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I don't know what to say about this Dystopian, Western Fantasy. It's good. Please comment. |
| Deal read another page of the huge book. He went back, per the instructions, and started at the beginning. He saw the sun's pattern on the floor shining down below the south window and decided it time to move Jezebel again. Out in the hot field, he spoke the words trying to evoke the ‘God Speak’ spell. “Jezebel, what do you think of this mess?” he asked as he stroked her muzzle. The horse declined. “What do you think I should do?” he asked. She stood majestic and silent. He walked with her toward a nice shady patch of grass, carrying her rope in one hand and flipping the iron stob in the other. She’d become so used to him doing this, he’d never need for tugging. “I hope this is better for ya. It’s a lot cooler here in the shade by the crik” said Deal. He proceeded back to the cabin, to his book and a spot of ginseng/garlic tea - for health. “I don’t.” he heard from halfway up the hill. “I don’t understand why you don’t trust me.” she spoke in a gentle voice, akin to a woman in her 40's. Deal turned to glance, at first grimacing, then giggling at the fact he’d heard an answer. “Why do you think I don’t trust you?” he asked. The horse stamped and curtsied, a low rumbling came and passed, then a disturbing, guttural grunt. “You leave me tied all the time. I don’t like it. Why am I a prisoner?” asked Jezebel. “Because we’ve never spoken before. It’s been the difference between you and I.” “Why do we speak now? Are you proclaiming your magiks has brought us closer together?” “It has. I can trust you... if I can speak with you, Jezebel.” “Set me free. I won’t leave your side as long as you take care of me. Pet me often. Tell me I’m a good horse. Let me rest when I get hot. Let me drink from the crik and not the bucket. I’m claustrophobic. That bucket gives me the heebie-jeebies. Put me in the shed at night and lock the door. I’m afraid of wolves, and storms, and big hairy spiders, and snakes....” “I understand.” Deal pulled the rope from the iron stob, wound it round his arm and took off the bridal. “I didn’t know you were so afraid of everything.” “You made me this way. You took me from my mother as a young mare and made me your slave. It’s your responsibility to take care of me now.” nagged the mare. “I promise to do better.” laughed Deal. Jezebel galloped down to the creek, singing all the way. She jumped back when a bullfrog screamed and croak-flipped into the water, right in front of her nose. Deal bent over at the waist, chuckling. “Don’t laugh. I told you I was skittish. Don’t laugh, I said.” she preached. “You made me this way.” “I can’t help it. Isn’t this the greatest thing?” he asked. “We’re actually having a conversation. You're a horse.” “Yes, it’s great. Now go home and leave me alone to inspect my surroundings. I never get to go exploring. I’m an explorer by nature. I like new things. I have to see what’s over there before it comes over here and bothers me. You know.” “I know. Go exploring. I’ll see you later.” Deal stood in the doorway watching the horse prancing from tree to tree around the field. She brayed often after he lost the short-lived ‘God Speak’ spell. He assumed she still tried to converse but thought it more amusing to hear her native tongue now. She’d never been so lively, though he knew she felt deprived and, maybe, a little lonely. Deal would keep her company in the many chats he imagined them having. ‘A horse worth owning’ could be said in the McShane tradition of needful things and terrible wants. Jezebel, the horse refined. Garlic and Ginseng tea never tasted so bitter. He used to drink it for arthritis, but no longer felt the need to do so, except out of habit. There were many habits following a stubborn, old man which confounded his newborn attentions. He set out to fix everything wrong with the cabin. A good Spring cleaning appeared in order. The first item to catch his eye - Jensen Brenamon’s old jacket hanging on the chair where they’d carried on a deep conversation about life. He tried his best to remember their little talk, but that fateful pipe and the magical youth spell kept those thoughts at bay. He reached a hand into the old coat pocket. Another hand grabbed back. “What the heck!” he screamed, pulling the hand out quickly to inspect. He patted the coat pocket on the outside, finding nothing bulging of any resemblance. He hesitated before sticking a hand back into the pocket, slowly feeling the other hand’s warm fingers sliding against his own. He quivered and graciously locked hands against it. He pulled, and pulled, and pulled. The hand only pulled harder, yet let go as did he, each and every time. Still inside the pocket, something else touched the back of his hand. He felt a leather pouch and jerked it from the coat. There appeared nothing to see inside the hole, only darkness. A kind of darkened, seamless shadow that shouldn’t have been. No light escaped, no light entered, no light whatsoever. The leather pouch was cinched shut with leather strings. He felt the bottom and noticed nothing, an empty bag. He pried the leather draw strings apart and drew open the bag. It, also dark as night itself, worried him. He turned it over, shaking the bag, expecting spiders and such to spill everywhere. One foot pointed toward the door, just in case. Nothing fell. He threw the bag to the table and yet, heard the heavy thud of coinage. Scratching his head, Deal picked up the pouch again and reluctantly put his fingers inside the bag. A gold coin pursed itself between the index and middling digit as the hand emerged, wildly unscathed. The brilliant coin shone brightly under the light of a paned window and gleamed of madness; to be so admired. Deal shoved it in his pocket while he reached inside for another. Feeling plumb to the bottom of the bag, he vainly searched. No luck. Then, he tried again, mumbling under tedious breath. This time, another gold coin appeared between his index and middling finger, just as before. He laughed, kissed the coin and shoved it into his pocket. “Where’s the other coin?” he asked. “It was just here. What’s going on?” He searched the floor, the table and the whole room, high and low. This time, Deal slid the gold coin into his shirt pocket, reached into the bag and finally pulled another coin. He quickly patted the shirt pocket and sighed. “Why, God? Why?” he asked, looking up to the ceiling. A single gold coin, the only one to be seen, lay in the palm of his hand. He dropped it back into the leather pouch, cinched the drawstrings tightly and slung it against the far wall. “Because.” he answered his own question, lowered his head and sat down to explore a deep thought. “Hmmff!”. Several minutes of “Hmmff!” came and went. Young Deal stood straight up and bolted toward the jacket. He reached into the left-hand pocket of Jensen’s coat, grabbed the other hand and pulled as hard as possible. His body actually lifted from the wooden floor where he stood. First passed the arm, then passed the head and where the head goes, so goes everything else. The filthy coat-pocket sucked the boy inside of itself, magically shrinking flesh and bone, skin and clothing in the process. Except for pots and pans, clothes and furs and various adornments, the house sat empty. Jezebel pawed a hoof against the door. “Anybody home?” she asked. |
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