A roper holds so still that goats rub their horns on it. It is a gray, tapering column about nine feet high, thick as a rain barrel at the base and narrowing to a blunt crown, crusted with grit, lime scale and stripes of green damp. In the limestone galleries of Esgair Hollen it stands among true stalagmites and cannot be told from them by eye. Touch is another matter. Cave stone takes the temperature of the cave. A roper stays faintly warm, like a loaf an hour out of the oven, and a palm laid against it comes away dry and tingling.
Six strands hang folded against the upper trunk, each about thirty feet when paid out and no thicker than a bootlace. They are the color of wet tallow and tacky along their whole length. The roper never whips them. It lets one drift across the floor at the pace of a snail until something steps on it or leans on it, and then all six shorten together and the catch rises up the trunk to the crown. Sheep go this way, and goats, and now and then a dog from Bryn Tarrow that wandered in after a rabbit. Each afternoon, by the marks in the clay, it draws the strands one at a time through a patch of mud, combs the grit out against its own crust, and coils them again. The job takes about an hour and appears to serve nothing but upkeep.
The single eye sits in a pit a third of the way down the crown, round, ivory yellow, with a black slot for a pupil and a lid of gritty skin that drops when dust falls. Under it the mouth runs sideways as a seam, lined with ridged gray plates like the face of a grater. Whatever the plates cannot grind, it drops. A drift of belt buckles, hobnails, knife blades and bent horseshoes lies under every roper, because iron passes through it untouched, and a shepherd who finds such a heap knows what is standing over it. The people of Bryn Tarrow say a roper lives two hundred years. I have no way to check that.
Every April the families of Bryn Tarrow carry lime buckets into the cave and whitewash each true stalagmite along the path, so that anything gray and unwashed is plain at a glance. Padrig Elwyn, who has done this for forty springs, still scolds the nearest roper by name while he works. At the cave mouth he hands the bucket to his nephew and says, "Keep to the white."
- Classification
- Cavern ambusher, stone mimic
- Habitat
- Limestone caves and sinkhole galleries
- Danger
- High
- Size
- 9 ft tall, strands reach 30 ft
- Activity
- Always
- Realm
- Underground limestone galleries
- Binomial
- Petrolithus tenebrosus
- Diet
- Sheep, goats, strayed dogs
- Temperament
- Patient, immobile, ambush hunter










