Brave Sir Samuel and Samantha the Spider

Brave Sir Samuel stood before the ruin of a barn ready to enter, bravely. He thought of his mother, who told him repeatedly that his foolish adventuring would get him hurt. He shrugged off the thought and checked his arms and armor: a shining blade (actually, a blunted and chipped dagger), his magical tunic (actually, just his regular farm work clothes, roughspun and slightly ill fitting, for room to grow), and his glorious buckler (well, more the lid of a stewpot his mother would surely scold him for taking).

But Farmer Gerald had offered Sam a single silver to clear a spider out of the barn. As he appraised the barn, though, he couldn't understand why Gerald even cared. It certainly hadn't been used at all for the entirety of young Sir Samuel's life, all ten years (well, ten and a bit more than half a year, so, really, nearly eleven). He approached the door and pulled it open. Or attempted to pull it open. Weeds and dirt had grown up to block it. He planted a foot wearing a too-large leather shoe against the rough, gray wood beside the door to get leverage. He strained with all his might as he wrenched the handle. The rusty iron flaked in his hand but held strong against his tugging. His face reddened from the effort until the door gave all at once and he fell backward to sprawl out on the grass. He stood up swiftly, glancing around to check for observers. Nobody else was about, and relief washed over the embarrassed Sir Samuel.

The threshold stood before the brave Sir Samuel. The urge to forget all about the silver and the spider (How did Gerald even know there was a spider? The door had obviously not been opened. Was the old codger just pulling Sir Samuel’s leg and having a laugh at him?) flitted through his body with a shiver. He pushed all doubt and fear away, taking his first step inside the darkness. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t so dark after all. Fallen beams from the roof left holes for light to pour into the barn. Empty barrels littered the straw-strewn floor across from him, and an old plow collected dust in the middle of the room. Cobwebs clung to nearly every corner and space narrower than Sir Samuel’s slender frame. He checked the fit of his glorious buckler (stewpot lid) and drew his shining blade (damaged dagger). Satisfied, Sir Samuel moved deeper into the ruined barn.

Rust painted the plow a dull red in the barn’s surprisingly bright glow. Sir Samuel looked up at the roof. He shuddered with fear as he imagined the split, splintered rafters caving in on him. He stared in awe at a puffy cloud drifting across the beautiful sky visible above him. The fallen beam had landed on the loft above, the caved-in roof canting diagonally in a ramp leading up from the beam to the exposed blue expanse. Sir Samuel took a breath and promptly sneezed from the floating motes of grit he inhaled. Then again for good measure. Sneezing finished, he glanced around the rest of the room. The barrels could hide a spider, sure, but so could the rotting hay bales to his left. Or even the plow at his feet. He jumped at the thought, then circled the plow while brandishing his shining blade at it. No spider jumped out at him, though the thought of a jumping spider made his skin crawl.

He approached the barrels with caution, making head bobs like a curious cat to try and see inside and around them. Webs crisscrossed them, certainly, but the fibers sagged as if quite ancient. Sir Samuel’s confidence swelled his chest, what with the light and the lack of apparent spiders, and he crossed the room to the hay bales. They gave off a terrible stink, and Sir Samuel raised his bucklered (stewpotted) arm to cover his nose. He fanned the shield (pot lid) in front of his face to try and chase off the stench, but it did little other than swirl the odor around in the stale air. He peered over, around, and behind the bales. He discovered rat droppings but no sign of spiders. Just as he decided to give up and tell Farmer Gerald that this little game of Send in Sir Samuel the Immensely Brave wasn’t funny, he noticed steep stairs leading up to the loft.

He recalled something his mom always said: “You’ll always find everything in the last place you look.”

The saying became clear to him now, and Sir Samuel began to giggle. The sound wandered around the barn in a strange way as it bounced off of the worn wood of the walls to drift up and out of the collapsed roof. Of course everything was always in the last place you looked. Why would you keep looking once you found it? Finally getting the joke, Sir Samuel shook his head. He couldn’t wait for his mom to say that one again now that he understood it. The loft was the last place to look but was also the perfect place for an ambush.

