God’s own country. God’s forgotten country. See the child. God’s forgotten child. Sitting amongst the tinder and bracken. Cross-legged, with a straight back and down cast eyes, he fidgets thoughtlessly with the kindling that lies just past his knees. See the child shout. Hear the child settle deeply into the pocket of earth he has made. The child finds his own place in forgotten hillsides. The child breathes deeply the loam and rotting leaves. The child lays back into the well-worn groove and feels the creeping spin of that dereliction. After a time, he slips into unconsciousness.
See the child. See the child reborn. Child of the loam and bracken.
Tomlin explodes into consciousness, bolt upright in her bed, arms akimbo, breathing quickly. A light bead of sweat glistened over her tensed frame, illuminated ever so evenly in the chromium palace. Brushing aside her mortal coils, tubes and wires retracting into the seamless wall, she collects the broken remains of the dream that haunts her nightly.
Carried along through branches malign, lilted a red breeze, an ashen air.
Through the slight and gauzy haze of an interminable array, idled a small boy clothed in beaming rays while unaware of the expanse about him. He lounged in the ill-defined space toying with what seemed to be a toy but easily could have been amy number of ancient tools or technical devices, long since abandoned in the noble advances of time. He spun it round on its elongated base with a mild, unconcerned grimace on his fresh and unburdened face, cherub-light. It seemed that he could not manage to discern its purpose or find meaning in its overall form but maintained a sort of loose focus on the weight of it in his clean pudgy hand. About this idle and bemused character swayed a myriad of diffuse lights, some carrying a minimal wash of color, others merely various degrees of transparency. If one were to observe this child from a slight distance, the precise surface upon which he sat would unclear. No shadow from the child was cast, no object to receive his missing other. The existed no point of reference outside of his hazy nest and the useless object he handled. Were it not for the almost immeasurably minute alteration in temperature, and its resulting flurry of information, he may not have realized that his cloud was slowly expanding with an airy and not entirely unpleasant drift; in which direction, he could not have guessed even if he had he any sense to consider the implications of vector or the forces driving them.