Outside, Christine had all this while been fighting a dreadful battle. She fought to take possession of the child before it was baptized, to enter the house, but strong men prevented her. Powerful gusts buffeted the house, pale flashes of lightning whipped about it, but the Lord’s hand gave it shelter; the child was baptized, and Christine circled the house powerless and in vain. Racked with ever more infernal torments, she uttered sounds that were not the sounds of a human breast; the animals stood quaking in their stalls and tore loose from their ropes, and the oaks in the forest convulsed in a great horrified rustle.
Inside the house, rejoicing broke out at this new victory, at the impotence of the green huntsman and the vain struggles of his accomplice; outside, Christine lay struck down by indescribable torments, and in her face labor pains began such as no woman on earth has ever known. The spider in her face swelled up higher than ever, sending fiery barbs through her very bones.
And now Christine felt as if her face was bursting open and glowing coals were being birthed from it, quickening into life and swarming across her face and all her limbs, and everything within her face had sprung to life, a fiery swarming all across her body. In the lightning’s pallid glow she saw, long-legged and venomous, innumerable black spiderlings scurrying down her limbs and out into the night, and as they vanished they were followed, long-legged and venomous, by innumerable others. Finally there were no more left to swarm after the others, the burning in her face subsided, and the spider settled back into her flesh, becoming an almost invisible dot again, its dying eyes gazing after the infernal brood it had given birth to as a sign of how the green huntsman likes being toyed with.
Spent, as if she had just given birth, Christine dragged herself home; though the fire in her face no longer burned so sharply, the fire in her heart raged still; and though her exhausted limbs longed for rest, the green man permitted her no rest, for once he has a person in his clutches, this is what he does.
In the house, meanwhile, they celebrated and rejoiced, and so for a long time they did not hear the animals bellowing and thrashing in their stalls. Finally they heard and were startled; a few went to look, and returned deathly pale with the news that the finest cow lay dead, and the rest of the beasts were thrashing and flailing in ways they had never seen. Something was not right, they said, strange forces were at work. All celebration ceased, and everyone ran outside to look to the animals, whose bellowing resounded over mountain and valley, but they did not know what to do. They tried both worldly and spiritual arts against this curse, but in vain; before the day dawned, all the animals in the stable had died. And as silence set in at the house, they began to hear bellowing here and bellowing there. The affliction was spreading from stable to stable where, in their terror, the beasts piteously cried out to their masters for succor.
They sped home as if flames were shooting from the roofs, but they brought no succor; in stable after stable, death laid low their livestock, and the wails of man and beast filled mountains and vales, and the sun that when it last departed had left behind so gay a valley now looked down upon a scene of abject misery. When the sun rose, the peasants saw that the stables where their livestock had fallen swarmed with innumerable black spiders. They crept over the animals, the fodder, and everything they touched was poisoned, and every living thing began to thrash about and was soon struck down. The spiders could not be cleared from the stables they infested. They seemed to have sprung up out of the ground, and no stable they had not yet beset could be shielded from them, for suddenly they would creep out of the walls or else scores of them would drop from the rafters. The peasants drove their livestock out into the fields, but they were only driving their beasts into the jaws of death. For as soon as a cow set foot in a meadow, the ground began to teem with life: black, long-legged spiders sprouted from the earth, horrific Alpine flowers that crept up the animals’ legs, and dreadful cries of anguish resounded from mountain to valley. And all these spiders resembled the spider upon Christine’s face as children resemble their mother, and no one had ever seen spiders like these before.
The cries of the suffering beasts could be heard as far as the castle, and soon shepherds arrived there as well, announcing that their livestock had also fallen victim to the venomous creatures, and with mounting fury von Stoffeln received the news of how herd after herd was being lost, and of the pact with the green huntsman, who had been cheated twice, and how the spiders resembled—as children their mothers—the spider in the face of the woman from Lindau who had entered into an agreement with the green man on her own initiative, never properly informing the others. In his wrath, von Stoffeln rode across the mountain and roared down at the unfortunate peasants that he had no intention of losing herd after herd for their sake; they would have to make good any losses he suffered, and keep their promises, and bear the consequences of their own actions. He was not about to suffer losses on their account, and those he did incur must be compensated a thousandfold. They should be on their guard. This is what he said, little concerned about what he asked of them. That he himself had driven them to such a pass never crossed his mind. They were responsible for their deeds.
