He walked and walked until he came upon a horse.
Approaching it, Allen Y. commented on what a pretty horse it was. “Thank you,” the creature replied in a smooth, feminine voice, surprising the yellow alien.
“A talking horse, eh?” He was facing the beautiful brown animal directly now. “What’s your name, then?”
“Mirabel,” it quickly replied. “Use to be Tricksy. But that’s a horse name. I got a proper *being* name when I came in contact with Brainard. Have you met our God? He often rolls around the valley… like a marble. Sometimes in the hills surrounding the valley, sometimes in the valley.”
“Hmmm. How big is this… marble being?”
“A *God*,” Mirabel neighs. “A collective, some say. But a God still. There’s little debate on that. Hitchcock can tell you. He’s the expert.”
“Hitchcock,” Allen Y. urged. “Another horse?”
Mirabel snorted, then: “Not hardly,” and went back to eating greener grass on the other side of the fence.
Sensing the animal-being was done with him, Allen Y. moved on. “Thank you,” he said in parting.
Soon he came upon a stream, and across it, a cabin in a small grove of more of those tall, tall trees. The abode of Hitchcock.
(to be continued)