…
And, a horse was foaled, one windy day late into winter.
Of this day, a frightened mare, thought only of the wind: the strong gale that rattled her wooden barn and kicked up small cuts of hay into the air like dust lost in dance. She will remember this wind not for its strength but for its sudden bursting into life that carried with it her son, Ted.
A horse has little use for names but as the farmer laughed in his graveled rasp, life seemed to agree.
Ted loved to run. An apple tree far in the distance grew closer and closer as he galloped; everyday it grew easier to reach as his strength built and his stride grew. Soon the tree was not far at all, nor was the post beyond; the old wagon and even the creek all had shrunk, their distance no longer as great as a younger Ted once thought.
And as he grew he learnt the toil of work. The exhaustion of tilling a field, the patience in pulling a cart all the way to the city; in all these labours Ted grew strong. With each moment of trial he pushed on and knew that he could.
He was taken away from his farm. Men with panicked faces and dirty uniforms had given a letter to the farmer who lived near the barn and then saddled Ted with a heavy pack.
Away they rode, further than Ted ever dreamed to exist. He saw the mountains turn to fields, the fields turn to desert. He saw more men than he knew could even be alive, he saw the anger in their eyes, he saw them fight and he saw them die.
Ted ran because he was asked, he ran with fear and he ran with anger, Ted ran for three long years in this terrible place before he was taken again, away, back to the mountains of the north.
He was then given a home, a man, whose face told ballads within its wrinkles, walked with him there. This man, whom most called George, was filled with a quiet kindness that could be glanced over without notice. But Ted saw this kindness in George and as that day became the months beyond, he came to regard this old man as his closest friend.
Ted was old, but he knew the world around him was older. Days rose and fell with indifference and many more were forgotten as their memory dwindled into the absence of thought.
The old horse lay down, he was tired. Life, for Ted, was tired and as he lowered his pained body down onto the soft grass of his home, a gentle wind rolled over him, it’s careless pull played with a daisy that stood just next to his snout. Ted watched the small flower hold to the earth, bending at the stem but remaining in place, roots stronger than a fragile appearance would belie.
And as the wind died, so did Ted; departing with this gentle breeze, his memory spoke its last words.
‘It’s such a beautiful day’.
J.McCray
2019
Sunday Short Stories 