She is concentrating on breathing – inhaling, exhaling. With each exhale, their faces, their eyes begin to fade, pushed out into the cold world, or perhaps, locked back away, saved for another foggy morning.  

It was the crunch of hoof against snow-sharpened grass that forced her eyes open; then, a soft greeting. Her heart fluttered deep in her chest as uncertainty flashes against her face.  Eyes wide, her first reaction is to slip back into the trees; in fact, her fur ripples, tries to shift to the colors of winter forest, brown and dampened green. With an effort, the little mare forces herself to stay still, though her coat continues to shift (years later and still she cannot fully control the gift bestowed upon her at birth). The stranger then speaks. Simply, she says her name, her home. “Oh,” she begins to say, then stops, unsure.

She tilts her head first left, then right. A thick lock of black – then brown, then black – mane slips down over her eyes, tangled in her lashes. Her own innate shyness had kept the immortal mare from gaining much in the way of conversational skills, leaving her unprepared for a meeting of any sort. So, for a long moment, she simply looks at Vineine, unaware that 'awkward silences' aren't agreeable for most.

Then, shifting from one hoof to the next, she finally blurts out, “Bidelia. I'm Bidelia. I think my mother once lived in the Amazons.” She isn't sure why she said that. She rarely thought of her steel-gray dam, but the mention of the woman-run kingdom had stirred a certain memory. She was all legs and elbows and ears then. It was a hot Spring. Flies buzzed lazily around her head as she looked up, trustingly, at her dam. She struggles to remember what her mother had looked like, but she could remember the feel of old scars against her baby-soft lips and the roughness of an aged voice, like cloth over abradant stone. She had tucked herself up against that war-worn side, eager for another story. 'A new one?' She had squealed, bright eyed. Her dam always spoke of the hot and humid land with a kind of distant longing. She told her of jewel-bright birds, snakes as thick as  trees with eyes like glittering stones, plants both dangerous and oh-so-sweet, and women with brilliant minds and battle-won scars. She had once thought they were simply bedtime tales.

She had not thought of those stories in so many years. “Tell me about the Amazons,” she says quietly, “Are there really birds painted like rainbows? Have you seen them?”  

Bidelia

You can't go home again

Her childhood seems so far away now. Days stretched into months, then years – soon, the passage of time seemed inconsequential, something that happens without real meaning and without her say-so. Once, this frustrated her. She would see her reflection in the flat surface of a summer pool; the lack of change – of growth! - would startle, then anger her. These days, however, her own immortality seems like no major conflict; instead, just a simple fact of life. Her dam had survived off of the kindness of a man she once loved. He had gifted her the ability to live on and on, as well as offered her the appearance of the body she had in youth. Perhaps, the ability to live beyond most of her offspring and friends had led her to appreciate the fullness of children, but disdain the contact of adults... and perhaps, that was why the old war horse had cherished her girls and boys, yet pushed them away as they matured. 

Bidelia, if asked, would have said that she had had a wonderful upbringing, though it was lonely. Abel had been a good mother – always present with a strong shoulder to support the fleeting emotions of a young girl. Though her dam had kept her from most horses her age, her stories had been almost as good as companionship. They were vivid, striking and full of faces, emotions, and colors.  Names of men and women, boys and girls long past (siblings disappeared into the wider world, friends whose bones were probably dust, queens whose legacies continued). 

As young as she had been, she could never tell whether her mother was making things up or speaking the truth. Of course, it didn't matter then, but now, she stares curiously – wide-eyed, coat rippling anxiously from silver to brown-black and green- at Viveine, raptly attentive to what truths she might offer of the jungle her mother so often spoke of. 

Yet, Viveine was not the first to speak. Instead, a sudden newcomer drops in with an answer to her curious query. Before she can respond, her original companion adds her own opinion. “I always thought they were stories. Wonderful, beautiful stories, but stories nonetheless,” her breath feels caught in her breast, “My mother used to tell me about this jungle, this place she once lived. She never would take me there,” bitterness, an odd longing that she cannot contain. Her coat ripples, turns her natural smoke-silver, so akin – though lighter – than her mother's worn hide. “Do you have to be a certain sort to visit there? To see these wonders?” She looks concerned; after all, Abel had spoken of warrior women with lion's hearts. What was Bidelia but a waif hiding in plain sight? She was no warrior – she was a watcher, a shy and patient observer. She heaves a hefty sigh and favors both women with an unhappy eye. Then, with vindication,

“I'd like to see where my mother lived.”

Bidelia

you can't go home again