Italics

A graphic by <n>Milena Stochmiałek</n> for <n>ZRYW</n>'s weekly event guide in Wrocław.

Sheep looked up from his grassy breakfast one morning to see a crow bouncing frantically among the hedgerows at the end of the pasture.“Crow,” he said, “what ails you this morning?”
“Not now, Sheep,” said Crow. “I am looking for my friend, gone missing from this very field only yesterday.”
“Yesterday…” Sheep replied, “during the storm.”
“Indeed,” said Crow, who disappeared inside a bush and then fusted and fluttered for a moment before emerging once more from the top. “That is when I lost him.”
“Gracious,” Sheep replied. “And such a storm. I would hate to think what might have happened to him.” Crow said nothing in reply, only hopped to the next line of bushes to continue his search. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You?” Crow scoffed. “You are just a sheep, bound on all sides by these hedges, lacking the skill or wherewithal to change your situation even if you so liked. What help can you offer me, who with the merest flap of my wings can fly high enough to see from the farthest Purbeck all the way across the channel to Nine Barrow Down?” Sheep bowed his head, slightly abashed. “No, Sheep, you cannot help me.”
Sheep, however, persisted.
“This pasture is large, Crow. We sheep spend our days wandering its boundaries, seeking out the sweetest grasses in the most hidden of corners. It is possible we might find some clue as to your friend's whereabouts. Might you describe him to me?”
Crow hopped down from the bush he was on and stared directly into Sheep’s eyes. “Shall I describe him to you, Sheep? Shall I? Very well. He is small - about my own size in fact. Feathered from beak to sticks and black as winter, with claws as long and sharp as...”
“Rather like yourself then,” Sheep interrupted.
Crow sighed. "Rather like," he replied.
“Then I wish you luck, Crow. In all things.”
Crow flew away.
The next morning, Sheep found Crow sitting on top of a bush staring out across the sea.
“Is that you Crow?” Sheep asked.
“It is me, Sheep.”
“You have not found your friend, then.”
Crow sighed. “Not as yet. But if I wait here, at the very spot where we became separated, he will return. I am sure of it.”
Sheep allowed a moment or two to pass. “I will leave you to it then,” he said.
A few days passed and the skies became grayer and the ocean winds colder and still Crow remained atop his bush. Day and night he sat, staring patiently across the fields toward the sea, watching and waiting for some sign of his friend.
One particularly cold morning, Sheep woke to find Crow in his usual spot, hunkered down and fluffed against the wind.
“Good morning Crow,” said Sheep.
“Good morning Sheep,” said Crow proudly, straightening his feathers against the elements - although a sudden frigid gust drew a shiver from him despite himself.
“You look cold, Crow. Would you like to sit on my back for a time?”
Crow turned to face Sheep for the first time in days. “Your back?”
“It is… comfortable, I am told. You would not be the first. Others like yourself have found warmth within my wool from time to time. You might even find a morsel of food to eat.”
Crow thought for a moment, but before he could respond another powerful and icy blast stole the words right out of his beak.
Sheep turned to leave. “Give it a think, Crow. I believe you know where to find me.” But Sheep had not taken three paces before he felt Crow's claws on his back. Sheep smiled.
“Thank you Sheep,” said Crow.
“Come,” said Sheep, “I have some grazing to do. This field commands views from one end of the Purbecks to the next. If your friend returns, you will find each other.”
And so they passed the days. Sheep grazed the pasture, slowly, methodically, never failing to find new grasses to indulge himself upon. Meanwhile, Crow sat patiently on Sheep’s back, occasionally flying away to investigate some detritus blown in by winter winds, or to question a passing gull. But always he returned to his place on Sheep’s back to maintain his watch upon the hills.
At night, the other sheep would gather together and tell stories about their day. Most nights there was very little to tell, but they found themselves rapt with attention whenever Crow spoke of his days exploring the Purbecks, far beyond the hedgerows that defined their pasture. And when none of them could keep their eyes open a moment longer, they would push themselves together and their wool became as one large blanket and Crow would settle in for a warm and peaceful sleep.
About a week from the day Crow first had perched upon Sheep’s back, a small murder of crows passed quickly overhead. Before Sheep could mention it to Crow, Crow leapt and flew away quickly to intercept them. Sheep smiled, then lowered his head and continued his chewing.
Some minutes passed before Crow returned, taking his place upon Sheep’s back as he had not an hour earlier.
”I’m surprised to see you back so soon, Crow. Was there no news of your friend?”
Crow took a moment to respond. “Not as such,” he said finally.
“Then they could not help you,” Sheep sighed.
“On the contrary. They are on their way west to create a new family together, gathering upon an old ruin just a few miles west of here - as the crow flies.” He swallowed. “Many of us, it seems, lost our way the night of the storm.”
“A new family,” said Sheep. “Crow, that sounds wonderful. You must join them!”
Crow said nothing. The wind was picking up again, a sharp and flinty breeze that prickled against Crow’s feathers. Out west beyond the faint rise of the Isle of Wight, the sun was setting in thick, creamy layers of purple and red - a sure sign of an ice storm to come. He pushed himself down into the wool on Sheep’s back.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” he said.
 
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Friend Italic

<n>rīvus – A Glossary of Water</n> for the <n>Biennale of Sydney</n>. Design by <n>ZOLO PRESS</n>, <n>Arno Baudin</n>, and <n>base_design</n>.

<n>Giela Italic</n>, an experimental typeface inspired by <n>Garamond</n> and the ethos of <n>Martin Margiela</n>.