by Lisa Doan
Bertram said nobody knew the species better than he did. He had an uncanny knack with animals in general and when an animal saw Bertram, it thought, Now here’s a man I can’t fool with.
After the third fall, Bertram explained to Henry that he was locked in a battle of wills with the pony and whoever gave up first would be the loser forevermore. Henry climbed back on, and Cantankerous finally allowed himself to be ridden around the paddock. Despite the win, Bertram could give no guarantee about what Cantankerous might do tomorrow, as he said there was never a stubborner creature than a bad-tempered pony.
As the weeks passed by, Henry quickly adjusted to being Sir Richard’s assistant. One of his jobs was to feed the frog and the tarantula each day. He had named the frog Mr. Terrible, for Terribilis and for the fact that it could accidentally kill twenty men. The tarantula’s genus was Theraphosa, but Sir Richard could find no evidence that this particular species had been previously discovered. He named the spider Theraphosa nigrum lapis, using the Latin words for black and stone. He had written to the Norwich Natural History Society to apprise them of that fact, in case any of the members were to lay their hands on a similar tarantula and attempt to name it after themselves. Henry did not think Theraphosa nigrum lapis really described the spider’s personality and decided to call her Mary, Queen of Scots, for her impetuous nature. She was forever boldly attempting to climb the aquarium glass, though if she got out no good could come of it. Sir Richard had said there were people like that—never satisfied with where they were and always certain the grass was greener somewhere else.
Henry also fed the piranhas every day and, once he became used to them, found he enjoyed throwing a hunk of meat into the pond and watching the water roil as the beasts devoured it.
Henry’s biggest job, though, was cheering up Sir Richard when an experiment failed. Sir Richard had never said that was part of Henry’s job, but Henry began to think it was needed and talked it over with Mrs. Splunket. They both agreed that Sir Richard took his failures too much to heart and needed to be distracted when things went wrong, which was always. Mrs. Splunket said that if Sir Richard were to line up all his failures in a row and have a long and hard look at them, he’d give up experiments altogether.
After the sundew-roses hybrid came to nothing, the knight had moved on. He built himself a pair of wings from wood and parchment and jumped off a fence post. But instead of gliding across the field as he had envisioned, he now walked with a limp. He had spent days tinkering with how to invent a smokeless fireplace, until their clothes were permeated with the smell of burned wood. He had even been so bold as to attempt to train deer to carry letters and messages, the theory being they could take shortcuts through the woods instead of always having to go along roads. Their very efficiency could put the postal service out of business. Sir Richard had only managed to catch one deer and whatever letters he had packed in a small satchel around the animal’s neck were deep in the forest by now. Sir Richard remained convinced that particular experiment could be made to work if confined to only two points of geography with food for the animal at either end. Unfortunately, they had failed to set up a second point for the deer to aim for.
Sir Richard often sent Henry off on errands to deliver a message or pick up something for Mrs. Splunket. Henry got to know the neighborhood, which he thought was very elegant. A duchess, cousin to the queen herself, lived right next door. The village of Barton Commons was just down the road. He met the local shopkeeper, the barman at the tavern, the blacksmith, and plenty of local farmers. More than once he was told that he didn’t seem the rough urchin they had heard about. Henry assumed he could thank Bertram for that.
Henry continued his lessons on Cantankerous and managed to take him across a few fields, but the pony was diabolical. Cantankerous specialized in the unpredictable and seemed to know exactly the moment when Henry had let down his guard. He might rear up, he might sidestep, he might go backwards, he might come to a sudden stop, or his teeth might lunge at Henry’s leg. Henry supposed he had not even seen all of the pony’s tricks and was generally relieved to put the horse in his stall and return to the manor. His first stop after riding was usually the kitchen, as there was always something cooking that would cheer him up after his battle with Cantankerous.
Weeks passed and Henry and Mrs. Splunket grew very comfortable together. When he wasn’t doing something for Sir Richard, Henry lounged in the kitchen and ate cakes and thick strips of fried bacon. He got used to not feeling hungry all the time, and he gained weight and grew stronger by the day.
