The Tale of Gwyn and the Pips - Part 2

Continued (and refresh) from part 1…

The Moon told Gwyn to go off the path. To leave the world of rules and to investigate the unknown.

Gwyn was not sure she was up for this.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She decided that princesses are born to be challenged and, besides, she was curious.

To find out herself whether the Moon was singing. Where would she even begin?

She started with what she knew. She navigated wild seas. She traversed deserts. She met strange creatures. She bathed in waterfalls. She kissed toes. She explored. She had adventures.

But this time she was listening. Listening to see if the Moon sang again. As she settled, and opened her ears, the song exploded everywhere.

She heard the singing of the Trees, the Stars, the Grass, the Wind. The Grass told her to what the path would feel like. The Stars told her to ford the rivers. The Trees told her to look for a deep hole. The Wind told her what the hole would feel like.

One day she found herself staring into a deep hole that was both infinite and finite, conscious and unconscious, matter and light, formed and unformed. Inside this deep hole was a spark. And a dream.

The spark tugged her.

Gwyn knew what the Moon would tell her. She didn’t even have to ask.

“How in the world do I descend into the hole and get that spark?” She asked herself.

Gwyn, after all, was a princess and sometimes princesses like to hear themselves talk. Even when they already know the answer. Sometimes, especially when they already know the answer.

She answered, “Tell the truth. Be brave. Listen.”

“I have been doing that. Well, sometimes. When I remember.”

“Great. Keep doing that.”

“Aren’t there supposed to be pips in this story?”

“Look in your pocket.”

“Holy moly.”

She put her hand in her pocket. Two spheres the size of quarters sat in her hand. One was covered in swirls of light that moved slowly over the face of inky black. The other was a glowing opal - pink, silver, yellow, greens, blues - all colors dancing within.

Gwyn brought her hand to her nose and stared. The pips, once seen, began to wiggle, jump, and slowly sunk into her palm piercing her skin.

The pips began scorching her palm, but Gwyn knew not to look away. The pain roiled and grew and stabbed. Tears ran down her face, but she did not look away. The pips entered her arm and traveled up to her chest and exploded into her heart.

She crashed to her knees, floored by the memories of embarrassment, fear, despair, grief. Turning over onto her back she screamed at the sky. “Why does this have to hurt so much!?!?”

“Pain going into the body is as painful as pain going out of the body. Be grateful this is leaving, you were too heavy before.”

“FUCCCCKKKK this hurts!!!” Gwyn yelled as she rolled into a fetal position to weep. An image of zits popping came to her mind. Each memory hit her heart and lanced it open like an abscess - her tears flushing the pain into the embrace of the earth.

Eventually the pain slowed (it always does) and she started to hiccup, to breath, to blink. She blew her nose in a Liberty handkerchief (princesses like handkerchiefs) and looked around.

“How did this begin again? Oh right, how do I descend into that hole and get to that spark?”

She looked over to the hole and started. The hole was gone, the tug of the spark had moved. She paused, closed her eyes, and listened.

“Look inside of you.”

Gwyn flies.

Again.

*pip, noun (3). 1: a small fruit seed. especially : one of a several-seeded fleshy fruit 2: one extraordinary of its kind