The spiders, as spiders tend to do, remain in the shadows, watching, listening, learning. For they are the true holders of knowledge. They observe and absorb everything, while keeping their own counsel so that none of us really know what thoughts formulate inside their spindly heads.
Take the scene being played out on a dirt-stained golden carpet of hay shards way below Harvestman’s intricate web high in the gnarled rafters of the old barn. What would Harvestman make of this tribunal consisting of representatives of Ford Farm’s resident animals? If he was willing to spin a tale for others, he might start by setting the scene. How Fly and Bess, the farm’s most senior collies, escort Bullock 182 to a dusty spot directly in front of Oxford Sandy’s pen.
Given her name, it should come as no surprise that Sandy is considered the most appropriate adjudicator whenever a potential misdemeanour occurs within the grounds of Ford Farm, or even outside the grounds, on those occasions there are escape attempts. Truth is, Sandy has never been anywhere near Oxford, let alone any of its learned halls. But how are the other animals expected to know this?
There is no jury as such. Who in their right mind would entrust important decisions to a panel made up of hysteric hens and gullible sheep? Who indeed, Harvestman may chuckle, visualising one creature who does just that. However, as farm residents, both hens and sheep are entitled to be present at proceedings. The hens cluck loudly and frantically in their West Country accents, even though they are Rhode Island Reds, whenever anything they consider outrageous is uttered, which is most things. As for the sheep, ‘Not guilty! Not guilty!’ they baa in unison, clacking their Exmoor horns together whenever Bullock 182 mounts his defence. This changes to ‘Guilty! Guilty!’ as soon as either of the two Border Collies, witnesses for the prosecution as well as guards, recount their version of events. True to their reputation, the sheep agree with whoever speaks last.
There is one other representative in attendance. Felis expressed his disdain for the whole affair when initially presented with an invitation to attend, yet he turns up anyway, sitting imperiously atop a hay bale, licking paws and maintaining an air of bored disinterest throughout.
‘Why,’ asks Oxford Sandy of the bullock in the dock – a U-shape of bales. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘It was an accident … just an accident.’ 182’s docile eyes plead for understanding and mercy from the porcine adjudicator. ‘You know what we’re like. Sometimes we can be … over enthusiastic.’
At 182’s side, Fly growls quietly.
‘Hold your tongue,’ Sandy admonishes Fly. ‘Let him finish.’
‘Hold your tongue?’ hisses Felis contemptuously. ‘I’d pay to see any dumb dog try that.’
Sandy ignores the cat. If they were to counter Felis every time he sneered something, nothing would ever be achieved.
‘We just went over to say hello,’ 182 continues. ‘The human panicked and slipped. We moved closer to make sure they were okay and …. It was just an accident.’
‘Not guilty! Not guilty!’ the sheep cry.
‘Now you can have your turn, Fly.’ Sandy dips his hairy snout toward the collie.
‘Bess heard the human yelling,’ Fly explains. ‘She alerted me and we ran for all we were worth to try to help. But…’ Fly’s head droops. ‘We were too slow.’ Fly sniffs, unable to continue. He loves humans.
‘But not too slow to see what really happened,’ Beth takes over. ‘He…’ she flicks an ear in 182’s direction, ‘…Charged, bucking and snorting like a crazed animal. The human tried to ward him off, but 182 butted them again and again, and they fell to the ground. The rest of the herd closed in. That’s what they do; I don’t blame them for that. I do blame 182 for inciting them.’
‘Guilty! Guilty!’ Baa the sheep.
‘Bess is the most trustworthy animal on this farm,’ Sandy sighs. ‘There is no reason to doubt her account of what happened—’
‘Of course there isn’t,’ 182 interrupts. ‘Everyone trusts her. Humans trust her … love her. She doesn’t have to worry about when she’s going to end up on someone’s plate.’
‘Is this what this is all about?’ Sandy asks.
‘They eat us,’ 182 snaps, his expression no longer that of a subservient creature. ‘Humans eat us. What are we supposed to do? Nothing? You accuse me of a crime because I stood up to a human when every day thousands of us are slaughtered purely for their pleasure. It was an act of rebellion.’
Even the sheep remain quiet. Despite their miniscule brains, they know fate will deal them a similar hand as that outlined by 182.
‘That is no justification for a premeditated assault,’ Sandy booms. ‘For all you know, the human may have been vegetarian.’
‘I don’t care,’ 182 states defiantly, raising his mottled head high. ‘They are human, that makes them as guilty as any of their kind.’
‘You’re a beast’ Fly snarls, trying to restrain himself from snapping at 182’s legs.
‘You judge me too easily,’ 182 swings his head at the black and white dog. ‘You, who will never be killed for your meat. You, who are so beloved by humans they name you as if you are one of them.’ 182’s long tongue flicks at the yellow tag embedded in his ear.
In response, Fly bares his teeth.
‘I am not a number, I am a bullock,’ 182 bellows. One hoof scuffs angrily at the ground before he butts Fly then Bess aside. He rampages through the barn, sending flustered hens in all directions before he is last seen charging down the cobbled lane leading away from Ford Farm.
If spiders could speak, maybe they’d tell tales of similar exchanges in barns and byres across the country.
Perhaps it’s better they don’t, and we, like them, can remain blissfully in the dark.
