On horseback, the cares of his world ceased to exist. All that mattered was the wind rushing against his face. Hooves thumped against ground and became a percussion rhythm line of his personal orchestra—the tight muscles and sinews of the horse’s body became the strings, and the steady beat of its heart, the conductor.
Buck, too, rode a thoroughbred. An older gelding. Dark brown—almost black in color—the horse’s coloring complimented his own snow-capped head and tanned skin.
“First to the fence wins,” Buck called, urging his horse to gallop.
“Wins what?” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth to command Hravart to pick up speed.
Buck didn’t reply. He hunkered down in the saddle and took off like wildfire. He had a fast horse. Faster than Hravart. Hay felt the surge of speed shoot up Hravart’s legs as she obeyed the command to catch the dark gelding leaving her in his dust.
Eight hooves pounded against the earth, drumming out an ages-old melody. In that chorus, answers to all questions could be found. Hay flicked away an errant tear and urged Hravart on. The pattern of the hooves rang through him as if he was the pond and the horse a stone tossed in to create ripples. And he knew what he must do.
A stagnant pond may be mirror-like and beautiful, but underneath, no life can flourish due to the accumulation of muck and mire and algae. Toss in a pebble and the water moves. Silt rises and is disbursed. Break the dam trapping the pond and it can once again flow to the sea. When the rains come, it will be renewed and recreated. I am going to break the dam.
* * * *
They let their horses graze.
“This day has been perfect,” Judah said.
“I agree, but how so for you?”
Judah rolled onto his side, facing Buck. “I have long felt the hard pit of indecision in my gut. I suppressed my feelings and towed the line society said I must, and today, I am free. My parents and my community are trapped by ritual. They have no forward motion. If you can understand my meaning, I am going to disturb the pond. When the silt settles, the choke-hold of stagnancy will be obliterated.”
“Meaning, you are joining the resistance and you know it is the right thing to do.”
“Yes.”
Buck caressed Hay’s cheek. “The blush has left your face. Do not be afraid of change.”
“I’m all right.”
“She said you would be.”
Hay sat upright. “I assume it is the goddess of whom you refer.”
“Calling the Spirit of the Harvest a goddess is a misnomer, for she is not fixed in form or place. The spirit is like the wind. It changes with the seasons. But since you are familiar with her female form, I shall refer to her in that manner.”
“Go on,” Judah encouraged.
“Last winter, she appeared to me as if entranced, shrouded in gray—as gray as the December sky. Behind her veil I could see the flames of the hearth fire burning in her eyes. And her voice was as gravely as the long stretch of road between the capital city in the east and the harbor in the west.” Buck paused. “She sleeps during winter. A hibernation of sorts. She mounted me and rode me and absorbed my soul into hers. She spoke to me and told me of you—not by name, of course. She said it was time for change. She said a foal would fall ill. In my quest for medicine to treat the sick horse, I would find a man born of the Harvester clan who would bring the hard rains and cause a flood of change to burst free across the valley. He would be marked for greatness—but would not fulfill the duties charged upon him by his community. He would do more. I tried, some weeks later, when the goddess emerged from her long slumber, to ask her about her visit. She would not see me and had me sent to the back acreage to mend fences for my trouble. I believe she sleepwalked in form of a crone, Judah. An oracle blind to her own prophecy.
“After that, the work took over my life, and I knew her purpose. The cutting of the hay perfumed the air so richly and the furrows sang as the last of the season crops grew within them, and the windrows dried evenly and quickly. It was a glorious time of year. Her corn came in so abundantly we had not enough storage for it, and the barn overflowed with sweet hay for the beasts which live in her shadow. She walked among us sometimes—as the mother or maiden—her butter-yellow veil trailing in the breeze behind her. And then, a brood mare foaled and the colt was born in a caul. Folks say a baby born in a caul brings good luck or will grow up with a second sight. This little guy didn’t seem too lucky to me. He refused his mother’s milk. We bottle fed him cow’s milk, and he improved yet was colicky. I didn’t have what I needed on-hand to treat him, so I came into the forest. When I saw you, I knew—I understood the message from the goddess. That little colt, as sickly as he is, is good luck. He set my feet on the path to you, and I have helped set your feet on a path of great change.”
“My family lives a good life within parameters set out by fear. That needs to change. I want them to enjoy their lives without fear as their motivating factor. I want them to be inclusive of all aspects of life.”
“Man/man for example,” Buck replied.
“Yes. And I want the next generation of children to be raised without fear. Do you know, to this day, when thunder claps, I feel a strong urge to go find my parents? Children are taught the end-of-life fire comes with a clap of thunder and when the sky is filled with lightning and thunder rolls across it, a loved one may be taken away in a funnel of flames.”
“Oh, yes. I have heard that a time or two. The surface of the community is pleasant enough, but look under the smiles and rituals and there is fear. So much fear. Do you not feel proud you shall help transform fear into fruitfulness?”
Judah coughed. “I’ll tell you the answer to that after I face the goddess.”
Buck chuckled. “When you look at that tree, or these ferns, or into my eyes, you behold the goddess, Judah. Her face is my face. Her face is made of soil and rock and sky and water.” He touched Judah’s lips with his fingertips. “And flesh.”