Waking up somewhere else

Mutjo wakes on grass he does not recognise, under a sky with far too many stars in it, and his first thought is not where am I but something's boiling.

Something is. The Matji have built a small fire, borrowed a kettle from somewhere — the somewhere being a question for later — and are conducting breakfast with the calm authority of creatures who have decided that whatever world this is, it will have proper matcha in it.

He does not remember how they came here. The Matji either do not know, or do not consider it relevant to the foam. I confess that I, your narrator, followed them some while later, by a much less interesting route; but that is a story for another pot.

The hills are green. The water boils. Some things, it turns out, are true everywhere.