Cycle One: Terra Pacis
Cherrywort Hill was somewhat of a geographical landmark, because it was so much smaller than the hills that surrounded it. The grass was just as green, the earth just as black, but the hill was diminutive in comparison to its larger counterparts. Every once in a while, a group of frazzled teenagers or dubiously dressed elders would travel to the hill to stage a prim picnic or a concessive conversation. The grass near the top was long and lush, and sometimes two lovers would lie together and stare up at the puffy white clouds, holding each other close. Of course, those clouds were just the result of the rain shadow caused by the mountains to the east, of which these hills were mere descendants, but that is not important to what I am saying. All the hill had ever heard over the rush of wind or chirping of birds was what strands of speech accompanied the type of person who visited the hill; 'Why, Ms. Dowd's sow just had some piglets', or 'Can we go home now? It looks like it might rain.' But it hadn't rained on Cherrywort, not as long as anyone could remember. No one knew this, because if they knew, then they would have no doubt wondered how the grass became so long and green, and why all sorts of vibrant vegetation and exotic wildlife flourished so harmoniously upon its gentle slopes. For the deer feared no human, and the rabbit had no dread for the hunter, but loped along and fed on the grass in plain sight of all. While I'm listing questions about the topographical and mythical properties of Cherrywort Hill, I might as well add the odd fact that it was a little-used venue for intimate bonding and deep pondering; but perhaps it was better that this paradise was kept a relative secret.
Every autumn, wildflowers would spring up around the base of the hill, a loud purple, and permeate the air of the hill with a sickly and overpowering scent. Barely anyone visited during this time, not only because of the dangerous odor but because of the many winged insects that visited during the autumn, to cover themselves in pollen before returning to their various places of residence. Yellow dust would carry on the breath of the wind, settling oh so delicately upon the branches of dainty olive trees as well as the stalks of long grass, which thrived as ever as it did in the summer. The olive trees grew a few hundred yards from the base of the hill, you know, and they formed an almost eerie ring around the earthen acclivity. More of the twisted arbor monuments led away from the hill and to the north, where a fair forest sprouted on the side of one of Cherrywort's betters.
Cherrywort Hill was not touched by the cold horror of winter, that ultimate doom of cold death that cannot be defeated. The silent hunter, the last sleep the people of the land would call it, but Cherrywort stood defiantly against it. The few who visited the hill speculated that the massive hills surrounding it protected it from the cold, and that the rain shadow caused by the mountains helped thin the clouds and tax not the precious sunlight that bathed Cherrywort so handsomely. But it snowed. Oh it snowed so beautifully, white specks of soft down raining down from the gray sky to gently kiss the earth. The snow never stuck, and few still breath who can recall a silent walk across Cherrywort, watching as the snow slid off the leaves of ferns and onto the ground, never to be seen again. The last eden, the magnificent mound; Cherrywort Hill.
To the people of the land, religion was not a word. Just as no one cared how Cherrywort Hill remained unmolested by natural forces, so too did few worry about the origins of their homeland. The geography was sound, the weather was nice, and the economy was fair. More were concerned with what lay over the ocean than who had brought them here. However, reader, that does not mean it was a totally physical world. Whispers of the cryptic past and the vague future flowed languidly through the land, enchanting the heart and the occasional philosophical mind. The land had divinity. And, coincidentally, there was divine influence on the grounds of Cherrywort Hill. Perhaps beings of supernatural being dwelt there because of the absence of mortals, or maybe there was an absence of mortals because supernatural beings dwelt there. Either way, there was power in Cherrywort.
Seated upon the slope of Cherrywort, a small figure stared pensively into the distance, following the cumbersome progress of the young sun, which had only a few minutes ago peaked over the hills. The silhouette was obviously feminine in nature, with slender forearms and a lithe, graceful frame. Silken wings of breathtaking shape seemed to be an extension of her back, and if it weren't for the fascination that her presence inspired, they would drive the mortal man to madness. Light would reflect off of them in a stunning paradigm of natural art, and when they flitted behind her, they would toss the light in ways that would make it look almost three dimensional. Her name was Moon.