Mrs. Splunket was a widow and told Henry that her late husband, Mr. Camus Splunket, had met with an untimely end while pole vaulting over a barn on a wager. She said Mr. Splunket had not been overrun with brains, and what little brains he’d had were left scattered on the ground. When Henry appeared grieved by this sad tale, she said, “Never mind, dearie, he’s pole vaulting over clouds now.”
At night, Henry lit a candle on his bedside table and snuggled into his bed with a book he had borrowed from Sir Richard’s library. There was a particular collection of stories he liked, filled with dragons and princesses and knights. The dragons were fearsome, but the knights were honorable and brave and the princesses were always kind. The people in the book were so different from the people he had encountered on the streets of London. Londoners might rob a person while they weren’t looking or even murder a person in their sleep. Maybe they would get caught, maybe they wouldn’t. In the book, evildoers always got caught and the knights always won. He usually drifted off with the book on his chest.
In the mornings, when Henry opened his eyes and looked around his room—with its cozy carpets and a cheerful fire burning in the grate—he gave thanks that providence had sent Sir Richard his way. The gentleman was odd, conducting strange experiments that never resulted in anything, but he was kind. Very kind.
One late afternoon, Henry crouched in a corner of Sir Richard’s laboratory, arranging scientific journals by date. Sir Richard was particularly interested in the handwritten journals of his friend, John Fitzwilliam, detailing a year spent exploring the Amazon jungle. Fitzwilliam had brought back some live—and some dead—species he had encountered and had given Sir Richard Mr. Terrible, Mary, Queen of Scots, the piranhas, and the creepy sundew plant.
The aquariums lining the wall reflected the light of the setting sun; Henry could just make out Mr. Terrible perched on a rock in his corner. The hiss of steam from the boiling kettle permeated the room.
Sir Richard stood at a table working on some new experiment. Henry heard him swear. The door slammed and the room grew quiet. Then the front door slammed. Henry smiled. Another one of his master’s experiments had ended with a walk in the front garden (now reduced to holes) to clear his thoughts and calm his temper. Henry would have to do his very best to cheer up Sir Richard over dinner.
Henry heard the front door open again. He wondered at it, as Sir Richard’s walks after a failure usually lasted at least an hour.
Sir Richard burst back into the laboratory and said, “I’ve had experiments go wrong before, but this is a real corker.”
Henry stood up. “What’s happened, sir?”
“What’s happened?” Sir Richard asked. “Look out the window.”
Henry peered past the table overflowing with books and beakers toward the leaded glass bay windows. A spiky black tree had sprouted up in front of the middle glass. “Ah,” Henry said, nodding, “you’ve been experimenting with horticulture again. Another hybrid. Is it not exactly what you wanted, sir? Shall I chop it down directly?”
“Chop it down directly? It could chop you down directly!”
Henry glanced back at the window. The spiky black tree had moved. “Sir,” Henry said, “what is that exactly? You haven’t invented a tree that can walk, have you?”
“That’s no tree, Henry. That’s the Theraphosa nigrum lapis. The more pressing question is, where is she going? If she heads toward the duchess’s annual dusk-
to-dawn croquet party, I shall never hear the end of it.”
Henry spun around to the table behind him. The aquarium that had recently held Mary, Queen of Scots, was empty. “Sir, was that Mr. Fitzwilliam’s tarantula? That Theraphosa nigrum lapis? But how could she get so big?”
“How should I know?” Sir Richard said, in a voice that sounded an octave higher than usual. “I used a little of this and a little of that and added something else, then I noticed that instead of her turning yellow as I had planned—because yellow is the queen’s favorite color and her birthday is coming up—she was getting bigger and I thought, now that’s unexpected, then she got alarmingly big, so I threw her outside, and she just kept growing.” Sir Richard stared down at the table filled with pots and beakers of ingredients. “Don’t move anything—something here has caused this catastrophe.”
Henry stared at Sir Richard. “Wait, you thought the queen would like a yellow tarantula for her birthday?” Henry asked.
“I can’t say whether she’d like it, I just know she hasn’t got one already. Blast it, where has that spider gone?”
Henry looked. Where had she gone?
CHAPTER THREE
“Swords and horses,” Sir Richard said.
“What?”
