Horses

“Can you hear it? The wind is calling to carry.”

She stood away from me, turned away from the buildings, the trees and me, her black hair blowing on the gathering breeze as the skies grew flint to match the color of her eyes she wore before the turning away. I did not doubt her eyes could change colors to match her mood, I had seen it happen many time before. Her mood was that of the coming storms, unsettled, roiling and only barely constrained — and so she now wore flint and heather where most people wore mere eyes.

I nodded. Words lacked meaning, whereas the gesture spoke in torrents. For I could hear the unsettled wind, unable to place the meaning of the sound and, as always, she issued forth a perfect description of the sound.

Words were never my strong suit, though I dabbled as attempting to smith them into something beautiful. I lack those talents, whereas she had grown to the master when we were both still young.

Though she was still on her turning away, she acknowledged my nod of affirmation. She had a way of seeing that which most people failed to see, either by way of circumstance, or by willful blindness. She was a seer by several of the definitions given the word, even if she did not always let on.

“Good,” she said, standing there in her turning away. “Then you will be ready when the horses ride in. I can hear them even now.”

I cocked my head to the West, into the coming of the storm. Indeed, the hooves could be heard pounding out the storm’s highway, churning up granite and grey to fill the air. Almost immediately, the heralding trumpets ripped at the skies and winds in reply, calling them both to carry.

I stepped up with her on the turning away and followed her flint grey eyes, watching for the winds as they called to carry us on the backs of horses screaming in the storm.