Chapter Text
The sound that awakened the Spirit was both dull and sharp, reminiscent of a woodpecker striking a tree with its beak in search of food. Something had shifted in the forest; he could feel it deep within. A dull ache emerged at his side, pulsing with just enough intensity to demand his attention.
He stirred from his burrow, nestled beneath the roots of an ancient tree. His eyes opened lazily, blinking away dew and the remnants of sleep, but before he could do anything else, the same dull and sharp sound echoed again. This time, Spirit curled in on himself as the uncomfortable sensation at his side escalated into unbearable pain for a fleeting moment.
He crawled out from the safety of the roots, basking in the warm morning light and savouring the crisp air for a moment before recalling why he was awake in the first place. Another thud, another spasm of pain. He could hear its echo now, the wind carrying the sound as it caressed Spirit’s face, as if quietly pleading for help. Spirit followed the almost rhythmic thud and its echo through groaning trees and startled birds, doing his best to ignore the burning sensation at his side.
Near the edge of the forest, Spirit finally discovered the source of the disturbance: tall, square, gleaming with rivets and filled with turning gears. Its glass eyes shone bright and golden like the sun above, its chassis bronze like autumn leaves; yet it stood out horrifically among the lush greens of the forest. Its thin arms moved with an unnatural rhythm, gripping a smooth handle attached to a shiny and sharp piece of metal.
The mechanical being raised the tool up and behind it with purpose, eyes fixed on the wounded tree.
“Stop!” Spirit cried out, already bracing himself for another jolt of pain.
But the dreadful sensation never came.
He opened his eyes, not recalling when he had closed them. The machine was observing him, its arms now relaxed at its sides, yet his overall posture was straighter than Spirit had ever seen. Its expression remained unchanged—Spirit wasn’t even sure if it was capable of change, but it appeared confused.
“What are you doing?” Spirit demanded with newfound authority. The Robot turned its head toward the tree and then back to Spirit.
“I’m cutting down a tree,” it said plainly, as if it were obvious—which, in retrospect, it was. Its voice was raw and textured, as if dragged through dust, accompanied by a constant crackle in the background that was almost imperceptible.
“Why?”
“I need the firewood.”
Spirit frowned and pressed his lips together in confusion. The Robot, after a few seconds of quiet contemplation, raised a hand to its chest; a sharp click was heard as a piece of metal unlatched from the centre left of its chassis. Spirit narrowed his eyes, hesitant to approach the intruder but curious about what it intended to show him. Inside the small compartment was a flame, reminiscent of the one lightning creates when it strikes dry grass. It flickered in the morning breeze but burned brightly from a source invisible to Spirit.
“This is my flame,” said the Robot. “I need to feed it, or else I will stop functioning. I’m not hungry myself, but some of my people are.”
“Your people?”
“Others like me. They have entrusted me to provide them with fuel to survive.”
Spirit took a slow breath and shifted his gaze to the tree. Sap was oozing from where it had been cut, desperately trying to mend the damage done to it. He looked at the Robot again, who had just closed its flame and was waiting patiently for a response. A butterfly fluttered in front of the machine’s face, and it followed its path until it landed on a flower in search of sustenance. Its eyes remained distant, detached.
“I understand your situation,” Spirit said quietly. “But you can’t just take things that don’t belong to you.”
Robot shifted his gaze between Spirit and the tree beside him, calculating. “Who’s the owner?”
“That’s—!” Spirit interrupted himself, rubbing his heavy eyes with both hands. That wasn’t the point, he wanted to say. “The tree is its own owner! Just like you are your own owner! Did you even check the branches of the tree? There could be entire families of birds up there, and you were just about to get rid of their home because—”
Because he needed to eat.
Spirit halted his emotion-driven speech and looked at the intruder once more. What made it—him so different from the fox that hunted down a rabbit to feed itself? From the beaver, which also cuts down trees to build a dam that can protect it from predators? Was it because the machine was not a resident of the forest? He was still a living thing who needed help; did his place of origin matter that much?