“Swords and horses! Run to the stable and direct Bertram to saddle up Real Beauty and Cantankerous. I’ll get the swords. The duchess’s dusk-to-dawn croquet party is set to begin at any moment. We’ve got to waylay that spider before she devours a debutante, mallet and all.”
Henry didn’t know how he would manage a sword on horseback. He had never used a sword in his life and was only just beginning to be able to stay on Cantankerous with two hands on the reins.
Henry raced out the kitchen door, looking in both directions to make sure the tarantula was not hovering nearby. He spotted Mary swaying and wobbling near the front of the manor. Henry supposed she was trying to get used to her bigger legs. Considering there were eight, he hoped it would take awhile.
He dashed across the yard to the stable. “Bertram,” he called, “saddle up Real Beauty and Cantankerous. Sir Richard wants to … go for a ride.”
Bertram lay on a bale of hay chewing on a stalk and staring at the rafters. He hauled himself up and strode away mumbling, “No regular schedule with this one. Most decent folk don’t go willy-nilly wanting to ride and then not wanting to ride. A fellow can hardly relax when he don’t know what’s coming next.”
Henry peeked out the stable door. Two of the tarantula’s eight legs were visible from around the corner of the manor. Hopefully, Bertram wouldn’t notice. He still complained about how he had nearly lost a finger while sitting next to the fountain stocked with Fitzwilliam’s piranhas.
Sir Richard burst out of the kitchen garden gate as Bertram led out the horses. He threw a sword to Henry and grabbed Real Beauty’s reins. “Bertram, should you happen to see a largish spider, my advice is run.”
Bertram turned on his heel, muttering, “As if a grown man is afeared of spiders!”
Sir Richard mounted his chestnut horse and said, “We don’t have much time. Once that creature smells the duchess’s cucumber sandwiches, she will head right for them.”
Henry struggled onto Cantankerous. The metal sword was heavy in his right hand and he had his doubts about being able to control the pony with only one hand on the reins. Cantankerous seemed to have doubts of his own and tried to bite Henry’s leg by way of comment. The pony missed Henry’s calf but snorted, as if to say, “Don’t relax, I’ll try that again.”
Henry settled himself into the saddle and balanced his sword across his lap. “What’s the plan, sir?” he asked Sir Richard.
“If we can get ahead of her, we may be able to back her into the forest, but we must be careful. Those hairs on her abdomen are urticating bristles—consider them barbed arrows. Should you see her kick out with her back legs, duck. Then, there are the chelicerae to watch out for; the venom in the fangs of a spider of that size would be lethal. The claws would not normally cause concern, but in their current state they could rip a person’s head off.”
Henry was just going to figure that the entire tarantula was dangerous.
“Don’t be put off by all those eyes, Henry. Yes, eight is more eyes than we are accustomed to, but her vision is not sharp. Movement and vibration are what the creature will rely on.”
“It’ll be full dark soon, sir.”
The sun had already sunk below the oaks of the Queen’s Forest. Points of light sprung up across the duchess’s lawn. The lady’s footmen scurried back and forth, lighting torches for night-time croquet.
“Quickly, Henry, she’s on the move!”
Mary, Queen of Scots, lumbered down the slope toward the lights, as if she were on the guest list for the duchess’s annual dusk-to-dawn croquet party. Getting used to her bigger legs hadn’t taken as long as Henry had hoped.
Sir Richard spurred Real Beauty into a gallop. Henry spurred Cantankerous, cursed him, pleaded with him, wrestled his pant leg out of the pony’s mouth, and eventually galloped behind Sir Richard.
The tarantula was halfway down the hill already and gravity gave her momentum. As they approached her, Henry got a closer look.
Her body had grown to the size of a mail coach, comprised of two round parts connected in the middle. Her legs were the height of a tall man. Her claws looked like curved black daggers attached to hairy handles.
The tarantula hovered in the shadows, her massive outline showed against the torch flames. She paused, as if trying to understand what she saw through her eight bleary eyes.
Ladies in pastel ball gowns swung mallets at wooden croquet balls. Gentlemen in tailcoats cheered them on. The duchess’s staff, dressed in starched blue and white livery, wound around the players and passed glasses of champagne from silver trays to outstretched hands. A long table covered in white linen was piled high with the duchess’s renowned cucumber sandwiches.
