delirium tremendous

Any opening in the ground, any relic of distress, would've looked good to him. As long as hedge-holes were bounded and porchlights were rounded, he thought, nothing would be around long enough to look as bad as it was. But the terra stayed horribly the same. Following robes was proving easier than arborescent ascent, but dropping down would be a good way to make going back not his fault. And the man he followed had shown a sudden turnabout, trading questions for answers that were pithier and less revealing than the surrounding horizon. With wide paces, the holdcart made short steps of foot. It was morning porridge to keep up, but the direction, while straight, seemed to take longer than the distance it held.
"How far did you say it was? We've been walking for...where's the sun been?"
"I didn't," the bishop replied, "Sun's always been where it is. We're the ones doing the moving, as you'd notice." There was a new air in his voice. His breath was more in it, that is to say, from it, out of it.
"And how far would you say it was? Is?" he retried.
"Far enough to be farther away from here than we are. Close enough that we'll get to it before we've passed it."
The sun did rise. This time, though, a part of it near the ground was blotted out.
He was relieved, but not much (more like an alligator's head from a crocodile's body than like a penny from paper), to see another figure in the distance. The silhouette was dragging the rising sun, coming straight for them. After what seemed like some time, long or short, the figure was not two dozens lengths from them, inside a shouting area. And shout the figure did.
"Ho, foldvest! Where've you?"
And for the first time since he'd met with him, the bishop held tracks.
And it seemed that no-one had a thing to say, for just then.