Spirit blinked himself awake from his spiralling thoughts and noticed how Robot had remained completely still, waiting for him to finish.
“Is firewood your only source of fuel?” Spirit asked hesitantly.
“No. Fuel can be anything flammable. Firewood is just more practical to obtain.”
“Alright.” Spirit sighed. “Follow me.”
Spirit turned on his heel and began walking in a specific direction, carefully listening to the heavy, crude steps behind him to ensure the machine was following. He stepped carefully around newly bloomed flowers and small creatures, glancing back each time something was in the way to make sure Robot didn't trample it. To his surprise, the automaton seemed to be walking in Spirit’s own footsteps, carefully aligning his foot with the slight, almost unnoticeable depression Spirit left on the ground. His hands were behind his back, keeping the shiny tool out of the way of any unsuspecting plant or tree.
They reached a small clearing near the centre of the forest, where a large, dark, and leafless tree stood out starkly among the green hues of the area. Spirit turned to address his new acquaintance.
“This tree has lived its life fully. It perished recently due to old age. Few trees do that, you know?” Spirit said quietly, glancing at Robot to gauge his reaction. He received nothing, only a blank stare. “You can take its firewood, but be careful when you cut it down, alright?”
Robot nodded and immediately set to work. Spirit watched from a distance, wary of the shiny tool chipping away at the wood but too concerned about the intruder to leave him alone. The tool soon did its job, and the tree's corpse fell with a loud crash that reverberated through Spirit’s body and the entire forest.
Robot seemed to have completely forgotten about Spirit by the time he began cutting the trunk into smaller pieces—something that occupied him for the entire morning and part of the afternoon. When he finished, the sun was beginning its descent behind the mountains, and the air grew colder. Robot gathered all the firewood into a cloth bag and, surprisingly, looked up at where Spirit had perched himself on a tree branch to stay out of the way.
“Thank you,” Robot said as he walked away, leaving only Spirit and the tree stump behind without a glance back.
After that, Spirit decided to stay awake for a few days, worried that something else might happen now that Robot knew about this place. It was strange, Spirit thought; there hadn't been any outside visitors for years, and the only ones had been animals from other parts of the Earth. Never had there been a creature that could speak to him in words he could understand.
His uneasiness was justified when, the day after, Robot returned to the forest. Spirit knew this because its footsteps were so heavy that they echoed against the vegetation and reached his ears. Spirit waited, hoping it was just passing by so he wouldn't have to confront it again.
“Hello.”
Spirit opened his eyes, looking down from his perch on the branches of a brushy tree. Robot was gazing up at him with the same detached expression as yesterday. Spirit wondered, in the back of his mind, how the machine had found him among all the greenery in the forest.
“Hello,” Spirit said cautiously. He now noticed Robot was holding two cylindrical containers that appeared to be made of wood. Spirit frowned at them.
“Do you know where I can get water?”
“Water?”
“Yes. Besides firewood, I also need water to survive. My joints will lock into place if I don't drink any.”
“Any water will do?”
“As long as it doesn't have any debris in it.”
Well, at least this was much easier to provide than firewood.
Spirit sighed, even though he didn't need to, and jumped down from the branches to land right in front of Robot. The machine didn't flinch, even when some brown leaves fell on top of its head.
“Follow me,” said Spirit.
Just like yesterday, they walked deep into the forest, this time heading west where Spirit knew a river flowed. They again passed by colourful plants, but now Spirit noticed the sudden halt in the rhythmic sound of Robot’s steps every time a flower caught its attention. The machine just stared at them silently for a full minute or two. The first two or three times he did this, Spirit felt dread coursing through him. Did he want to take those? If so, why? Spirit didn’t know much about fires, but he could tell a small plant like the ones Robot was looking at couldn’t possibly serve as a good source of fuel.
But then Robot always looked back up at Spirit, silently asking him to continue guiding him, and after a few more stops like this, Spirit’s fear diminished significantly. Maybe he just liked the colours or the flowers themselves.
