The Things never slept. If they did, no one would ever know, because of eyelids they had none. Yet they had ears, and more than two of them. They could hear. They could listen. Even of things on the other side of the world, they could hear everything. Today they heard the sound of walks.
They sat together on huddled benches, drinking their beer and talking, shouting frequently, whilst singers sang and dancers danced to the music of the harp and the beat of drums, whilst the smoke from the fireplace thickened the air in the room, and so did the smoke from the sizzlers they ate. They were happy people. The singer sang the song of a world where there were things with two ears, who once looked like animals yet now had no tails, who walked on two legs and the other two hung mid-air, and they joked about it for long as well. “Hah,” said one, “if such things only existed.” They found it funny; they had fifty limbs and even then fell on the rough grounds, how could things have two and walk straight? They blamed it on the beer and asked the wench to serve more of it.
“Where did you get such fine beer, woman?” asked one and smirked. “From the Land of Always Summer,” she said and pinched his thing hard and long. They had heard stories of summer, all of them, at their mother’s breasts, and they had told the same to their children. They knew it would come one day, one day soon, when their God would finally show Himself after being pleased with them. The Sun, they called their god. It would come out on the first day of summer, but summer hadn’t been here for a thousand years and fifteen, and wouldn’t be here soon enough. They lived in the Land of Always Winter. It was always dark, and they knew what they worshipped was only the slave of God; they called it the Moon. Today the moon was bright and circle, it meant a good sign, and so they listened intently. And they heard. They heard for sure. They heard the sound of walks.