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.