Given Time

For the small girl, it was her favourite thing in the world to skip so merrily up that path, the long winding walkway towards the place where the small boy lived. She remembered the first time she’d done it, before she’d known the small boy at all. She’d seen the path, all winding and colourful, and thought to herself that it was the most skippable path in all the world, and so she skipped along it, happy in the sun, not knowing at all where it might take her.

The path took her to the little house, and from within the house she heard happiness and laughter, so she snuck along outside the house, thinking sneaky thoughts so that the happy people inside didn’t know she was there. The path was gravelly, but there were stone slabs that she could hop along silently, and she thought perhaps this was the sneakiest driveway in all the world. Eventually, she’d found the window, and through it she’d seen the small boy.

The small boy was so cheerful in his little house, and he sang to his music and played his games, and the small girl watched him for the longest while, thinking that perhaps he was the loveliest boy in all the world. And then all her sneaky thoughts must have disappeared because he saw her at his window and the small girl had to quickly run away.

The second time she visited the house with the skippable path and the sneaky slabs, and looked in the small boy’s window, he wasn't there. But instead she did find a box. The box was plain, dark and mysterious, but on top there was some writing which the small girl was too young to read. It was the small boy’s writing, and she imagined all the warnings it might give, and she decided it was the most interesting box in all the world. The small girl simply had to open it, and she did, and inside was the first time she found the small boy’s Time. She took some then, because she wanted it so much.

Every day thereafter the small girl skipped merrily up that path, and thought sneaky thoughts across the slabs, so that she could get to the small boy’s window. The small boy was never there any more, but his interesting box with the mysterious writing always was, and each day there was more Time in the box, and so each day she took a little more.

It didn’t take long before the small girl began to feel terrible, though. She wanted the Time, ever so much, and she took it without pause, but as each day passed she more and more wondered if the small boy was missing the Time that she took from him. So one day she skipped merrily up the path, and snuck sneakily along the stone slabs, and she stood by the window which was the nicest in all the world, but this time she didn't take Time from the box, but brought all of the Time back with her, and this time she thought patient thoughts, as she waited and waited for the small boy.

The small boy eventually came to his room, as cheerful and happy as she had seen him the very first time, before he had an interesting box. She didn't say anything, for sometimes she was the shiest girl in the world, but she offered back the Time she had taken. The small boy smiled and shook his head, and he pointed to the writing on the top of the interesting box. She shrugged her shoulders slightly, to tell him that she couldn't read yet, and so he read it out loud to her.

“For The Small Girl.”

Ronald

The children tended to avoid the woods when Ronald was down there, abandoning their dens and hideaways until the crazy old man had gone away. Their parents would warn against him, they’d say he was dangerous, and some would even bring curfew forward to keep the children inside when Ronald was around. That’s how the children knew to keep away from him.

Some of the children were brave though, or foolish, their curiosity getting the better of them. They would watch Ronald stumbling around the woods, wearing a black bin-bag like a cloak, with the hole in the top for his wrinkly head. They’d stand at a distance, of course, but when he saw them, he’d simply stare in the creepy way that he did, examining them until they became frightened and left.

And so they watched, as crazy Ronald walked around the woods, gathering sticks and fallen branches from the ground, bringing them together and arranging them into some strange shrine of sticks down by the river, that he likely used to burn the children that he captured on. One time, they saw him find an old rope, and for an hour he laboured over tying the rope to a tree, and the children spoke of how he would hang his victims from it, sometimes they’d even still be alive. Using some of his spare branches, Ronald sometimes blocked the waterflow in the river, changing its direction. Probably, the children whispered, to drown people in, and to wash away their bodies.

Ronald seemed to do these maniacal things every day, the same things down in those woods, with the sticks and the ropes and the water. He was a little bit crazy, probably a bum or a drunkard, the adults said.

Forty years earlier, a little boy used to visit those same woods. Ronald didn’t have many friends then, he was a quiet boy, but he enjoyed his own company and kept himself busy with just his imagination. He’d visit the woods outside his parents’ homestead every day, gathering sticks and fallen branches from the ground to make his dens. The dens were his fortresses, isolated and inpenetrable. He would steal a black bin-bag from his father’s shed, and wear it as a cloak, and pretend he was the Lone Knight, sworn to protect the people of his den. Ronald would use the spare branches to dam the river, to redirect fresh drinking water to his den, and sometimes he found old ropes which he would tie to the trees so he could climb them and keep watch.

Sometimes the other children watched Ronald, and so he stared and examined them until they decided to leave, calling him all sorts of names. But that didn’t really bother him, the people of his den loved him, and he was happy there. He imagined one day, when he was older, and a successful carpenter like his father, he would visit the woods then, and still he’d be the Lone Knight, founder of the dens, protector of the people, idolised by all.

Spiders on the Hill

She’d never liked spiders much. Their dozens of staring eyes creeped her out, their eight long legs scuttling. She’d imagine them on her skin, and though she knew they didn’t bite, they always seemed like they wanted to. So she didn’t think it right at all when the spiders had moved to the bottom of her hill.

The first thing she did was move to the very top of the hill, to put some distance between her and the spiders. She hoped that if she stayed at the top, all quiet and minding her own business, then the spiders might eventually go away. She looked down at them from time to time, from her hill, when she was at her bravest. But she soon saw an especially big spider, with its spiny fur, and had to look away.

The spiders didn’t eventually go away, though. In fact, she would have sworn that there were more and more of them. Probably they were breeding, she thought, or building an empire to live forever at the bottom of her hill. And as the spiders multiplied, a tangled heap of long spindly legs and spiny black fur and hundreds of eyes staring up at her, there were more of them at the bottom of her hill. They couldn’t climb her hill, she hoped, but just to be sure, she’d make the hill bigger. So she set down to planning and building, and for a while she forgot about the spiders.

When her construction was complete, she sat at the top of her hill, now much higher, and taller, and steeper, and she looked down again. Down at the bottom of the hill, she saw the spiders, and she could have sworn they were multiplying still. There were more of them breeding than before, she thought, or making an army for a frontal assault on her hill. And she peered down from her new vantage point, and saw only the long spindly creepy legs and spiny slimy black fur and thousands of eyes staring up at her. There was only one thing for it, she decided, just to be sure she’d make the hill bigger. So this time her planning was grander, her building was longer, and for a while she forgot about the spiders.

Her hill was like a tower now, high and tall and steep, and proud of her work, complete at last, she looked down again. Down at the bottom of the hill, she saw the spiders, and they weren’t multiplying this time. No, this time she could have sworn they were building a pulley-system, intricate webbings all sewn together to assist the spiders in climbing her hill. She saw them clambering up the silvery lines, with their long spindly creepy crawley legs and spiny slimy spiky black fur and millions of eyes staring up at her. Eventually the spiders would reach her, she thought, with their web catapults and intricate pulley systems. There was only one thing for it, she decided, just to be sure she’d make the hill bigger. So she went back to her planning, devising something larger, something grander than all her previous plans, and her construction time would be longer still.

When her work was complete, her hill was like a fortress now, higher and taller and steeper, and impenetrable to everyone and everything. Nobody would get in, she knew, and she could never get out. She marvelled at her ingenuity, her work complete at last. And her daughter called her one day, to ask how she was getting on, and how she was coping with the spiders. “What spiders?” she asked.