He crept toward the steps, hoping his ability to sneak had improved since the time his mother caught him stealing just-baked sweets from the kitchen, though that was another story entirely. He placed his foot on the first step and climbed, one foot following another. The weathered boards groaned, and he wondered if he’d actually gained some weight or if the stairs were old enough that even his slight build caused creaks. He shrugged and continued his ascent.

When he neared the square hole of the loft entrance, where he’d have to pop his head up into the loft, he decided it best to go slow and peer around. Though, first thing, he looked straight up. Surely spiders would ambush from above, right?

No spider waited on the ceiling.

He inched up, the top of his head just entering the space above, and his eyes noted straw scattered across the wood plank floor. A pair of straw bales rested against the wall to his right. To his left, the fallen roof beam pressed down on the loft, causing the floor to slant in that direction. No spider sat in wait to attack his curly blond head, so he rushed up from the stairs and planted his feet in a guarded stance.

Who are you?

For a moment, certainty that this was his own thought gripped Sir Samuel. The voice, however, was quite different from his own mind’s. More textured. More mature. Maybe this was puberty.

Little boy, who are you?

Nope, not puberty. This was someone, something, talking to him. Talking in him? In his mind, at least.

“B-brave Sir S-samuel.” Darn it, he stuttered. He gripped his shining blade tighter, and the wrinkled leather of the handle cracked in his grip. The sharp edge of the split leather reminded him that imagining it being a brilliant sword didn’t change what it was: a corroded dagger he found discarded in a bucket behind the blacksmith’s shop a mere fortnight ago.

And why are you here, Brave Sir Samuel?

“F-farmer Gerald sent me to kill a spider.”

There, on the right-most straw bale, about the size of a grown man’s fist, so somewhat larger than both of Sir Samuel’s fists combined, stood the spider. Its black-and-yellow carapace gleamed in the daylight. It was smaller than Sir Samuel imagined, though far larger than any spider he’d previously slain.

A spider? Like me?

Its eyes glimmered like shiny buttons in the sunrays streaming through the roof.

“Y-yes.”

That’s a shame. Without me here, the rats will surely become quite the problem.

“The rats?” Sir Samuel’s curiosity outweighed his flagging valor.

Yes, I’ve been catching them for my meals. If you kill me, I’m certain they will become far more numerous. They might even begin to eat the Farmer’s crops or infest his home.

“And what about you? Don’t you cause a problem for Mr. Farmer Gerald?”

Not at all. I, like my smaller brothers and sisters, hunt the less-savory pests. I have no interest in harming humans. Without you, the rats would be much harder to catch. They like to stay close to humans, you see, and that makes them easy prey.

“Man, I was really looking forward to making my first silver for a job well done. But doing a job well that results in more problems later doesn’t seem like something a brave knight would do.”

Yes, it’s quite the quandary. You could always trick him into thinking you’ve taken care of me, but that would be lying.

“Brave knights never lie.” Sir Samuel spoke the words like they were a law writ in stone.

Perhaps you could let him know about the rats.

“Yeah, that could work! I’ll tell him I couldn’t kill the spider because he… she? They! They are keeping the rat population in check. Maybe the information would be worth something to him.”

I prefer she, by the way.

“Oh, okay. Do you have a name?”

Not pronounceable with a human mouth. Perhaps you could find a sound for me you like?

“Yeah, sure. Let’s see.” Sir Samuel rubbed around his mouth where a beard would one day grow. The stewpot lid jiggled in his face from the loose fit of it tied around his arm. Inspiration struck, and he lifted his shield arm in victory.

“Oh, how about Samantha! Spider Samantha!”

Samantha. Yes, that will work.

“I’ll go talk to Farmer Gerald now. Thanks, Samantha! I’ll come visit again.”

That would be nice. You wouldn’t believe how annoying it is talking only with rats and insects.

“I bet. Bye for now!”

And with that, Brave Sir Samuel descended the stairs from the loft and left the barn to convince Mr. Farmer Gerald that Smart Spider Samantha was a crucial piece of the farm’s defense against a full rat invasion. But that is a story for another time.

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