the next until at last the sun was directly overhead.
‘Now this is a good place for a picnic,’ grinned Rich — and he was right. We’d reached the banks of a river — wide, silent and slow-flowing. ‘I’d be able to swim this, I reckon,’ said Rich, surveying it with his hands on his hips. ‘Doesn’t look like there’s much of a current — and I’m freestyle champ at school.’
‘It’s just as well you won’t have to,’ said Gen quietly. ‘I don’t like the look of that water. It’s so dark it’s almost black. That must mean it’s deep — and who knows what might be under there …’
Gen was right: we wouldn’t have to swim. A little way downstream from where we stood, a wooden raft was pulled up well out of reach of the water, partly hidden by the trailing branches of what looked like a willow tree. A thick rope stretched across the river near the raft’s mooring place, from one bank to the other.
‘Great!’ said Richard with satisfaction. ‘A shady picnic spot, a place to refill our water bottles — and built-in transport to the other side! Now this is what I call a civilised adventure!’
He pulled his flask out of his backpack, and strode cheerfully to the water’s edge. ‘Richard — don’t!’ There was an edge of panic in Kenta’s words that stopped Rich dead in his tracks.
‘What?’
‘I remember this place from Quest of the Dark Citadel,’ said Kenta. ‘It seems so weird to be here — like being in a dream. I spent a lot of time here when I was trying to find the citadel — I’d convinced myself it was on the other side of this river, and kept trying to cross. But I only managed it way to the east, where it joins the sea.’
‘Huh?’ Richard looked confused. ‘But …’
‘It’s called the River Ravven.’ Kenta said the words with a quiet solemnity that made me realise at once there was some kind of significance in what she was saying — to her, if not to the rest of us. Looking at their blank faces, I could see they were just as puzzled as I was about what she was getting at. Like Rich, I thought it looked simple enough — hop on the raft, pull ourselves across, and away we go.
Then Jamie piped up. ‘You don’t say ravven to rhyme with cavern, Kenta,’ he corrected her. ‘You say it with a long a — raven. It’s a kind of bird, a bit like a magpie. There’s no such word as ravven.’
‘Oh yes there is.’ Weevil had fallen so far behind us on the long morning’s walk I’d almost managed to convince myself we’d lost him. No such luck. ‘A raven is a bird — a black-plumed, hoarse-voiced bird of evil omen that feeds on flesh. But if you pronounce the same word the way she did, then it means something different. It means to prowl for prey, to eat voraciously, or have a ravenous appetite.’
We gawked at him, mouths open. Even Jamie looked impressed. ‘What does vor — vor — vor —’ began Richard.
I interrupted him, scowling at Weevil. ‘What’s up with you — swallowed a dictionary? And who asked your opinion?’
Weevil shrugged, his eyes on the ground. ‘I can’t help it if I remember things I’ve read,’ he muttered.
‘It’s called a photographic memory,’ Jamie told us, with more than a hint of envy. ‘I’ve sort of got one. I —’
‘Hang on a sec, Jamie,’ Gen broke in. ‘We can hear all about your sort-of-photographic-memory round the campfire tonight. Right now, I want to hear what Kenta has to say. About this Ravven–raven River, and what happens when you try to cross it.’
Kenta had been listening quietly, nibbling on an apple. Now she took a final bite, chewed, and swallowed. The rest of us watched her impatiently. When she spoke it was directly to Gen, with a strange note of hopelessness I didn’t begin to understand. ‘I’ll show you.’ She pulled back her arm and threw the apple — less than half eaten — away across the water. It wasn’t a bad throw, for a girl. The apple flew in a lazy arc about ten metres over the water, and landed on the black, greasy-looking surface with a plop.
In that instant the water erupted into life, bubbling and churning with what must have been thousands of tiny, scrabbling shapes, the sunlight flashing off them like a mosaic of diamonds. In less time than it takes to snap your fingers — less time than it took for the apple to sink below the surface of the water — it was gone as if it had never existed.