By now most people understood that these spiders were a scourge sent by the Evil One, a warning that the pact must be fulfilled, and that Christine must be more closely involved and that she hadn’t told them everything about the bargain she had struck with the green huntsman. The thought of him made them tremble anew, they no longer mocked him, and they feared their worldly lord as well. If they satisfied the demands of these two, what would their heavenly Lord say, would He permit it and not demand a penance of His own? Filled with trepidation, the most respected among them gathered in a remote barn and ordered Christine to come and give a clear account of the bargain she had struck.
Wild-eyed and vengeful, Christine came. Once more she was being tormented by the growing spider.
When she saw the men’s apprehension, and that no women were present, she told them plainly what had happened: how the green man had been quick to take her at her word, and as a pledge had given her a kiss which she had heeded no more than any other; how in that very spot the spider had grown, causing her infernal torments, from the moment when the first child had been baptized; and how when the second child was baptized and the green man duped, the spider had inflicted the most infernal agony upon her as it gave birth to the innumerable spiders; for he would not suffer himself to be duped without recompense, as the thousand mortal torments that racked her limbs had now made her realize. For the spider swelled anew, multiplying her torments, and if the next child was not the green huntsman’s, no one could say how dreadful the new scourge might be, nor how dreadful the knight’s revenge.
Christine spoke, and the men’s hearts trembled, and for a long time no one dared to utter a word. But then bits of broken sounds began to issue from their fear-choked throats, and these added up to just what Christine had said, without any one man having corroborated her words. One man alone stood up and spoke briefly and to the point: The best thing, it seemed to him, would be to strike Christine dead, for once she was dead, the green man would be content and no longer have any grip on the living. Hearing this, Christine gave a savage laugh. She walked up to him and said he could strike her down on the spot, she had no objection, but what the green man wanted was not her but an unbaptized child, and just as he had marked her, he could as easily mark the hand lifted against her. The man’s hand twitched, and he sat down and listened in silence now to what the others said. And in broken phrases, with no man speaking out clearly but each stammering a few chosen words that said very little, they resolved to sacrifice the next child, but no one volunteered to perform this deed, none was willing to bear the child to Kilchstalden, where they had laid the beeches. None had hesitated to take advantage of the devil, it seemed, for the general weal, and yet none was eager to make his personal acquaintance. And here Christine willingly offered her services, for one who had already kept company with the devil could
scarcely suffer further harm from a second meeting. They all knew to whom the next child would be born, but no one spoke of it, and the child’s father was not among them. Having come both to spoken and unspoken agreement, they parted.
The young woman who, not knowing why, had trembled and wept that fateful night when Christine first brought word of the green huntsman’s offer was to bear the next child. She could not be sanguine or optimistic about how things had gone in the earlier cases, an unnamable fear cast a pall across her heart, and neither prayer nor penance helped. Wary silence surrounded her, no one spoke of the spider any longer, and every eye that rested on her awakened distrust, for she thought it must be calculating the hour when her child might be taken from her to assuage the devil.
Alone and forsaken, she now confronted this sinister force; her only succor was her mother-in-law, a pious woman who stood by her; but what help is one old woman against a savage crowd? She had her husband, who made all the promises and assurances one might expect; but he was overcome with sorrow at the loss of his cattle and thought little of his poor wife’s fears. The priest had promised to come as swiftly and as soon as he was summoned, but much might take place between the moment of sending word and his arrival; and the unfortunate woman had no messenger other than her own husband to shield and protect her, and moreover she lived beneath the same roof as Christine, and their husbands were brothers, and she herself had no relatives of her own, for she had arrived here an orphan. Imagine the mortal fear that tormented this poor woman. Only in prayer with her husband’s pious mother did she find a shred of hope, but when she saw the wicked eyes watching her it vanished.
