A giant spider hangs its larder in the highest dry place within reach and returns to it on a fixed round, and at Rumor Stairs that place is the underside of the threshing barn roof. The cocoons run along the tie beam in rows of nine, each as long as a ewe, wrapped in gray silk that yellows at the seams. Inside are sheep, one pony, a crate of lamp oil the spider must have mistaken for something else, and a great many owls. It takes only what has already stopped moving. The name Rumor Stairs is a clerk's mistake for a local word meaning roughly 'ladder of roofs,' and the village kept it because the maps were already printed.
Eight eyes sit in two rows on a face the width of a washtub lid. The front pair are large and glossy, the green of old pond glass. The middle pair sit unevenly, the left a finger lower than the right and clouded like boiled milk. None of them blink. Ursel Kettering, who sweeps the barn each Saturday, says the clouded one keeps watching her even when the spider faces the wall, and she sweeps in a wide curve around the post it hangs from.
The left third leg is the newest thing about it. On the autumn it was logged, the leg ended in a stump at the knee. Two seasons later it has grown back pale and half the thickness of its neighbors, the color of a peeled willow wand, and it bends a little too far at the joint. The spider favors it anyway, setting it down first on every new strand, the way a person tests ice. The larder has changed too. Four rows have become six, and the newest sit lower than the old, within reach of a tall man standing on a hay wagon.
Lamb's Ceiling, up the valley, is a lambing loft whose local name the surveyors rendered as a roof, and its households keep a habit for it. Each autumn the lintels are rubbed with the cut face of a raw turnip, and the turnip is buried head down under the sill. The spider lowers a strand toward the doorway, stops a foot above the frame, and draws it up again. The route can be followed without ever seeing the animal. Along each tie beam a clean stripe runs through the dust where its legs drag the silk, and a fresh stripe means it passed in the night. Why does it keep forty-one owls it has never once opened? Nobody at Rumor Stairs or Lamb's Ceiling has an answer.
- Classification
- Giant arachnid, silk hunter
- Habitat
- Barn rafters and dry lofts
- Danger
- High
- Size
- pony-sized, legs spanning 12 ft
- Activity
- Nocturnal
- Realm
- Highland barn country
- Binomial
- Tignaria vigilans
- Diet
- Livestock and roosting owls
- Temperament
- Patient, watchful, unhurried