‘Point taken,’ said Richard grimly. ‘Looks like the ferry’s there for a reason. What are they, Kenta?’
‘Piranhas, I’ll bet,’ said Jamie with gloomy relish.
‘No, not piranhas. They’re a kind of carnivorous water spider. But they eat … well … anything. Fruit, like you just saw. Leaves. Nets, if you try to catch them in one. Even wood.’
Even wood … ‘So the boat …’ I murmured.
‘So the boat gets you part of the way across,’ Kenta whispered; ‘and then …’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Rich spoke up, his voice unnaturally hearty. ‘OK, so the river’s full of these vor-whatsit spiders. But people do cross it. And they use this raft — they must, or why is it here? So the question is …’
‘The question is how.’ Gen’s face had an intense, distracted look I remembered from before. Though the face had changed, the look hadn’t. It meant she was thinking — hard. ‘How about we have a hunt around the riverbank. See whether we can find anything — any clue; any hint; any other way over. Because Rich is right. The one thing we do know is: there must be a way.’
We finished our lunch and then picked our way along the riverbank, keeping well away from the edge. In places it was sandy and smooth, almost like a beach. In other places trees grew down to the river’s edge, damp drifts of autumn leaves trapped between their gnarled roots. Thick undergrowth grew down the bank here and there — undergrowth none of us seemed very keen to shove our way through.
I headed off to the left, in the direction of the raft. I wanted to have a closer look. First, I examined the rope. It was thick — as thick as my forearm — and in good condition. It was tied with an impressive knot round the trunk of a tall tree a fair way up the riverbank, giving it enough height and tension to stretch the entire way across the river without touching the water. Just as well, I thought grimly. The raft itself was a simple platform of rough planks laid across circular poles, held in place with rusty but solid-looking nails.
I straightened up and stared out across the water. It gave no hint as to the swarming life — or death —lurking below the surface. Here, the bank was bare and stony, sloping gently down to the water’s edge; I could see drag marks in the pebbled beach where the last people to cross had heaved the raft up out of harm’s way. The pebbles were all sizes, all colours — a salt-and-pepper mix of brown and grey and bone-white … bone-white? Abruptly, I stooped and picked up one of the white pebbles. It wasn’t a pebble at all. It was a knuckle-shaped bone, bleached by the sun and worn smooth by wind and water. I picked up another … and another. Slowly I turned so my back was to the river, my eyes r
aking the banks on either side of me. Everywhere there were bones. Not just small bones like the ones on the riverbank — bones of all shapes and sizes, half-hidden by the reeds and rushes, grass and undergrowth. A cold hand tightened round my heart. I could feel the hair at the back of my neck prickle as I picked my way cautiously among them, half-recognising a leg bone here, a shoulder blade there. It was a graveyard … a graveyard around the raft’s landing place. Why?
When at last I stumbled on the answer, it brought me quite literally to my knees … and face to face with a human skeleton, gleaming dull ivory in the dappled shade of the willow tree, a frayed and partly rotted rope still knotted loosely round what was left of its neck.
But it wasn’t the grinning skull that made me cry out — a strangled cry of revulsion and denial that brought the others running to join me and stare down at what I had found.
It was the signpost. Half-hidden in the undergrowth, cracked and rotted and covered in mildew and growths of tiny brown toadstools … but still legible. Just.
Live Bait Ford.
Richard’s face was pale and set, and his eyes were narrowed angrily as he stared out over the oily-looking water. ‘Now we know how they cross — King Karazeel’s men.’ He spat the name out. ‘They give the spiders something more … interesting … than wood to chew on.’
‘Richard — don’t.’ Gen’s eyes were huge in her white face.
‘We know how they do it … but it won’t help us. And yet we have to get across.’
‘Now I understand what Q meant about evolution,’ whispered Jamie. ‘He’d never have put a solution like this in a game for kids.’