Meanwhile the sickness persisted, and the terror as well. It was only now and again that an animal was stricken and the spiders showed themselves, but as soon as the peasants’ fear subsided, as soon as any one of them thought or remarked that this plague would soon simply disappear and that before sinning against a child they should think about what it meant to do so, Christine’s infernal torments would blaze up once more, the spider would swell, and death would strike with renewed fury in the stables of anyone who had thought or spoken in this way. Indeed, the adversity appeared to increase as the awaited hour grew near, and they saw they would have to plan carefully to take possession of the child safely and without fail when the time came. Above all they feared the child’s father, and to use force against him was repugnant to all. Christine took it upon herself to win him over, and she succeeded. He wished to know nothing about the business, he would do as his wife bade him, he would go for the priest, but without haste, and would not concern himself with what took place in his absence; in this way he made peace with his conscience, and he would make peace with God by having masses read, and perhaps there was even something that might be done for the child’s soul, he thought, perhaps the devout priest would succeed in winning it back from the devil, and then they would be clear of the whole business, they’d have done their part and still gotten the better of the Evil One. This is what the woman’s husband thought, and in any case—however things turned out—he himself would be guiltless as long as he had not joined in the business with his own hands.
And so this stalwart woman had been sold, but not knowing this, she still anxiously hoped for rescue, and yet it had been decided in the council of men that the dagger would pierce her heart; but what the Lord above had decided was still concealed by the clouds that lie between us and the future.
There had been many storms that year, and the time for the harvest had come; every available set of hands was summoned to get the grain safely stored away while the weather was fair. A hot afternoon had arrived, the clouds were poking their somber heads above the dark mountains, the swallows flitted fretfully about the roof, and the poor woman felt so anxious and afraid, all alone in the house, for even the grandmother had gone out into the fields to help more with wishes than with deeds. And now splitting pains shot through her, everything went black before her eyes, she felt her hour approach and was alone. Fear drove her from the house; stumbling she made her way toward the fields, but soon she had to sit down. She tried to send her voice out ahead of her, but it refused to issue from her constricted breast. With her she had a small child who was only just learning to use his little legs and had never before been to the field walking on his own, his mother had always carried him. Now the unfortunate woman was compelled to make this tiny boy her messenger, not knowing if he would find the field or even if his legs would carry him that far. But the devoted boy could see how frightened his mother was, and so he ran and fell down and got up again, and the cat chased its rabbit, doves and chickens ran about his feet, his little lamb pursued him, head-butting and playful, but the boy saw none of this, he allowed himself no delay and faithfully delivered his message.
Breathless, the grandmother arrived, but the woman’s husband hung back, saying he would follow as soon as he’d unloaded his cart. An eternity passed before he finally came, and another before he finally set out again, slowly, down the long road, and in mortal fear the unfortunate woman felt her hour approaching more and more quickly.
Joyfully Christine had observed all this out in the fields. The sun was burning down hot upon her hard labor, but the spider was scarcely burning at all, and she found her step light as the hours wore on. Cheerfully she went about her work, in no rush to return home, knowing how slow the messenger would be. Only when the last sheaf had been loaded and gusts of wind portended the approaching storm did Christine hurry toward her prey that was assured her, or so she thought. And as she went home, she gestured meaningfully to many who passed her, and they nodded in return, quickly bearing the message home; many a knee shook, and many a soul longed to pray in its helpless fear but was unable.
