The giant hammer stands, or rather squats, over the dry, patchy landscape. The scant blades of grass in its ever-moving shadow reach up almost reverently. Their capabilities of growth are limited, however. The denizens who call the grass their gods scurry beneath. They have no real concept of the hammer. It is too vast. A lifetime of one of these small creatures would pass were it to try to traverse from the base of the structure to its summit. It’s ever-moving summit.
So the three levels of existence perpetuate into eternity. The godhead, unknown to the tiniest, is solitary. Swaying middle men are also fixed in place, but have comfort in multitudes. In the context of the solitary godhead, multitude is an appropriate word. Only the lowliest creatures are fully mobile. They even have the option to leave the forest of grass. Few do, though, and none have returned.
Perhaps one can see the whole universe as a puppet show. The reverent blades of grass reach up, but at the same time, peer down on their subjects. The hammer pulls their strings (in this case, upwards). The manipulation is a farce, but still maintained for a sense of order. Considering carefully, and were there a place from which to consider outside of this bubble, the godhead is sensless. It’s endless pumping which moves the daylight from one part of the grass forest to another, is fully automated. It is as if it had a greater purpose not even known to itself.
The mobile creatures do as they are instructed by the swaying turrets all around. Or, rather, they interpret the tilts and yaws of sessile beings to be a language punctuating their lives. The illusion is maintained on three levels. Perhaps four, were one to consider the unnamed purpose of the atomaton - the hammer.
The story passes to one of the few who had the courage to leave the forest. She is a segmented creature covered with fuzz and moving at a rate of perhaps one length of grass per ten seconds. The flat wasteland she discovers beyond her known world is baking with a heat she has never experienced. Bizarre, quick shapes cover the light for moments at a time, but never leave her in their coolness for long enough for relief. She can only see flatness everywhere. A booming fills her body and a sensation of unrest shocks her body into the air. Fortunately, she lands with no harm done. She continues her tortuous course.
Eventually, swaying spires appear again in front of her. Having an excellent sense of direction (for it is the only reason she ‘escaped’ in the first place), she knows she has not travelled in a circle. Then what is this? Another world? Another forest? Are worlds seperated by vast, flat wastelands?
It is a new forest. She does not name it, for she does not know exactly what names are. The teetering grass is apathetic to her. It does not try to instruct, for it is not pulled upwards by some unknown and monolithic force.
