08-27-2017, 08:20 PM
My eyes snap open at the sound of footsteps. They are coming from behind – from overhead. Beyond that, the rain has drowned most smells, so I have only one sense to identify this stranger. I know that I am safe in Sylva, but I am still cautious as I lift my pale head up. He comes closer, closer until he stands right beside me. I stand fluidly (how different from my awkward early childhood), and as I do the canine shape falls away.
I look up at the dark stranger, meeting his gaze with a pair of blue-grey eyes that perfectly match his own. I’ve only ever seen them in my reflection in the forest ponds, but it is something else entirely to see them on someone else’s face. For a long while I remain silent in the space behind his question, seemingly unaffected by the charm of the stallion.
My memories of my older brother are hazy, but I am certain he had a bold splash of Mother’s paint hide across his withers. My foggy memory holds the warm brown eyes in a pale face most strongly, eyes that are nothing like those of the stallion in front of me.
“You’re my father.” I say, the words slipping from my mouth as soon as they occur to me. The lightness of my voice betrays my youth, and it matches the soft wonder that brightens my pale face. Mother’s mantra has been “your Father went to the sea”. She never answered my queries about when – or if – he was coming back, what had made him leave, or when he’d gone. He was a taboo subject, and yet here he is in front of me!
“I’m Starlin.” I tell him, and then because I have always wanted to know the answer: “What’s the sea like?”
I look up at the dark stranger, meeting his gaze with a pair of blue-grey eyes that perfectly match his own. I’ve only ever seen them in my reflection in the forest ponds, but it is something else entirely to see them on someone else’s face. For a long while I remain silent in the space behind his question, seemingly unaffected by the charm of the stallion.
My memories of my older brother are hazy, but I am certain he had a bold splash of Mother’s paint hide across his withers. My foggy memory holds the warm brown eyes in a pale face most strongly, eyes that are nothing like those of the stallion in front of me.
“You’re my father.” I say, the words slipping from my mouth as soon as they occur to me. The lightness of my voice betrays my youth, and it matches the soft wonder that brightens my pale face. Mother’s mantra has been “your Father went to the sea”. She never answered my queries about when – or if – he was coming back, what had made him leave, or when he’d gone. He was a taboo subject, and yet here he is in front of me!
“I’m Starlin.” I tell him, and then because I have always wanted to know the answer: “What’s the sea like?”