Old Spiderlegs
Flash Fiction - Speculative
NOTE: This story is a piece of flash fiction, written in a limited time with a limited wordcount.
This piece is closer to an exercise than my usual, but I felt perhaps it might be fun to read! I hope you enjoy!
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Rain-sharp, big splash, puddle-jump…
Kiernan called like a bird in the winter weekend quiet, cawing crow-like. Caw! Caw!
The days of rain had ended but it still dripped from the backyard treetops, and his mother had just bought him big new boots because he was seven, now, and his six-year-old boots didn’t fit, anymore.
Splash! Puddle-jump!
Kiernan swept circles in the leaf-littered grass like a plane, like a seaplane landing in the harbor, tumbling to the wet ground with a giggle, his breath visible in the air. Christmas in a few weeks. Rumors of snow from the man on the TV, but his mother always said, “Around here? You just never know. Snow is tricky.”
Snow is tricky. That’s what makes it magic. A magic trick.
Kiernan tried to swing on the old, creaky swingset, but his new boots were too big and heavy and he kept slowing down. Jump off, land on the sodden woodchips, roll like a soldier and stand up, ready. Ready for anything. Shoot finger-guns at the squirrel on the fenceline, looking for birdfeeders to steal from. Cynical squirrel doesn’t flinch; too used to people.
Beyond the fence and the gate with the up-high latch, the woods. The deep, dark woods where Old Spiderlegs lives.
The big kids at the back of the bus liked to tell stories about Old Spiderlegs to the little kids, kept making the stories scarier and scarier until they cried. Kiernan didn’t sit close enough to hear. Just caught the whispers as they rippled through the bus.
Old Spiderlegs, he’ll catch and eatcha.
Kiernan didn’t think he believed in that. Didn’t go into the woods though, either. Tried to slide down the old faded yellow slide, but it was wet with rain and he squeaked and shuddered all the way down. Climbed back up the slide, the wrong way, even though his mother always told him not to, new boots heavy on the faded yellow plastic, thunk thunk thunk.
From the top of the slide he could see over the fence into the deep, dark woods. And that’s when he heard the sound.
A long, slow, sad sound. Like a dog crying.
Kiernan stood and listened. He wanted to play, but the sound kept him still. Such a sad sound. Dogs shouldn’t cry. He had been begging his mother for a dog for ages. She had made no promises. He loved dogs. Thinking of one crying made his little heart squeeze.
The sound died away on the wind, and for a moment, Kiernan thought maybe it was done, over. He could almost forget. He went down the slide on his belly, a decision he regretted halfway down when the wet slide wasn’t slippery. Slow, slow, squeaky slide down on his tummy. Roll off, stand up, brush the sodden woodchips off his pants.
And there’s the sound, again.
A long, slow, sad sound.
Kiernan turned to face the sound; it was coming from beyond the fence. In the deep, dark woods where Old Spiderlegs lives.
He looked over his shoulder at the house, but didn’t see his mother in the kitchen window. She was probably working at her computer, or on the phone.
He’s good at playing by himself. She trusts him.
But dogs shouldn’t cry. It makes his little heart squeeze to hear it.
The up-high latch is not too high when you stand on an old milk-crate from the side of the garage. Kiernan balanced, new boots clumsy, and climbed up on tip-toe to unhook the latch of the gate, climbed down to pull it open, left it ajar so he could get back in. Thinking ahead.
Find the dog, bring it home. Take care of it forever.
Kiernan followed the sound as it wavered and wailed on the breeze. The woods he knew best were the ones at the park, trimmed and open wide, with a trail and signs and a playground and everything.
But these woods behind his house, the ones he didn’t go in, weren’t like that. The trees hadn’t been trimmed, but reached down unruly to brush his face as he clomped and clumped through the underbrush, the raindrops seeping down into his big new boots and dampening the tops of his socks. The ground was crisscrossed with naked blackberry canes that slid, scratching and catching against his pant legs.
And all the while, the dog was crying.
But it was getting closer, louder, so Kiernan kept going.