Mary reached out with one of her forelegs and swept a tray of sandwiches to the ground. The table swayed and tumbled over.
The crash rang through the night. The croquet game halted and a footman ran toward the sound.
Mary, Queen of Scots, raised herself up.
The footman staggered back. “What is that?” he cried.
“The torches, sir,” Henry called. He threw down his sword and wheeled Cantankerous toward the nearest torch, pulling the post from the ground. It was heavy and awkward.
“Good thinking,” Sir Richard yelled. “We shall fire-joust her into the forest!”
Sir Richard grabbed the torch on the far side of the overturned table. The tarantula backed farther into the night. The reflection of the flames danced in her glassy eyes. Henry held the torch like a javelin and charged forward.
“That’s it, Henry, fear nothing,” Sir Richard called, wheeling around to the other side. “Simply watch for the chelicerae, the claws, and the urticating hairs. Otherwise, she can’t do a thing to you!”
Henry jabbed his torch at the tarantula, hoping to scare her into a retreat. Mary spun around and lifted her back legs. He ducked as a slew of black arrows flew over his head.
The tarantula lumbered away and Henry drove Cantankerous after it. The pony decided it wished to go in any direction except the spider’s, and Henry found himself zigzagging across the lawn as he desperately pulled on the reins.
Behind him, he heard the duchess’s commanding voice call out, “Richard Blackstone!”
Henry neared the tarantula and waved his torch at the creature’s back legs. He sensed that she didn’t like the light or the heat.
The Theraphosa nigrum lapis stumbled toward the forest. Sir Richard and Henry chased it from behind, waving the torches at its legs until Mary disappeared into the woods.
Henry and Sir Richard reined in their mounts as they neared the old oaks that marked the edge of the Queen’s Forest. “Go no farther, Henry,” Sir Richard called.
Henry was relieved. In the daylight, the Qu
een’s Forest was a cheerful kind of place full of deer, rabbits, birdsong, and babbling brooks. At night though, the forest took on an ominous look, dark and brooding as if it could swallow a person up. He would not dare go in, even if there weren’t a giant tarantula stumbling around. He had not grown so used to country life as that.
Sir Richard clapped him on the back. “Good work. I daresay the duchess’s guests did not notice too terribly much.”
Henry looked back to the croquet lawn. The guests had deserted. Footmen scrambled to douse torches and haul the tables inside.
Sir Richard surveyed the scene. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”
“Sir,” Henry said, “we should probably go back and get my sword and the barbs Mary shot at me.”
“The urticating bristles! Good thinking, Henry. It would not do to have those found in the morning.”
They turned their horses and made their way back to the lawn. Henry watched the last of the footmen scramble into the house. He heard the distant sounds of carriages being called for and guessed that the duchess’s guests were not wasting a moment before being on their way home. Mary had completely wrecked the lady’s party and he was sure Sir Richard would hear of it. Just as well that his master would not find himself explaining where the urticating bristles came from.
It did not take long to locate the barbs—they had landed in the soft earth like javelins. Henry collected his sword while Sir Richard pulled the barbs from the ground.
As they rode back toward the house, Sir Richard said, “I’ll pitch them in the piranha pond. Nobody will stick their hand in there to find out what’s in it.”
After Henry had washed the sweat and dirt from his face, he went down to the dining room. Mrs. Splunket lumbered in, pushing a rolling cart piled high with food. She set grilled fish, fried oysters, a roast pheasant, a sliced onion, baked apples, a hearty loaf of wheat bread, and a pitcher of ale onto the table. From her manner, it was clear she did not know that he and Sir Richard had been out of the house or that anything had gone amiss at the duchess’s party. Weeks ago, she had told Henry she was disappointed that Sir Richard chose not to attend the duchess’s dusk-to-dawn croquet party. She had said, “Them two go together like a fork and a spoon. If he would only see it.” Now she laid the table while softly talking to herself. “It’s just a shame, is what it is. A fine lady hosts a fancy party and a knight who lives right next door don’t go.”
