Under Bridges
Rivers Between Us waved his farewell to Obsidian Vigil as the elemental sank beneath the waters of the Gray River, carrying with him the diving bell. He scrambled up the embankment and through a gap in the bushes. Carefully the youth picked his way up a scrubby hill until he reached its summit, overlooking the horse plains of Eastern Marukan.
It was an overcast day. The sky seemed ready at any moment to make good its threat of rainfall, but the pregnant clouds refrained for the time being. Rivers looked over the plains. There were no settlements near there, no roads and no fords for the river. All was still.
He lifted his fingers to his lips, drew in a deep breath, and then with all of his might let fly a piercing whistle. It echoed over the scrub and the grass, over the gentle sound of the broad Gray River lapping. He whistled once more, then sat and began waiting.
Behind the clouds the sun was lowering; the sky was beginning to darken. The youth pulled a bladed of grass and put it between this thumbs and tried to make it hum. He tossed small rocks down the hill. He made a tiny model of a hearthstone room using dust and stray twigs.
There was a faint rumbling sound to the West, like the sound of distant thunder. Rivers looked up and saw nothing. The plains were still empty, but the sound was getting louder. He stood and pulled the bag from his shoulder, loosening the thongs and opening the drawstring.
Now he saw her, climbing the bank of a Gray River tributary, her neck straining forward. Under Bridges ran now, low in the grass, her gray flanks like wisps of the same clouds that rolled above and her black mane unfurled behind her like a flag. She approached the hill at an angle, following the hidden paths and following them like a thief sneaking into a fortress. At the crest of the hill she stopped and turned to Rivers.
He approached slowly, with his head down. He removed her saddlebags and laid them on the ground, then removed the brush and knife from his own bag. First he inspected her hooves, carefully, removing a stone from one with a flick of the knife. Then he took the brush and removed the burrs, untangled the black mane, tail, and fetlocks. When this was finished he sat and opened one of the saddle bags.
A week’s rations lay within, mostly hard breads and dried meat. There was a jar of preserves and a jar of milk. Rivers kept looking until he found it: a fresh meat pie, still warm after traveling a hundred miles over the vast, rolling plains. He quickly began scooping out the filling with his fingers and eating it.
Under Bridges butted him with her head, nearly knocking him down the hill. He looked up at her with surprise and a little fear. She nuzzled the second saddle bag. “Oh, sorry,” he said. He opened the second bag and looked inside. There was an apple, three carrots, a lump of sugar, and a smaller bag of oats. He poured the oats into one hand and held them out to her. She nodded her head once and began eating.
