Project: Pyp

II: Exploration

I wake to the familiar songs of birds I've never heard before. There is still so much to this world that I don't understand, and I am excited to learn about it. Before bed, I went rummaging around in the drawers and shelves in the ramshackle hut to find it very well-equipped. Among other things, I found a notebook, a collection of pencils, and a satchel, so this morning I throw the notebook and pencils into the satchel and sling it over my shoulder. Outside, the sun peeks through the trees in the direction of the beach.

To start, I take notes on the area around the hut. The statues are the most intriguing aspect of this area, so I focus on them. There are three statues on and around the house, and five in the fenced-in area. Of the three statues, one is atop the house, leaning down over the edge of the roof, reaching down for something. Another is standing next to the road, looking up to some point in the sky, hands on its hips. The last is next to a reinforced section of the house, cowering backward in fear.

And that's the most curious thing about these statues. Their faces all show great fear. The statue on the roof looks worried, and upon closer inspection, the arm reaching down looks strained. The veins on its hand bulge out. The absolute attention to detail the sculptor paid while crafting these statues, and the consistency between each of them, is astounding. I'm not sure even Bartholomew would be able to craft better likenesses of whomever the sculptor's model was. The eyes of the statue in the road are wide with shock, mouth open slightly. The statue cowering next to the house is in pain, fearing the weight of whatever it is that is about to crush it. I take a note of the sculptor's sense of humour. Why else would they craft a statue cowering from a collapsing wall right next to a well-reinforced wall?

The statues inside the fenced-in area are, in all, less interesting. They all seem to be interacting with the mechanisms next to them, save one, but their poses are boring, and their faces are dull. Each of them strikes me as trite and boring. These were clearly made either before or after the height of the sculptor's sense of humour. The only one vaguely interesting is the statue interacting with nothing at all. It stands in a clear patch of ground in the center of the area, and its left arm is broken off at the forearm. It's curious, but there doesn't seem to be much else beyond that, so I take some notes down and break for breakfast.

Taking notes is surprisingly energy-intensive, and the bread and jam in the cupboard sate me just enough to continue my exploration. The road from the beach forms an intersection in front of my hut, with one path going south into the forest, and north over the hill. Perhaps I can name it 'Bartholomew Hill,' in honour of my new friend. I decide to explore north, next. This is fun! Over the hill I go!

And what a great choice it was!

A beautiful scene greets me at the crest of Bartholomew Hill. How aptly named! Extending out below me are vast pasturelands, with grazing sheep, cow, and even chicken! The sheep are tiny poofs under the mountains that rises beyond them in the east. A great peak watches over the pastures on the far side, on the north side, while cliffs line the east, under the mountains. In the west (the left side), the forest from across the stream continues. There's a pool of water at the top of Bartholomew Hill that bubbles up from some unknown underground source, and acts as the head of the stream. I approach the pool to look into its sparkling waters, but a sharp pain in my head knocks me to my knees.

I'm debilitated, grasping my head and writhing silently until all thoughts of water are gone, and the pain begins to subside. I lie there on the ground, back on the soft grass, wondering what strange sort of stroke I may have just had. The sky above me is a rich blue, and the clouds remind me of the sheep in the valley below me. Why am I on the ground? I know, but... There it is again, but much weaker this time. I'm not sure what causes it, but I think it's thoughts, and my thoughts dance around which of them are that which causes it. With the headache subsiding, I gain my feet again and wander down into the pasture, my head spinning and my thoughts in a daze.

As I walk through the pasture, the animals approach me to say hello. I pet the soft sheep, and a particularly friendly cow sticks a wet nose into the crook of my neck. Even the chickens come up and peck the ground next to my feet! Everyone is so nice that I feel a great sense of injustice that they don't have names. They're just as important as I am, and if I have a name, then so should they!

I spend hours in the green fields with my new friends. I pay close attention to each of them, writing down their descriptions and giving the descriptions names. This cow is Yan, that chicken is Pic. These sheep are Huri, Guri, and Puri, and the cow with the spot that looks like Bartholomew is, of course, Bart. I feel a connection with that one; it was their wet nose that was stuck into my neck so merrily at our first meeting. I decide to give him a title, as well. Brother. Bart is my brother. Brother Bart. I like that.

Eventually, I feel the need to say farewell to my grazing friends. The sun is halfway through the sky, now, its full light shining down upon me and the valley. The day is getting on without me!

As I walk, my thoughts travel around. I call this place a valley, but is it? Isn't a valley is a section of lowland between two mountains? There is one set of mountains, but lowlands next to single mountain, a valley does not make. I aim my meanderings west, toward the trees and opposite the mountains.

Sunlight streams through the loose canopy of the forest, illuminating the undergrowth in radiant golden greens. It's beautiful. I feel bad walking on it with my road shoes, so I take them off and carry them with me as I step into the magical woods.

The air is fresh. More fresh than any air I've ever breathed. But I have breathed this air. It fits in my lungs as if there is already a place for it. The birds chirp their beautiful, familiar songs, and I let them carry me through to the edge of the wood. So strong is this intoxicating peace that I don't see what's ahead of me until my feet come to a stop on their own on the precipice of the world.

Below me is a cliff that falls off into an ocean of swirling clouds.

Lights flash here and there in the gentle brown of the clouds. Cracks and claps come to me from far away, following the flashes. To the horizon, the clouds extend out in swirls and spirals, up in puffs and pillars, and to either side as a body, upset and disruptive. It stirs something in me. A sense of injustice. Something has upset these clouds. They fight their existence as best they can, but their cracks and flashes can only do so much against their continued presence in this world. I look down to find a cushion, well-worn, and I sit and watch the clouds, jotting down occasional notes, but mostly just watching. Watching and feeling.