Faint Echos of responsibility.
I have blogged my story ‘Faint Echoes‘ before but for the ones who have not read my words or seen Jill Vanstone’s amazing painting here it is again for your enjoyment.
“You cannot change what you refuse to confront.”
Arabian horses come into your life as an apparition of beauty, pleading for understanding, honesty and integrity. We all have a responsibility to lead them in a safe and true direction. The moment I laid eyes on Jill Vanstones inspiring painting ‘HISTORY MYSTERY AND MAGIC’ I knew I had to write something…
‘History Mystery and Magic’ by Jill Vanstone www.jillvanstone.com
FAINT ECHOS
words Carmel Rowley
A faint echo woke her. ‘Come see my beauty, come ride the moon…’ She was convinced it was a dream. Leaving her bed she tiptoed to the window to listen before pushing the curtains aside. Moonlight flooded the room. Something was out there, her skin prickled.
Bathed in the silver-blue light of the winter’s moon, a tide of movement surged as one across the hills and towards the house. Two hundred white horses appeared, etched silver spirits, all high stepping, splendour and grace. They slowed from a gallop to a floating trot shaking their wild tangled manes as they circled then paused. The two in front raised their heads and drew a deep breath, exhaling a misty cloud of defiance.
Startled she slid open the window, the freezing night air biting into her face and arms. Hardly daring to breathe she heard the tidings floating on the air. ‘The moon is my sun, the night my protection. If I finish and fade will you weep?’ Their message confused her. What did it mean?
She longed for the horses to return, to explain. Over the next weeks she heard nothing. Night after night she lay awake and waited for the faint murmuring sound. The world turned, and as the full moon rose and the beams of light streamed through her window, at last, she heard the echo. ‘Come see my beauty, come ride the moon…’
She rushed to the window, flinging it open eager to lean forward and call a cry of welcome. The words stuck in her throat. She squinted trying to count, there was no need, the numbers were half! Why have they gone? Tears streamed down her face and as each droplet splashed to the ground, glinting in the moonlight, the number of horses increased. The echo of understanding reached her ears. ‘I conjure your tears while you capture my beauty. I hand you the reins of my ancestors and plead you to listen. Come see my beauty, come ride the moon…’’
They flowed from the shadows and plunged as one, again two hundred.
Copyright Carmel Rowley
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