“Four Legs and a Tale (Part I)”

He wakes in the shade of a sheer cliff, a drop so severe that it will surely kill anyone who falls from the precipice. The grass is warm and damp beneath his cheek. The sky overhead is a pristine cerulean, devoid of clouds. A thin line of forest stretches across the horizon, on the far side of a meadow strewn with buttercups. It looks close but isn’t. He lies in the cliff’s cool shadow, trying to remember.

Where am I? How did I get here?

He presses his hands to the soft moist earth and pushes himself to his knees. His arms are muscular but shaky; he tries to rise too quickly and stumbles, collapsing once more to the grass. The scent is green and sweet, so very sweet. Breathing deeply, he tries again to stand.

This time, he succeeds. Wobbly but upright, he stands in the shade of the cliff and tries a cautious step. His legs tangle; he staggers, stumbles again, catches himself, and tumbles back to the ground. Dazed and dazzled, he has the strangest thought.

My hind legs are dragging.

Hind legs??

He turns his head. In so doing, his gaze dips and he sights a pair of forelegs, slender and golden, where his own legs should be. They move when he wills himself to stand, as if they belong to him. He stares in horror at the blond hooves in place of feet and toes. Then he braves a look behind. Mortified, he sees a sleek expanse of horseflesh, rounded quarters and elegant hind legs, all tawny gold and finished with a thick flaxen tail.

He looks at his hands. Human hands; a man’s hands. He has a man’s body, chest and arms and shoulders … and he has a horse’s body, legs and rump and glossy muscle. Half-man, half-horse.

Panic threatens. He was not born this way; he knows it for a fact. Or does he? A tentative step betrays him. He is graceful, fluid. If only he could remember …

He steps again. All four feet engage, mincing with his trepidation. His … hooves? step lightly on the soft meadow grass. They leave circular marks rather than footprints. A nervous peek reveals a white sock on his near hind hoof.

I was not born this way!

He crosses the line between sun and shade. His shadow leaps ahead, taking shape on a vibrant green canvas. Head, chest and shoulders, a man. Back, rump and legs, a horse.

It cannot be! I was not born this way!

He has no time to think. As the sunlight gilds him in its grasp, a wild howl shatters the tranquil air. He shies when an arrow slices past his shoulder, then he is running, galloping, tripping as his feet collide and cross over. He plunges desperately ahead as another arrow whistles past. Run; hide—flee to the forest as fast as you can!

His legs obey. They cease to work at cross purposes and establish the flying rhythm of a full gallop, carrying him in a flurry of arrows into the open field.

He realizes his mistake in a hail of stabbing rain; he dodges and pivots, shies and zigzags to avoid being struck. There is a notable lull between bouts. He quickly learns to run flat out when the showers wane. Then he veers toward the forest.

He is so bent on escape that he forgets, for a moment, his deformity. A stinging pain reminds him. His far hind leg buckles; he stumbles, shifts his weight to three legs, and lunges wildly toward the trees. He is well out of range but hurtles blindly, breathing hard through his mouth, dragging his wounded leg. The leg itself proves unharmed; the arrow is stuck at his hip, protruding at an angle that claims he was almost safe before he was struck. The archers were positioned above him, on the lip of the cliff. He has no idea how many there were. He is frantically certain that they numbered in the dozens … but if that were so, he would have been killed outright, and much sooner.

The forest welcomes him with cooling shelter. He picks his way deeper into the wood, half-aware that he scents water and must try to find it. Fire burns in his hip. Pausing, he turns to get a better look at the injury.

The arrow shaft is long, the pointed head buried in his flesh. He recalls—how?—that punctures should not be pulled free but left for knowing hands to remove. Twisting at the waist, he reaches back, takes the shaft in his fist, steadies it, inhales, and snaps it near the head. The offending weapon is now a finger’s length and less likely to snag. The pain, however, is not diminished and he fears to remove the arrowhead. He runs a hand over his own golden back. He is broad and strong, beautifully formed … if he dares to accept that the glossy muscled expanse belongs to him.

The panicked denial sounds less certain this time.

I was not born this way …

He finds a quiet thicket floored in moss and fallen leaves. Now he can hear water as well as smell it, but fright has exhausted him. He would fall to the earth but for his injured hip … and the curious knowledge that he must not sleep. He can rest, but he must not sleep.

He looks down at his forelegs. Long and delicate, they are as strong and flawless as the rest of his equine body. Whoever did this to him has been kind in that regard. His arms and chest and shoulders are equally fine—is this also a kindness, or was his nemesis forced to oblige a handsome man with a handsome infirmity?

Perhaps ‘infirmity’ is the wrong word. His changed form spared him certain death on the green. Without the speed of a fleet young horse, he could not have outrun the attack. He glances again at the arrow protruding from his hip. There is little blood; what seeps from the wound turns his golden coat ruddy. He should find that water and bathe his hurt.

The merry gurgle leads him to a shallow stream winding through a rocky bed. The water is so clear that he can see the pebbles as if through glass. They are grey, black and white, in sharp contrast to the vibrant greens of the foliage on its banks. He gingerly tests the depth with a forehoof. The water is cold. It barely reaches his fetlock.

When he looks up, he meets the astonished gaze of a child. Dark-haired, dark-eyed and open-mouthed, it’s a boy clad in patchwork wool and rough linen. His dun complexion marks him Lirosi, of the folk driven from their homes and forced to live as outlaws in their own land. The manhorse instinctively recoils though the stream divides him from the lad. Before a word can be uttered, a second child joins the boy on the bank. This one is a girl, older by a few years, not yet a woman. She carries a fistful of berry-laden branches broken from a nearby bush. When she sees the manhorse, she instantly proffers her prize.