They finally reached the small river, and as before, as soon as Robot received permission, he began with what he came here to do. Spirit watched, not as far away as before, how careful he was being in keeping his hands and feet dry, both from the river water and the droplets from the overfilled containers. Spirit hesitantly approached and touched one of them with his foot when Robot set it down and went for the other.
“What is this?” Spirit asked.
“A bucket.”
“Bucket?”
“I made it out of some leftover wood from yesterday.”
“You made this? With what was supposed to be your food?”
Robot placed the other bucket of water down and straightened his spine to look Spirit in the eyes. Spirit could see his own reflection in the glass. He was deeply frowning, his mouth forming a grimace. He softened his features immediately; he didn’t like how he looked.
“Sometimes,” began Robot, “when some of us have an idea that could make our lives easier, we use our food to bring that idea to life. A bucket can carry water without us having to touch it and getting rust on us. It’s useful, and it’s worth losing some wood to get more water.”
“Rust?”
“An iron oxide,” Robot said, but Spirit shook his head slowly, not understanding. “When water touches metal for too long, it gets orangy-red and starts to eat away at me. It makes my joints squeal and my body weaker.”
“So, it eats you? Breaks you down? Like… like mould on trees?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Spirit paused for a second, and then his mind made the connection. “Oh! You mean rot! You’re talking about rotting.”
Now it was Robot’s turn to be confused by Spirit’s words. Spirit didn’t know how he could read confusion in an expressionless face, but he was sure that was what Robot was feeling.
“Come with me,” Spirit said, extending a hand. “I want to show you something.”
Robot’s gaze flickered between the offered limb and the bucket of water beside him a couple of times before he awkwardly took Spirit’s fingers—not his hand, as if he understood how delicate they were and how rough the metal could be to them. Spirit smiled slightly at the considerate action and was pleasantly surprised to find that the metal felt quite warm to the touch.
Spirit turned and walked a few paces along the riverbank, gently pulling Robot along, and then veered off into the underbrush.
They didn’t need to walk far. Beneath the shadows of the bushy trees, half-covered in moss, laid a fallen log. From its soft, decaying wood sprouted clusters of pale mushrooms, and tiny green seedlings curled up in search of sunlight. Insects and worms crawled between holes and crevices, nestled in the damp rot.
“This tree died some years ago, but it never truly left. Look.” Spirit released Robot and moved closer to the log, kneeling beside it. “Every bit of it is feeding something else. The mushrooms, the new saplings, the bugs and beetles. It’s giving life even now.”
Robot stepped closer, careful as always. He didn’t lower himself like Spirit did, but he still hunched his back to take a closer look. He moved his hand toward the log, but stopped halfway, glancing at Spirit, silently asking for permission. Only when Spirit nodded did Robot touch the spongy bark, his square fingers scraping off the outer layer.
“That’s what I mean when I say rot,” Spirit said. “It’s not the end. Just a change in purpose.”
“It’s not like that for me,” Robot remarked, inspecting the dirt on his fingers. “Nothing useful or beautiful comes from rust.”
Spirit’s eyes softened. “I’m sure that, with enough time, it can.”
Robot glanced at him, doubtful, but didn’t say a word. He straightened up, brushed off imaginary dust from his chassis, and turned around to return to his main task. Spirit followed closely behind, and when they neared the river, he offered to help by carrying a bucket. Robot let him do it, and they walked leisurely until they reached the edge of the forest, where Spirit stopped, telling Robot he couldn’t leave the forest.
“Alright,” Robot said simply, taking the bucket from Spirit’s hand. “Thank you again. For the water and the lesson.”
“Anytime,” said Spirit, smiling. Then, softly and against his instincts, he added, “I hope to see you again someday.”
Robot’s eyes pulsed a few times, enough for Spirit to regret the words that had escaped his mouth.
“Likewise,” Robot finally replied, and Spirit breathed a little easier.