Trees and holes

A continuation of my previous story

So there I sat, in a flat, grassy, prison of trees. The sun sat straight above me in the clouds in a rather tepid manner, as if trying to politely make a place for itself among the clouds. On occasion, an apple would fall from one of those weird, lofty trees which surrounded my prison; but for the most part, the area was eerily silent, being largely sheltered from the wind and other wild things which nature tends to bring to the world.

Usually, one can lie down in grass and see it buzzing and moving with the various creatures and critters floating, fighting, and making various commotions in the greenery. This grass was unique. It stood straight up, like one’s arm hairs stand on edge when a person is excited, and seemed to be totally devoid of any sort of real life. When walked on, it would slip down and spring back up immediately and quiver back and forth like one of those springy doorsteps. Yet there was nothing uncomfortable about the grass; in fact it was perhaps one of the most delightful surfaces I have ever set my feet on, and impossible to really to ruin by running on it since the miracle plant always came back to where it began. It never grew too long, nor too thick; totally devoid of weeds or flowers, I never had to worry about stepping on a bee or some stinging shrub which sought to implant all its evil pinions in my delicate toes.

I had mentioned before that a tree had fallen down, and some kind of ravenous mangy wolf came out to guard it. Well, the grass had a very peculiar effect upon both the tree and its hairy guardian. The grass being so springy and unwilling to lay down on its side, over the course of about an hour, it had actually lifted the tree about an inch off of the dirt, and held it there as if bearing the entire world upon its shoulders like the Greek god Atlas.

As for its effect on the wolf, it seemed that he was unwilling to make any sort of trek onto the grass, as if it were some poisonous substance which would infect his gnarled paws with some unwholesome acidic chemical. He would, it seemed, be indefinitely perplexed by a state of hatred towards me and terror of the grass. Venturing out onto the large plank, the wolf would snarl at me with a hideous sort of grin with his gums showing through the enormous scars surrounding his mouth; then, in a one hundred and eighty degree shift in temperament, would look down, see the grass surrounding the tree, indeed supporting his very own weight, and run scampering back into the woods crying and howling, only to reappear several minutes later with the same ugly smile and hideous scars.

At my first apprehension of this odd scenario, I was absolutely terrified. A mode of escape had seemingly presented itself, but had instead become a sign of my end. The protective wall had fallen, and the world had come to consume me. The dog would come out of the forest evil and menacing, and I would run as fast as I could to the farthest corner of the field, picking up apples as I went as if I could somehow defend myself from the beast with them, then turn around, ready to defend myself, only to see it running into the forest with its tail between its legs. Over time I became accustomed to this odd habit of the wolf, but I still gathered up a sizeable stack of fruit to throw if for whatever reason the dog decided the grass was no longer a terror.

As the day went by, and the sun made its course, falling closer and closer to the horizon, I began to worry that perhaps the wolf might decide the grass wasn’t really all that terrifying without the sun shining on it; that the same mysterious force that kept the thing out of my prison would disappear with the light. Instead, when the sun had fully embraced the horizon, making its way below the treetops which surrounded my enclave of grass, the dog stopped making its way back onto the fallen tree. After it had been about fifteen minutes with no appearance of the wolf, I became fairly convinced that the night marked the end of the wolf’s advances towards me. Though, I was not willing to sleep for fear he would decide to step onto the grass and seize me while sleeping and tear me to pieces with his gleaming white fangs and sharp claws while unable to defend myself.

After sitting on the ground and leaning against one of the walls while watching the entrance for an intruder for a while, I found myself beginning to fall asleep. In order to stay awake, I stood up and began making laps around the premises of my prison, always with an apple in hand, always with ears straining to hear the slightest sound of claws on wood.

Eventually, after several hours of this, I got very bored. The wolf had not reappeared, and there hadn’t been a single stir in the woods beyond to suggest that he was preparing to take me by surprise either. Therefore an idea—likely a foolish idea, but we have yet to see—sprung into my head. Suppose I make move into the woods? I cannot sleep, the wolf has not intruded in quite a while, I was desperately wanting to be free of this prison, and, anyway, I had nothing else to do.

So, making my way towards the entrance, I stepped on the tree and stood still. Hearing no sounds which would lead me to believe the wolf hid behind the trees, I slowly began tip-toeing towards the entrance, peeking out on both sides to be sure that it was safe—and here, I slipped out into the great unknown beyond the treetops.