You awake naturally in the morning and lie in your apple tree den for a long while, surprisingly content for everything that has happened in the last few days. A flock of small chirping birds dart about in unison, and you watch them for a while. They move in a series of freeze frames, heads abruptly turning this way and that. You keep very still and their random walk takes them to an apple branch directly above you. They’re maybe as long as a person’s hand, with grey and brown feathers blended together - it’s hard to get a good look as they’re always on the move. You idly wonder if there’s any good meat on them. Given your flaky memory, you don’t even remember ever having meat but part of you craves for it.

“[House sparrow discovered; novice]”

Two things happen - firstly, the house sparrows are not scared away, so you know that the wind voice lives in your brain or at least close to your ears, and secondly, if they’re called “house” sparrows, then does that imply that they live near houses? That is important because you might be able to find help, but the valley does appear to be an effective prison.

Stomach cramps suddenly hit and you rush off into the closest non thorny bush, cursing the diet of blackberries and apples. A handful of grass will have to do for clean up, but you’re soon at it again. You are irked that the voice has nothing to say about this particular discovery.

Diarrhoea dispatched with, you consider the day ahead. Ideally you would like to escape the valley, but that seems unlikely. So what should you do? You have an unlimited supply of raspberries and apples - if you eat more apples and less blackberries that might be alright, for now. You would like to get a drink of water, just clean water, and secure or create a more permanent shelter. Options laid out, you begin to head down the pathway to the swamp.

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Your descent has you pondering why the pathway even exists. Has anyone ever lived here, to walk up and down this hill everyday until a well worn depression is formed? Is it a coincidence that the “path” happens to follow the lowest midpoint, like a vast piece of fabric draped across both descending sides of the valley would naturally ruck in the middle all the way down to the swamp.

You eye your bramble embattled bed as you pass and the ground quickly turns from dry meadow to damp soggy sponge as it flattens out. Your left leg sinks calf deep into the bog but you manage to haul yourself out. You step back until the ground is firm enough and consider your next challenge. There’s a tall type of grass, each terminating in brown sausage like cylinders, throughout the whole swamp. Now that you’re closer, it seems unfair to call it a swamp because at least in your mind, a swamp is lifeless and stagnant. This body of water, a marsh, you abruptly decide on, seems to be teeming with life. There’s bright blue, long bodied insects flitting around, and little black beetles paddling around the tall grass. There’s several trees with long dramatic limbs draping over the water, and further in, you can spot some birds bobbing up and down, honking plaintively.

“[Marshland ecosystem discovered; novice]”

Your hand starts to itch and you discover a small winged insect perched on the fleshy part between your thumb and index finger. You reflexively bring your other hand on top and it comes away with a smear of blood. A bad feeling, like a pit in your stomach, begins to grow and you see that your bare forearms - pyjamas rolled up because of the bright noon sun - are host to several more feeding insects. If you look very carefully, you can almost see tiny patches of red on each insect.

“[Mosquito discovered; novice]”

Part of you would rather deal with the damned brambles.