Moon was, as you may have guessed, from the moon. Just as no one cared for the origins of the earth, no one cared for the origins of her, not the few mortals to behold her nor her fellow divinities, although that is a select group that is to be visited later. More of her character may be revealed later, but let us just say that at the moment, she was immersed in thoughts of the most complicated kind. She was the guardian of the hill, assigned-
What?!? The 'guardian' of the hill? What is this, a barbie movie?
Moon? Is that you?
Of course it's me you dolt! Now change the story before I kick your butt.
Yes ma'am...
Moon had alighted particularly close to Cherrywort Hill upon her arrival to this land, and had taken a distinct liking to its aura. Moon, of course, enhanced this aura to the point where it would push a mortal past the brink of insanity to leave it; but this was only while she was present, and she was always absent when mortals chose to appear. Sometimes the woodland animals would gather around her- ahem. ...Although she preferred to stay on her own most of the time; she had thoughts to think.
Cycle Two: Terra Serenus
To the right of the glade, a silent river flowed serenely north along a rocky outcrop. It came from directly to the south of the field, taking almost a ninety-degree angle to start its journey towards the sun. Grass grew on the stones, and moss hung down, creating a small wet curtain of green. Further upstream, a white picket fence spread wide west to east, with two gaps; one allowing the stream to flow on, another there for no apparent reason, dead center between the stream and the fence. It ran into a wooded area to the west of the glade, a miniature forest that could be seen sloping up and west, its tops stretching to touch the rosy horizon. Out beyond the forest and stream, what seemed like an endless expanse of grassland yawned, well manicured and lush. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the setting sun bled beautifully against the sky, tinted with orange and a dark, sleepy blue. There was no wind, and the trees stood still and solemn, casting giant shadows out past the stream and on, perhaps forever. It was a patch of eternity, a surreal and quiet personification of calm. The bloody sun finally came to rest under the grass, and gentle darkness came to swallow up the glade. The land slept, at peace.
The sun had risen on the glade, shining its benevolent rays upon the greenery. The trees stood, the grass sat, the stream flowed steadily on. Off in the back of reality, silence roared its deafening challenge out, to no avail. The slow road to nowhere was in pristine condition, and the ghost of nothing was walking it. There was no dirt under the grass, no sand in the stream bank, no weeds in the trees. There was nothing, but there was everything. There was no motion, no noise, no life, and no death. But there was everything. There was peace, love, hate, madness, cruelty, good, and evil. There was the sun, in its sky, looking down at its grass and trees and empty space, looking down at everything and nothing. The fence looked on into the blue sky, devoid of clouds. The sun reached its zenith, and for a single moment the shadows were gone. As the shadows began to peek over the other side of forever, with the sun faithfully leading, the slightest of breezes shook the area. There was an alien sensation, one of sound, as the leaves rustled and the grass swished in the daylight. The breeze continued on its doomed journey somewhere else, and once more everything was nothing.
Cycle One: Terra Pacis
The olive trees made the softest of sounds as their branches parted respectfully for Moon; she walked by them towards the top of the hill, almost drifting over the grass. Once she reached the top she sat cross-legged at the exact pinnacle of Cherrywort, and watched the olive trees bend so slowly back into place. She didn't know why they did that, or how, but it made her feel special. But, she was a girl who cared little for the actions of trees, and especially on this day, because she had someone to meet. Moon hadn't talked with another respirating incarnate for a few years, and she was mildly excited with the prospect of speech (for she was not one who spoke to herself), but she did not mind the quiet, and she was sure that after a few minutes of conversation, she would long for the gentle solstices of her solitude. She was startled out of her menagerie by the awareness of another creature, in fact the very one she wanted to see. Winging out from above the monolithic hills, a bright pinpoint of flaming reverie, burning a path through the sky and towards Cherrywort Hill at breathtaking, incredible speed.
