The Horrors of a Spider Island: John Wyndham’s WEB
Going strictly from its premise, one might easily be forgiven for considering John Wyndham’s Web a bit schlocky. At face value his oddball tale of a small Pacific island whose cultivation as a new Utopia is cut short by a blight of intelligent spiders veritably demands comparison to some of the hokiest of sci-fi hokum, but judging things on first perceptions alone can be a dangerous business. Published posthumously a full decade on from the author’s death in 1969, the brief Web may never reach the same heights as the author’s greatest work – The Day of the Triffids, The Kraken Wakes, Trouble with Lichen and so on – but it finds him in no less sound or contemplative a mind.
Unusually for Wyndham, the characters of Web are more just framing for its (considerable) fictitious history than any great narrative necessity, and the plot is rather scant indeed. The primary player, from whose perspective the novel unfolds, is one Mr. Delgrange, a man whose aimlessness in life following the tragic loss of his wife and daughter leads him to the Project, an effort by the aristocratic Lord Foxfield to establish a new freethinker’s empire (and a memorial to his own greatness) wholly independent of the distractions and humdrum of Western civilization. An uninhabited island in the Pacific is purchased just for the purpose, and Delgrave and a few dozen ill-fated fellow pioneers swiftly descend upon it in hopes of jump starting a new brand of society.
Unfortunately for Delgrave and his associates a new society has already sprung up on remote Tanakuatua, which has become a seeding ground for the imperial ambitions of a new species of highly social arachnids. Utterly ordinary but for their remarkable habits, the modest creatures (no giant mutants here) organize into pseudo-militaristic squads and conquer the island a bit at a time, enshrouding their swiftly expanding territory in an impenetrable pall of web.
The plot for Web is pretty thin, and dominated more by historical exposition than any degree of action. Indeed, those expecting even Wyndham’s typically subdued brand of thrills and chills may find themselves disappointed, as it is the island itself and not its creeping, crawling inhabitants that draws the bulk of the author’s attention.
With a history that spans from its earliest description by wayward mariners to its stint as a home for unruly cannibals to its conquest by a nomadic South Seas tribe (who see it as their promised land) and eventual subjugation under the British flag, the fictional Tanakuatua is Web‘s greatest asset, at once entirely plausible (how many tiny Pacific islands there must be that share a comparable history) and ready-made for Wyndham’s wry observation on the waning empire to which he belonged. For generations Tanakuatua is precisely the promised land its settlers had longed for, an eternal home for a tribe who took the spider as its emblem, and aside from the occasional hiccup of a World War little of cataclysmic import ever threatened to unsettle it. But as with Bikini before it, Tanakuatua finds itself embroiled in the Western world’s descent into atom-splitting madness, and its population forced to evacuate for fear of fallout from a nearby nuclear test. Only a lone witch doctor remains, sacrificing himself in a blood oath with the vengeful god Nakaa that the island might be cursed, and thereafter visit death upon any who dare venture upon its shores…
As with in Wyndham’s best work Web‘s central speculation, that the foibles of one empire might give rise to another less human, and wholly capable of toppling human kind from its Earthly domination, is a fascinating one. While certainly more fantastical in nature than the island that birthed them, even the spiders of Web aren’t so implausible as one might think, as a quick search on “social spiders” should attest – there are any number of varieties that have evolved social characteristics to varying degrees. Web‘s only truly fantastical notions are the scope of that socialization and its foundations in a brand of rational thought (conveniently sparked by fallout from man’s own supposed progress). On the latter point I have only to say, that spiders are perhaps smarter than you think.
While the concept is certainly ripe for exploitation, Wyndham unfortunately takes little advantage of it. The spiders are observed with a fearful curiosity by Delgrave and young biologist Camilla, who soon find themselves the only surviving members of the Project’s pioneers, but little is really made of any of it. The action of Web plays out in an almost footnote fashion, and while it frames the novel’s admittedly intriguing concepts well enough it’s glossed over to such an extent that it is only rarely satisfying. Delgrave and Camilla’s survival exploits could have formed the foundations for a book all their own, but are instead limited to a few scant paragraphs. The potentially epic struggle of two against a foe millions strong is thus rendered utterly perfunctory, just another brief, requisite step on the way to wrapping up the novel’s loose ends as swiftly as possible. It’s enough to make one wonder if the novel was ever really considered complete – Wyndham’s untimely death a decade prior to its publication would have put a swift end to any potential revisions.
I’m sure I’ll never know, as information on Web‘s pre-publication history is scarce indeed. Still, unsatisfying as it can be with regards to its lukewarm thrills it’s certainly not a bad book. Even the worst of Wyndham has plenty to offer, and Web‘s more interesting points are well worth investing what little time it takes to read it. One only wishes more could have been made of it, or its esteemed creepy crawlies.