The Horse and His Boy
by
Decidedly Odd
When a foal was born, coal black but for the starburst of white on his forehead, the local priest claimed it was a good omen. The lines of his wobbly legs prophesized speed; if his sire's blood told true, he would be long and lean and powerful. Barely a few weeks old, the colt observed his handlers with an intelligent awareness that only confirmed the holy man's predictions.
Sometimes, such hallowed animals were sacrificed to the gods. Sometimes they were believed to be gods. Always, the creatures became property of the temple.
Yet the hunter whose stallion sired the foal requested (perhaps not as respectfully as he should have) that he be allowed to keep the horse. It was tacitly assumed by everyone that not only would the head priest refuse, he would laugh in the hunter's face and demand recompense for his wasted time.
But the past few seasons had not been kind: the herds suffered from plague while the crops were dying of drought. Though no one would dare to dismiss their power, all the spells and sacrifices of the priests could not manifest food on the plates of their hungry parishioners. It was only the hunters' efforts that kept famine at bay, and this one was particularly skilled.
So for once, practicality triumphed over superstition. The hunter was granted ownership of the foal in a somber ceremony performed in the temple's innermost chambers. The priests' voices rose and fell like waves, their chanting as unfathomable as the power behind the tides.
Finally, the ritual ended and he was allowed to clip a lead line onto the colt's gilded halter. A young girl, barely visible through the myrrh-scented smoke, appeared to guide him through the labyrinth of hallways. The colt's unshod hooves tapped an unsteady rhythm on the marble floors and his leather boots creaked with every step he took, but the girl made no sound at all-her feet were bare. Thin and pale and dressed in virginal white, she wafted through the corridors like a lingering aroma, so faint that he feared she would dwindle into nothing by the time he rounded the corner.
The hunter had removed the colt's harnessing. Enjoying the first bit of freedom he had been allowed in months, the colt bounced down the hallways, occasionally slip-sliding on the smooth surface. When he playfully bumped his head against the girl's shoulder she turned and threaded her fingers through his mane, firmly anchoring herself to the ground.
They stopped at the top of the great steps that lead to the outside world. She watched as the hunter lifted the colt, struggling to avoid the thrashing of his bony legs. The horse whinnied, his large, liquid eyes shining with indignation rather than fear. He stilled when the girl placed her small hand on his nose and met his displeased stare with her own disapproving frown. "Silly Agro," she said. "It's only so you can get down the stairs. Then you can run and play in the grass as much as you want."
The colt snorted, but he settled into the hunter's arms with the stiff tolerance of a prince forced to make do with rubies instead of diamonds. "Agro," the hunter said thoughtfully. "It is a good name. I think my son will like it."
"Your son?"
"This colt is for my son to train," he explained. "He will take good care of him."
She nodded as if she understood, her childish features arranged in a grave expression. "Do you hear that, Agro?" she murmured, standing on her tip toes to pet him. "You're going to have a boy to look after."
It was dark by the time the hunter and the colt climbed out of the sacred valley. He relied on his memory and the smell of smoke to guide him to his campfire.
His son lifted his head and scowled when he stepped into the clearing. "You're late," the boy stated. In the firelight his sharp, fine-boned face looked fragile and delicate, freckles stark against pale skin. His red hair (a bad omen, the priests said) was a few shades darker than the flames.
"Not my fault," he replied cheerfully. He unstrapped the pack from his back while the colt, half asleep, took a few stumbling steps. The hunter watched the expressions flicker across his son's face: fear, longing, hesitancy.
"Let me make the introductions," he said, placing a hand on the colt's flank to prevent him from pitching forward into the fire. "Agro, meet my son."
AN: Title is taken from C.S. Lewis's Narnia novel
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