He realizes that she believes him to be the keeper of the forest. He almost laughs. The boy continues to gape, but the girl is less surprised than friendly. Perhaps the berries are a peace offering. Perhaps she thinks he is hungry. What he is, is wounded.

He shifts to the side, showing the broken shaft stuck in his hip. The boy erupts into an excited string of incoherent babble. The manhorse is lost to interpret. The girl replies in kind, but softly and more calmly. Though she addresses the boy, her liquid dark eyes remain steady across the stream.

Then she steps toward the water.

He retreats in a hurry, spurred by unknown terrors. Her darkness alternately repels and intrigues him. His fairness appears to affect the boy one way and the girl in the latter.

She speaks directly to him. One word, meaningless.

“Roanne.”

He stares at her. She repeats herself, tapping her own chest with a grubby fingertip. Then she points to the boy. “Joel.” The manhorse understands, but cannot return the favour.

I don’t know my name.

He looks helplessly at the girl, at Roanne. His initial retreat has given her pause, but his angst, so visible in his face, encourages her to cross the stream.

The boy calls a warning; the manhorse knows by the tone rather than the words. Roanne ignores him. Age gives her authority. She moves confidently but gently, one hand softly outstretched. The manhorse steps toward her without deciding to do so. She smiles, beckoning. She is lovely as her brother is lovely, with dark flashing eyes and a mane of wild black curls. Her olive skin is brown from the sun, her smile more vividly white because of it.

She crosses the stream without splashing. The boy, following, is not so graceful. He jabbers at Roanne, who barely heeds him. Her doe eyes remain on the manhorse, studying, admiring … wondering.

The manhorse wonders in kind. He knows of the native wood-dwellers (though he does not know how), and while his instinct is to flee, he stands rooted to the spot. When she steps within reach, he braces, but she does not touch his human flesh. She lays her hand on the horse’s flat shoulder and runs it lightly over the contoured muscle of wither and back. He turns his head to watch her, admitting to himself that her touch is a comfort.

She taps herself once more. “Roanne,” she says. Her brows arch inquiringly.

He nods. “Roanne,” he echoes.

The effort earns a grin before she nods expectantly to him. He cannot answer to make her understand, so he shrugs and shakes his head, feeling yet again the hollow sense of loss and not belonging.

She shouts. Startled, the manhorse shies as a sudden weight lands squarely on his back. The boy has decided to ride.

The manhorse decides otherwise. He bucks. Thin, sinewy arms slip under his and clamp themselves tightly across his chest. The boy holds on, laughing gleefully. Roanne scolds him less ardently than she could. The manhorse’s hurt cautions against violent movement—especially as his buck was clumsy and ineffective. Having hind legs will take some time to become second nature to him.

“Sian,” the girl decides.

Boy and manhorse stare at her. She beams, pleased at her deduction. Her hand is firm when she pats the manhorse’s equine flank. “Sian,” she says again. The manhorse understands that this, for now, is his name.

They walk together, the manhorse and the girl, the boy riding proudly on the manhorse’s back. They pick their way through the misty wood, their heads dappled with green filtered sun. She walks at his shoulder, hands at her sides. The boy continues to hold him, wiry arms snug and lithe body warm against his back. No one speaks. Their language is foreign to him and he doesn’t know what he would say in any case.

Who am I?

Why am I?

The arrowhead burns in his hip. He struggles gamely on, lifting his feet in a delicate, deerlike manner. His hind legs occasionally fail him; he finds that they cooperate if he ignores them. Not forgets, but ignores.

He becomes aware that the boy—Joel?—is riding him. A posture initially thought to defend against the tangling of hooves turns out to be gentle guidance. Pressure of a knee, the touch of a hand; he follows the prompts without thought, mincing alongside Roanne.

Brother and sister begin to converse in low, lyrical tones. The pace slows. If Sian had a horse’s ears, they would prick forward, alert to the sounds of encampment.

Roanne stops.

Joel leans back, away from Sian’s muscular torso. The manhorse stops as if on command. His injured hip prevents the hoof from resting solidly on the forest floor; his leg is cocked, his weight borne on three.

The children exchange thoughtful looks. Sian frowns, suspicious. He would demand an explanation from them if he could; he is an adult compared to their youth and would take the lead if only he was able.

Roanne motions to her brother, then turns back the way they’ve come. Joel applies pressure to Sian’s left, turning him to follow.

She runs this time, darting effortlessly through the bush. Sian is not so agile. His hind legs tangle and he falls to his knees. Joel grabs hard about his neck and manages to keep his seat. The boy emits a whoop in his excitement. Roanne dashes back to ensure he is unhurt.

A brief babble follows. Sian regains his feet but the far hind will no longer bear weight. He must limp, hobbling and dragging the leg in his wake. Joel obligingly dismounts and sprints ahead, disappearing through a screen of trees. Roanne lays a hand on Sian’s wither and murmurs to him. Her tone is gentle, encouraging. He follows her in her brother’s direction and emerges from the wood before a roughhewn rocky mouth. Already the boy is exploring the cave, clearing brush to create a path inside. Sian understands at once. He is to hide here and await their return. They want no others to know of his existence. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He walks carefully, lame leg dragging, into the cave. It’s dry. Musty with animal smells and littered with forest debris. No water. Sian is too tired, in too much pain, too frightened, to care. He watches the children collect enough moss and dry fern to create a fragrant nest, and collapses gratefully onto it.

Perhaps when he wakes, he will be whole—and a man—again.

To be continued …

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig