Shadowland. Spider World 06 by Colin Wilson

He heaved the undamaged boat over onto its bottom, and saw that a length of rope that had been attached to the prow was rotted away. It obviously had been here for decades, perhaps centuries. But a wooden seat that stretched from side to side in the boat was in good condition, and so were the oars that still rested in the rowlocks; these were also made of the gray, hard substance.

Nearby, in a hollow in the floor, he saw the remains of black ashes. This tunnel, then, had at some time been used by men as a campsite. But surely the only reason to camp in such a lonely, desolate place must be that they were hiding from the spiders?

Who were they, and why had they tried to destroy the boats? Again, there could be only one reason: that they were afraid of pursuit. And that, in turn, must mean that they had escaped by boat.

At this point, the tunnel was wider and higher, and the broad stream flowed quietly. The rock sloped down to the water like a flat beach. Niall walked to the edge. The rock shelved gently into the stream. He removed his sandals and walked into the water. It was so cold it made his feet ache. He inched forward cautiously until the water was halfway up to his knees, and shone the flashlight into the middle of the stream. It certainly looked smooth and placid enough.

If men of the past had been able to row down this stream to the outside world, then surely he could do the same?

The alternative was to turn back and return to the spider city.

Before reaching a decision, he wanted to make sure there was no other way out. If he launched himself onto the river, then passed a tunnel entrance, it might not be possible to row ashore again.

In spite of his weariness, he walked on down the riverbank, scanning the wall for tunnels. When, a quarter of an hour later, he reached the point where the river narrowed, he knew there was no other exit.

This thought made up his mind for him. He walked back to the boats, dragged the sound one into the river, then clambered into it. It stuck on the bottom. He sat on the seat and pushed one of the oars against the rock. The boat turned sideways, then drifted out onto the water.

Only then did he recognize a problem he should have foreseen. It was impossible to row with both hands and hold the flashlight. He was tempted to jump ashore and try to devise some method of controlling the flashlight while he rowed; but already the boat was moving out of his depth.

He felt it was more important to see where he was going than to guide the boat. After all, it could only go in one direction. Niall was too much of a landsman even to realize that the boat would naturally find its way to the center of the stream unless he made determined efforts to keep it closer to the edge. And by the time he realized that the stream was swifter than he had assumed, the boat was sweeping along faster than he could have run.

He tried holding the flashlight in his mouth. It was not wide — about an inch in diameter — but still was uncomfortable. He pulled one of the oars out of its rowlock by turning its end into the boat and pulling it clear. At least he could use it to push himself away if he came too close to the wall.

The boat soon moved into midstream. A few moments later, he had reached the point where the walls narrowed, and vertical walls arose on either side. At least there seemed no sign of obstruction, or of rock projections sticking out of the walls.

He reached inside his tunic and turned the thought mirror toward his chest. He instantly experienced a sense of control, and of insight into this situation. But it made him realize that he was now relying entirely on luck, and that if he had used the thought mirror before he launched the boat, he would have decided against it.

At least his increased sense of vitality made his present position seem exciting. The walls had narrowed, and he was sweeping between them so fast that they seemed a blur. One sudden eddy caused the boat to plunge and turn sideways, but it had straightened itself before he could experience alarm.

As he flew along, he even had time to wonder: why had the map showed some kind of path beside the stream until it reached the open air? Then the solution struck him. This stream had not always been as high as it was now. It was late in the year, and the rains had swollen the river. In midsummer, it probably was many feet lower and flowed more gently. No one could possibly have rowed against the present current.

As this recognition burst upon him, the boat began to move faster, and he realized that the river was flowing downhill. The flowing water was now so fierce that waves hissed over the side as they bounced off the walls; sitting upright on the bench seat was impossible, and he was soon thrown backwards on the floor. He managed to scramble to his knees and fling himself down — at least he was now lying with his head toward the prow. The flashlight rolled against his knee, and he thrust it into the side pocket of his knapsack and buttoned it down. Water came over the sides, making him certain that he was going to sink. But the boat builder had known his craft; even when the prow plunged down into a wave and the boat half filled with water, it remained as buoyant as a cork.

He choked as he breathed in water. But through the blur that filled his eyes, he could see daylight ahead. Relief turned to alarm as he realized that the roof was becoming so low that the exit was little more than a narrow slot that might scrape the boat against the ceiling. But there was no time to feel relief as the boat swept out of the tunnel like a projectile, and he was blinded by sunlight. When his sight cleared, he could see that the stream had widened, and that there was vegetation on the banks.

Since his one desire now was to get back onto dry land, he tried to grab the branch of a tree that trailed into the water, but it tore away, almost pulling him out of the boat.

For another hundred yards the river continued to widen, and became almost placid; but he was now too far from the bank to scramble ashore. Further ahead, the stream narrowed, and he sat up, prepared to grasp at the first tree root that offered itself. He was concentrating so hard on the bank that he realized too late that the current was carrying him toward another waterfall. This one was only a few feet high, and if he had realized in time, he might have grasped at a rock in the middle of the stream. But the boat was already plunging over, and he was suspended head downward. Then something struck him hard on the back of the head, and he felt water gushing into his mouth and nose as he lost consciousness.

He was lying on his face, and his head felt as if someone was hitting it with a hammer. Waves of nausea surged up in him and made him vomit, but all that came out of his mouth was the water he had swallowed.

After that, he felt hands under his arms, dragging him through vegetation, but was so exhausted that he was not even curious. Then the sickness began to drain away, and was succeeded by a cool and pleasant sensation. With an effort of will he forced himself to open his eyes, but quickly concluded that there was something wrong with them. The face above him seemed to be made of glass, or perhaps carved out of ice; then it blurred and seemed to dissolve away.

Although his head was no longer throbbing, he was aware that something had struck it a heavy blow, and that the back was badly bruised. He had a vague notion that he had been rescued by a bombardier beetle, but this idea changed with the fluidity of semiconsciousness into a dream about trees under water.

The next time he opened his eyes he saw leaves arching above him, and realized that he was lying on his back in the shade. The thought mirror was lying outside his tunic, and he hastened to thrust it back inside. In doing so, he accidentally turned it the other way for a moment, and the pain behind his eyes was so sharp that he almost cried aloud.