THE HUNTSMAN

The Huntsman was back.

Early that morning he had scuttled into hiding behind the pine hutch, startling a bleary-eyed Diana into trembling wakefulness as she shuffled to the kitchen to start the day.

Tonight he was back again. Poised like a spectre of doom, he hunched in the shadows beside her bedroom door. In the cool evening stillness of the house, with its lingering traces of morning coffee and toast, his intruding presence taunted her like a slap.

Diana gulped back a high, strained whimper and dropped unsteadily onto her chair. No, please not this, not tonight, she protested silently. The day's events -- a lunchtime appointment at the bank to sign the last of the mortgage transfer papers, then this afternoon's bombshell announcement -- had left her feeling vulnerable. Her boss, the quaintly titled Town Clerk, had unexpectedly called her into his office after lunch. Without preamble, he smilingly offered her the position of Manager of Human Resources. Diana was stunned: feeling oddly empty, she had been glad to escape home.

Now a creature out of nightmares blocked her retreat to the sanctuary of her bedroom. Her skin prickled; the bright cosiness of her country-cottage kitchen suddenly seemed chilly and mocking. Diana Bruce, competent, successful and 43 years old, hugged herself and shivered. Tears of fright and self-pity sprang to her eyes. Fighting panic, she took a rapid inventory of those whom she could call for help.

Not Ken. The separation was too recent, too new. Although their parting had been (in the cheap coin of popular euphemism) an amicable one, some small stubborn streak of resentful pride would not permit Diana to enlist her husband's help. Not to rescue me yet again: not this time. Maybe Mark? No, her brother and his family were holidaying at the Coast this week. Her parents lived nearby, but they wouldn't drive after dark. Besides, at her age it was too absurd to call for Mummy and Daddy to chase away the scary monster.

Diana's acute sense of the ridiculous finally asserted itself. She gave a self-deprecating snort. I've been terrified all my life, but I've always had someone else come to protect me. How many times had she shaken Ken awake then retreated to cower in the kitchen, listening to his sleepy growls and curses as he chased down the intruder? She needed to see him remove the corpse (from a distance, of course), had to hear his muttered begrudging "all clear", before she could feel safe again.

Well, there's only me now, she thought, and unless I want to spend the rest of my life yelling for Mummy and Daddy, it's time I grew up and got a grip on this silly fear. With a generous glass of port in one hand and her well-worn copy of "Pride and Prejudice" in the other, Diana took a calming breath and marched in measured steps down the hall. At the dark malevolent presence by her bedroom door, her resolution faltered. Childish instinct took over. Eyes clenched tightly shut, Diana ran the last few steps to the safety of her bed, kicking the door closed behind her.

Diana snuggled into the secure embrace of her bed, with its tumbled nest of pillows and feather doona. She flipped on the bedlamp. In its warm encircling glow, she opened her book and took a sip of port. Mellow velvet spiciness rolled over her tongue: her racing heart slowly eased. Firmly thrusting aside intrusive thoughts of what lurked beyond the door, Diana willed herself to relax into the comfort of ritual, and Jane Austen's genteel prose.

All too soon, the surge of the day's events overcame her studied distraction. The house, and the mortgage, was now hers alone. She and Ken had not disagreed on that. Nevertheless, achieving the first milestone in her new single life brought a pang of loneliness, and with it sharp anxiety about the future. Diana's common sense quickly sought to restore her fragile equilibrium. Even with just my income, I can manage the repayments comfortably, she reminded herself. Julian's independent now, doing well in his job in Sydney. And if I take the promotion, it will mean a good raise.

Oh Lord, the promotion. Diana's anxiety level jumped up a notch. What can the boss see that I can't -- me as a manager? More responsibility, more stress: am I ready for that? Damn it, I'm scared! Deep in introspection, Diana's worried gaze drifted unconsciously toward the bedroom door. That flimsy symbolic defense seemed suddenly ludicrous. Only a token, really: it doesn't keep anything out, not even…No! I won't think about that, I can't. Diana punched her pillows into submissive compliance and forced her concentration back upon Lizzie Bennet's bumpy road to romance.

Eventually Miss Austen and the port did their duty. Diana slept. The rising moon lit the tumbled bed. Feathers rustled and whispered with each restless toss of the unquiet sleeper. Lidded eyes flickered after the scurrying phantoms of troubled dreams.

The dim red digits of her clock radio were glowing 3:10 when Diana abruptly sat upright. Her eyelids flew open. Without hesitation or conscious thought, Diana stooped to gather an object from the floor next to her bed. She stood straight and flung open the door. One step, one decisive swing of the rubber scuff in her hand, and the vile Huntsman, her eight-legged tormentor, lay vanquished. All that remained of the spider was an unsightly smear on the paintwork and a scatter of fragments on the carpet.

The moon reflected gently in Diana's clear, untroubled gaze and shadowed the soft curves of a tiny smile. Diana sank easily back into her billowy nest and within moments was deeply, dreamlessly asleep.