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Shorts
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| A Walk In the Snow | |
| By andybyers | ||||||||||
| 08 December 2007 | ||||||||||
He steps out from between the towering pines, hung heavy with wet snow. His mane is ragged, his poncho time-worn and full of stories. The wind lifts it, revealing his gun belt; all he wears beneath it. He has come armed. You would have been amazed if he had not. The scent of his females creeps to you in a shift of the wind; the clan he has sired and shepherds is nearby. He’s at the end of his rope. This is the only reason you see him at all. His eyes are like steel, fixed on you from across the hollow. Even your horse fidgets, unnerved. “You came alone?” he calls at last. Under the brim of your cap, you nod. Once. Sharply. You meet his gaze. You have to. Your uniform. It still seems warm from being pressed this morning before you set out. Blood red. Commanding attention. Unmistakable in its arrogance; daring any foe to take a shot and bring millions more just like you down upon him. A single red dot in a spreading sea of changing ways, washing over the prairies. His poncho flaps in the wind. His tail, his mane, are his only flags; the living standards of his people, pressed to the river, mournful at the prospect of crossing over, leaving all this behind, forever. But that’s why you’re here. “You knew Greyshadow?” he calls. Carefully, slowly, you reach into your pouch. You draw out the talisman given you long ago in a moment of peace and friendship and celebration. It’s barely visible, but in the eyes of this man, something softens… glistens. “You did know him,” the man says. “Yes. He called me friend. Though I knew his daughter much better.” “And that is why you’ll help us?” His voice is cold and flat, but behind it you hear both hope and incredulity. “I will help you,” you say, “because it is right.” “How can we trust you?” “I’ll be one, among many. The moment you doubt me, you’ll kill me. I’m resigned to die. I will either die at your hands, or the hands of the men I’ve just left. Which, is up to you.” He nods. “You speak well.” He steps towards the trees. “Come. But if you would be among us,” he says, “then you must free our brother.” He means your horse. His kind do not keep horses, and kill only what they need. You dismount, stepping down into the cold snow. You move your paws over Commander’s neck; he whickers and nuzzles into your palm. He’s a clever beast; he will make his own way back to the fort. “Good-bye, old friend,” you mutter to him, the wind kicking off your cap and sending it tumbling stupidly across the field. “Take care of yourself.” Now your mane and your tail are flags. Your only flags. You pace through the deep, wet snow towards the wild man, and whatever awaits you. The uniform itches. It has itched for a long time. Today is the day it comes off.
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