He reached a place where the trees opened up, leaning away from each other, and a big old oak at the center of the circle. And Kiernan looked around for the dog, trying to find it so he could take it home and take care of it forever.
He walked around the tree, looking, but there was no dog anywhere.
Puzzled, he stepped back and away, and thought maybe it was best to go home.
And then, a wailing. A long, slow, sad sound.
But it wasn’t coming from the ground.
Kiernan looked up in time to see a shadow-shape sitting on a thick oak branch, staring down at him with round lamp eyes, cave-mouth open in a long, slow, sad sound. It was not-quite-an-owl, some kind of slump-shouldered winged thing. A thing that lives in the woods that no one ever sees.
Kiernan backed up quick, backed up fast, but his new big boots were too big, and he tripped, stumbled hard onto his backside.
The winged thing hunched, stretched its wings out, looked down at little Kiernan in his too-big boots, ready to catch and snatch him up.
But before it could do it, there was a tip-tap scuttling to the left in the bushes, a many-legged running, a scuffling. Something with a few too many legs, a few too many eyes. Something buzzing, razzing, wheezing.
Oh, dear! Oh, never!
The winged thing hunched, squalled, and flew up and off into the treetops, away. And little Kiernan watched in horror as a thing emerged from the bushes, a misshapen thing.
Frozen in place. Can’t move! Can’t move!
But the thing tip-tapped closer, and Kiernan thought—maybe—it was not so scary as it was strange. Made all of metal and moss, with a triangle of round eyes and three odd jointy legs, one arm holding a walking stick and the other not there, just a tangle of branches growing where its arm should be. It was soft with rust and dust and grime, the metal frame barely visible under tufts of lichen, moss growing like fur on its back.
Kiernan looked at it, with its strange jointy legs and triangle of eyes.
Old Spiderlegs.
Not a monster, after all. It was a robot, albeit a strange robot. But Kiernan liked robots. He had seen them on TV.
He stood up, big boots heavy in the leaf-litter clearing. He looked around, and realized with a sudden terror that he didn’t know how to get back to his house, to his mother in the kitchen window, to the old faded yellow slide.
“I need to go home,” Kiernan said, and felt his throat go tight.
Oh, no. Don’t cry. Not in front of Old Spiderlegs.
But the robot tipped his strange round head and said, “Home.”
Old Spiderlegs sounded like a quiet man with a scratchy throat. Raspy, like the crows over Kiernan’s house. Caw! Caw!
The robot tip-tapped over to the big oak, sank his strange feet into the earth. Tilted his head, like listening, like dogs do.
I still want a dog for Christmas, thought Kiernan, while he waited.
And then, Old Spiderlegs pulled up his three strange feet and tip-tapped back to Kiernan, pointing off and away with his walking-stick.
“Home,” said Old Spiderlegs. Like someone had told him the way.
So Kiernan walked—big new boots heavy in the underbrush—back the way he came, followed by Old Spiderlegs, keeping all the forest monsters at bay. Back through the woods, not too far, until Kiernan could see the open gate and his mother framed in it, looking.
Before he ran to her, he turned to the robot.
“That’s my mom,” he said.
“Mother,” said Old Spiderlegs, in his quiet, raspy voice.
“Do you want to come to my house?” Kiernan asked.
But Old Spiderlegs pointed with the stick, back to the deep, dark woods.
“Home,” he said.
And with that, Old Spiderlegs tip-tapped away, mossy metal vanishing into the trees.
Kiernan waved until the robot was out of view and then he ran, out of the woods and through the open gate where his mother picked him up in her arms, squeezing him tight, murmuring into his winter-pink cheek, his forest-damp hair.
Don’t do that again, sweet boy! You scared me!
Seven years old, his new boots big and heavy, but she lifted him easy.
END
You brought the robot back! Yay! Also I'm with the kid: I'm not fond of dogs crying either, or cats come to that. This was a great story: you really captured a child's POV.
I'm a fairly new reader here, so now I'll have find the stories of which others speak, with Druid!