There was a pause. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got in our backpacks,’ I said slowly. ‘OK, I don’t for a second believe that dangling a tin of condensed milk over the side of the raft would have the same effect as … the same effect, but there might be something else that could be useful.’
The girls bent down and started unpacking the bags, glad to have something to do to take their minds off my discovery. ‘Baked beans … instant pancake mix … strawberry honey cereal … mountain chilli …’
‘Don’t, Gen — it’s ages till dinner — and we may never have any at this rate!’ groaned Jamie.
‘Matches … string … sunscreen … can opener … insect repellent … long-burning fire-lighting fluid … dishcloths …’
‘Hang on a sec, Gen.’ The ghost of an idea was hovering on the fringes of my mind. Holding it there, scared to look at it too closely in case it evaporated, I stepped forward. Crouched down, and rummaged through the pile of stuff. Came up with two things, one in each hand. Gave the blank faces above me what I hoped was an encouraging grin.
‘This is going to sound crazy,’ I said hesitantly, ‘but listen for a second, and tell me what you think …’
The crossing
Half an hour later the raft was loaded, our packs piled in the centre, and we were ready to go. The girls hovered nervously near the water’s edge, watching the launching with wide, frightened eyes. Weevil stood with them, huddled in Kenta’s sleeping bag, looking sorry for himself.
Rich and I grabbed one corner of the raft each, and heaved. It weighed a ton. Gradually we tugged it down the gentle, stony slope towards the water. Jamie was capering about, getting in the way and giving advice: ‘Look out for that big rock, guys! Oops, it isn’t a rock, it’s a … never mind. Careful, Adam — you don’t want to get your feet wet! Watch that overhanging branch, Rich! Ouch — bet that hurt! Nearly there!’ And at last: ‘There we go! We’ve done it!’ — to an ironic glance between Rich and me.
But we didn’t have time to worry about Jamie — or anything else. ‘Quick, girls — hop on! Right into the middle — and hurry!’ Weevil and Kenta didn’t need telling twice. Already, the places where the wooden base of the raft met the water were churning with ravenous, scrabbling life. But Gen stood frozen on the beach, hands up to her face, eyes huge. ‘Adam — I don’t know if I —’
Unceremoniously, I picked her up and dumped her in the middle of the raft. With our combined weight, it pitched alarmingly, dousing my foot in an icy wave of river water. Almost instantly, a pain like a bee sting shot through my ankle. ‘Shoot,’ I muttered under my breath.
‘You OK?’ Richard was balanced at the far end of the raft, both hands on the rope, ready for action.
‘Yeah,’ I grunted, ignoring the biting pain lancing through my foot. ‘Let’s go!’
With the girls and Weevil huddled silently in the centre with the gear, we set off across the smooth water, Rich at the front, me at the rear.
The current was stronger than it looked — way stronger. I’d estimated it’d take ten minutes or so to pull ourselves across — no more. More than estimated it — gambled on it. But as we approached the centre of the river, the raft started pulling to the right, in the direction of the slow flow of current. The rope curved outwards like a giant bowstring, creaking from the strain. If we’d stood upright, the raft would have swept out from under us and away downriver, leaving us dangling from the rope like clothes pegs on a line. But as the pull of the current increased we’d both automatically turned upriver to face the distant mountains, bracing our feet on the crossbars of the raft and leaning back against the river’s pull. By the time we were halfway, my shoulders were on fire and my hands raw from the constant rubbing of the rough rope. The raft crept on at a snail’s pace. Beside me, Richard heaved and panted and swore softly under his breath.
But the slow pace was the least of our problems. Almost as soon as the raft was waterborne it had started: a grating vibration that hummed through the wooden raft as though its bottom was being gently rubbed with coarse sandpaper … or as if a million — ten million — tiny mouths were gnawing away under the water.