Inside, in her bedroom, the lamentable woman whimpered as the minutes drew themselves out into eternities, and the grandmother was unable to silence her wails with prayers and words of consolation. She had locked the doors of the room and placed heavy implements before the doors. So long as they were alone in the house, it was endurable, but then they saw Christine arriving home and heard her stealthy footsteps at the door; there were other footsteps too and furtive whispers. No priest came and no one else they could trust as the moment usually anticipated with such joy came ever closer, so it can be imagined what fear engulfed these poor women like boiling oil—without help and without hope. Christine, they could hear, did not stir from the door; the lamentable woman felt the fiery eyes of her savage sister-in-law right through the wood, searing her body and soul. Then the first whimpers of a baby were heard, stifled as quickly as possible, but too late. The door flew open beneath furious, well-prepared blows, and like a tiger pouncing on its prey, Christine threw herself upon the poor mother. The old woman, who had thrust herself into the fray, was knocked to the ground. In a mother’s holy fear, the woman made one last effort, but her weak body collapsed, and the child was in Christine’s hands; a heart-rending cry burst from the mother’s breast, and then the black shadows of oblivion wrapped themselves about her.
Fear and horror seized the men when Christine emerged with the stolen child. Premonitions of a dreadful future rose before them, but not one had the courage to put a stop to things; their fear of the devil’s plagues was stronger than their fear of God. Only Christine felt no fear. Her face glowed, radiant as the face of a victor after successful battle, and it seemed to her the spider stirred, caressing her, the gentlest itch; the lightning bolts that flickered about her as she made her way to Kilchstalden seemed like festive lanterns to her, the thunder an affectionate grumble, and the bloodthirsty storm a sweet rustling of leaves.
Hans, the husband of the unfortunate woman, had kept his promise all too well. Slowly he had made his way, stopping to contemplate every field, gazing after every bird, watching as the fish in the brook leapt up to catch little flies before the storm. Then he would lurch forward and pick up his pace, at times even breaking into a run; there was something in him that drove him forward, that made hi
s hair stand on end: It was his conscience telling him what a father deserved who betrayed his wife and child, it was the love he still bore for his wife and the fruit of his loins. But then something else held him back, something stronger than the first thing: his fear of men, his fear of the devil, and his love of all the devil could take from him. Then he walked more slowly again, slowly as a man walking his last road to the gallows. And perhaps he really was walking toward the place where his life would end; many walk their last roads without knowing it, and if they did, how differently they might walk there.
And so it grew late before he came to Sumiswald. Black clouds swooped over the Münneberg, heavy drops fell, scarring the dust, and heavily the bell in the tower began to toll, warning all mankind to turn their thoughts to God and implore Him not to make this storm their last judgment. The priest stood in readiness before his house, prepared to set out the moment the Lord who held sway above him should call him to the side of a dying man or to a burning house or wherever else. When he saw Hans approaching, he recognized the difficult errand he was being sent on; he tied up the long ends of his cassock and sent word to his sexton in the bell tower to relinquish his post and make haste to accompany him. Meanwhile he placed a refreshing drink before Hans, thinking he must be weary from his rapid march in the heavy air; Hans had no need of this, but the priest did not suspect his treachery. Hans drank unhurriedly. The sexton arrived with some delay and was happy to share in the drink Hans offered. Before them the priest stood ready, in no need of a draft before heading into battle. He was reluctant to bid his guests to take leave of the jug he’d placed before them, reluctant to violate the laws of hospitality, but he knew a law that was higher than these, and this dilatory drinking sent fury racing through his limbs.
At last he announced that he was ready to depart, for a woman beset with cares awaited them, threatened with grievous harm, and it was his duty to stand between her and an evil deed with his holy weapons, and so they must not delay, they must come at once; refreshment would surely be found at their destination for anyone still thirsty. But Hans, husband of the waiting woman, said that there was no great hurry, things always went slowly where his wife was concerned. No sooner had he spoken than a lightning flash illuminated the room, blinding them all, and such a thunderbolt crashed above the house that every post and timber shook. The sexton murmured a blessing and said, “Listen how it is carrying on out of doors, heaven itself confirms what Hans has said, that we should wait, and what use would it be for us to go now, we would hardly have a chance of making our way up there alive, and he himself says there is no great hurry where his wife is concerned.”
The Black Spider (New York Review Books Classics) Page 6