The second day of walking dawned clear and crisp. George packed up what little camp there was to be packed, breakfasting on a plump pear off a nearby tree and drinking from the brook that watched over, whispering incessantly. Clambering onto a small hill, George eyed the errant cloud in the distance and set off.

The adventurer trundled forth hour atop spirited hour. A lost breeze ran about, fluffing George’s bangs before dashing off. Out way beyond the familiar farms of home, the road wound through fields of thick gold and lilac grass, under copses of dark trees, by streams with their own adventures on the agenda. True, there were no clouds save the one George chased to the horizon, but at least the sky was a very full blue

The cloud pushed ever onward, in a vague northeast direction, always towards the grass and the trees just beyond the next rise. The adventurer walked ever after it. The sun swam ever higher in the sky. At high noon, George, ascending the foothills marching out of the low-lying plains and vales of trees, collapsed on a boulder, panting hard. The cloud drifted on as innocuously as ever.

Mnehhhh.

From here, great sweeps of land could be seen, to where it disappeared behind the rolls of forest in the distance. Behind, hills rose into gray, craggy mountains.

Mnehhh!

George turned. A sheep stood on a ledge. The sheep’s woolen coat was so like the cloud George chased that the adventurer took an instinctive step toward the thing before stumbling on a root. The ledge upon which it perched was flat and pentagonal, jutting out from the slope above it at sharp angles.

“Are you stuck?”

The sheep blinked slowly

George looked around. The ledge was some thirty yards away. It was kept away by a craggy furrow in the slope, down into which George would first have to climb, then up out. The adventurer took a glance at the cloud rolling gently towards the cusp of the ridge. Looking back at the sheep, it had begun chewing on a chunk of grass. George grabbed hold of the trunk of a tree growing out of the hill and placed one foot down the craggy side. The sheep watched with mild curiosity.

Thistles scratched and soil crumbled beneath wayward boots. George slid backward down the hill, fingernails grasping for anything to keep steady, feet slipping until—

George sat up at the bottom of the furrow, shoulder and palms smarting. The sheep peered over the edge of the ledge in distress.

George groaned. “I’m coming.”

The adventurer sprang up. Climbing was far easier than falling. Ivy grew on the boulders here. George grabbed it by the fistful and before long stood, ankles entrenched in the weed, staring up at the sheep.

“Uh.” There was no way to get the sheep down. George looked back at the enticingly deserted road.

“Mnehhh!”

“Okay, I’m not going anywhere!”

There was the ivy, some forget-me-nots, and a few oak trees towering silently nearby. There were a lot of rocks. There were some oak branches... and the ivy! George started pulling up the ivy in great strands. The sheep pressed closer to the edge to better see. Then the adventurer arranged a pile of branches.

Tying them together was much more difficult. The ivy was uncooperative, snapping before forming tidy knots. The sticks were brittle too. The goal was to make a sort of ladder-lasso. George wasn’t entirely sure what to do, and tried and failed several times before giving up.

“Mneh,” the sheep said.

“I hear you.”

Above them, the cloud was getting ever closer to the ridge above. Beyond the ridge, the mountains rose dark and tangled, like a thick forest. Before too long, the cloud would slip into its peaks.

“Aaaargh!”

George spun and stomped into the stand of trees. Maybe there was a way back up to the road through here. Pushing through branches, red began to well up along cuts. George stormed downhill, half-sliding and half-tumbling in an uncontrolled rush down.

“Oh—Crumbs and crumpets—”

George’s foot caught, losing balance, flopping and rolling down the hill to a stop. Again. Dirt and loose flowers rained down in a wake. George jumped up, glaring at the hill. Then paused.

A log was wedged between two trees. It must have been what George tripped over. It was dark and bare, but thick, and ungiving. George climbed back up the hill, and heaved on the log from one end. It was stuck in there. Walking over to the other side, the adventurer pulled on this end of the log, and now it sprung loose, rolling a few feet before coming to a halt.

The sheep watched as George emerged from the trees, carrying a log in an awkward hug. The log set against the ledge at a neat angle, and George steadied it with stones at its bottom. The sheep sniffed the bridge once, kicked at it, then hopped nimbly down.

“Okay!” George said. “Well, I got you! Are you…”

The sheep had started to munch on a nearby patch of flowers. It looked up at George, stared.

“Uh…”

It ambled off, still chewing its mouthful. George watched, hands on hips, shirt damp with dust and sweat.

“Uh… okay! I hope you have safe travels!”

The cloud was getting away. The adventurer scurried back up to the road, as the sky grew ever bluer above.