Now Jamie spoke up, his voice trembling. ‘Adam — it’s happening …’
I shot a glance over my shoulder. He was crouched as close to the centre of the raft as he could get, his back to Weevil and the girls. He was holding a stick with a checked dishcloth bunched and tied tightly at one end, brandishing it in both hands like a weapon. His eyes were fixed on the edge of the raft.
They had come, just as we’d known they would. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of them. A heaving, convulsing mass of spiders, each the size of a tiny grape, fat and transparent and bulbous like globs of phlegm with scrabbling legs, clawing their way up over the edge of the raft towards the cowering huddle in its centre.
‘Toughen up, Jamie. You know what to do. Watch and wait — and do it if you have to!’
I turned back to the river. Was it my imagination, or was the raft starting to settle deeper into the water? Did the sandpapery, rasping noise seem louder — closer?
I shook the useless thoughts out of my head, gritted my teeth, ignored the searing pain in my ankle and the throbbing of my foot, and heaved at the rope. Hand … over hand … over hand …
‘Adam! It’s stopped them! Look!’
The entire perimeter of the raft was thick with spiders now — a bizarre edging of live lacework wider than my hand. But Jamie was right — it had stopped them. Like an invisible barrier, the thick line of insect repellent we’d sprayed was holding them at bay — for the time being at least. ‘Good one, Jamie!’ I grunted. ‘Way to go!’
At last, it seemed the far bank was closer, and the pull of the current was letting up. So why did the raft seem so much heavier? Shooting a look across at Richard, I could see the muscles in his arms bunching and straining with effort; his face was bright red and covered in sweat, his dirty blond hair plastered to his forehead in dark strands. For a second, our eyes met. ‘The raft,’ he panted. ‘It’s settling … deeper into the water. As they eat … the wood off the bottom!’
At that moment, there was a shriek from one of the girls, and a warbling cry of horror from Jamie. Desperately, my flayed hands rasping over the rope, I looked down — and saw the spiders were crawling over one another, dragging their bloated little bodies
over a layer of their wiggling, squirming companions to form a living carpet over the no-man’s-land of insect repellent. They’d breached the first of our defences. Time was running out. ‘Jamie …’ I gasped.
‘I’m doing it!’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was: almost invisible, the fragile, flickering flame of the match in Jamie’s wavering hand was licking at the tip of firelighter-soaked dishcloth. Then Kenta’s slim brown hand was over his, steadying it, and the makeshift torch flared brightly into life. Legs straddled for balance, eyes round with horror, Jamie started brushing at the advancing tide of spiders in wide, awkward sweeps. There was a hissing, popping noise. I caught a glimpse of Gen cringing away, her face hidden in her hands. I turned my back and pulled with all my might.
But the raft was slowing. Sluggish, reluctant, it inched its way through the water. Behind me, Jamie huffed and puffed and whimpered; I could feel the platform tipping and swaying as he turned from one side to the other. Time crawled. A tide of panic was struggling its way up from somewhere deep inside. There was no going back now. The raft was settling deeper into the water. At first, the platform had been an easy hand’s-span above the surface; now, little, greasy waves lapped over the edges, each one rimmed with a frothy edging of spiders, like the foam on the ripples at the seashore.
Suddenly, Gen screamed — a high-pitched shriek that turned my blood to ice. ‘Jamie — there’s one crawling on me! Quick! Help me!’
Jamie was losing the battle. As fast as he could swipe at the spiders, more came on. For a second, I hesitated; gauged the distance we still had left to the shore. Not far now — not far. Jamie’s torch was burning low, starting to gutter … our options were running out. Rich and I exchanged a glance of grim agreement. ‘Jamie — now!’
With a faint whimper, Jamie pushed the smouldering remains of the dishcloth down onto the deck of the raft, rubbing and turning it, searching for the second invisible line … Could the spiders have crossed it already? Had it soaked into the wood? Was the torch still burning?
