Dreaming while asleep, it was a full day and in the afternoon a hike across the lower foothills behind the house required a stop to greet and speak with Mrs. Smyth.
Mrs. Smyth was an elderly woman who lived in her 1880 Victorian style, white painted house. Her house was the farmhouse built by her grandfather, owned by her father, and she being the only child it was willed to her. She was usually friendly to visitors, and offed some ice tea or hot tea mattering upon the weather or season. Her house and the seventy acres of property were the whole of what once a 1200 acre farm. During the years she received handsome offers for the cleared fields, where builder built many fancy houses for the rich folks.
Her house was like a southern mansion, with two corn cribs still standing, a large barn and a smaller building with a workshop, as it she let her six cows and one bull use as shelter from the weather. It happened that with my arrival to her house, I knocked but she did not answer the front door. I thought to look around and as i came near the old garage and workshop, I heard angry words said by Mrs. Smyth, and equally upset words said by a very low tone voice, as it sounded like a man but he tended to slur his words.
Trying not to intrude, I waited outside the garage entrance.
Mrs. Smyth seemed to end the conversation with her blustery bold voice, she speaking what I faintly recalled as Latin; she spoke and all was silence.
Maybe foolish, but I waited for her to come and greet me, but when she saw me, her eyes widened and she acted as if insulted by my being there, or overhearing what she said.
That was then, she pointed her left hand and index finger in my direction and demanded as I swear an oath of silence if I heard what she said.
I remembered well my right hand held palm facing her as I promises not to tell. It was then like a true smart-fool I asked her from where she learned to speak Latin.
She stopped and turned to face me, her eyes wide as they looked red and full of fire.
"No," she yelled, "As by Decatur, my familiar and companion, as come the morning of tomorrow you shall awaken to a new life and lifestyle in order to keep your promise of silence."
All the afternoon was but a blur of her talking to me, and of me meeting a strange black man with yellow eyes and had horns growing out of his head that reminded me of a Pronghorn deer. He spoke with a manner of authority, and scared me.
I awoke come morning with a big yawn and some urge to stretch my arms high above my head. I yawned as I then tried giving a stretching to my legs, and then shook from head to rump. A yucky taste in the mouth sent me to brush my teeth even before having breakfast. When I flicked on the bathroom light and stepped or strode with long stride steps to stand before the bathroom mirror, what was looking back at me was not the me who I saw there the previous morning.
"Ah..., oh no, Mrs. Smyth, please no...," I moaning said. As there looking back at me stood a mostly the torso of a twenty-two year old man, but as his head I had the head, face, muzzle, ears, and mane of a horse.
Well with a closer look I was of the equine species but more a shaggy pony, my head and the beginning of a stouter neck. My whole body, arms, to legs, hocks plus hind feet with hoofs was shaggy late fall or a wintry coat. I looked, and yes I had a tail. My arms were human but covered with fur. I had hands, sort-of, as a thumb with two black hoofed fingers, enough too use to pick up bulky items.
Something in me suggested I should be fearing what I saw that was me, but I felt calm, accepting my situation.
My tummy growled and the thought of breakfast was still bugging me. I exited the bathroom, finding that walking as a pony on his hind legs only, tended to be an unsteady stance. As I entered the kitchen I felt glad I lived alone. Breakfast, as I thought about it and what I became, a heaping bowl of oat cereal, Cheerio's did the trick. Just dry cereal in a big salad bowl, as most of the full box did I eat and felt full.
Next was the remembered order for me to report for work at the Smyth farm, and rather than drive there, or ride a bike, I trotted to work.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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