The breeze stirs the long grasses. Heady pollen stuffs up his nose. The sun warms the skin on one half his face, and on the other side, tingles his exposed golden skull.
With his bones too heavy for him to lift, he reclines motionless in the cradle the village has made for him. His lower back is uncomfortable, but he cannot move the mere inches it would take to correct his posture. His brow itches fiercely, but he cannot so much as flex his finger to relieve it, nevermind raise his arm to his face.
Immobile, he watches as his daughter corrals the herd. The collective fall of their hooves rumbles in the earth, like a distant waterfall sending vibrations through his golden bones. The dust they throw up murks the stillwater blue of the sky. He can see the sweat glisten on the horses' flanks from here, and how his daughter's hair comes free of its braids and whips about as she makes tight pivots astride her horse, heavy with her own sweat.
She is skilled, strong, and sure. Just like her dead brother.
He feels his muscles bunch. If they had the strength, his fingers would crush the armrests of his cradle.
For all her qualities, this is too much for his daughter to bear. Too many depend on her at such a young age, their own family first of all. She should be enjoying her youth. Exploring the world and all its wonder.
But she isn't. She's working on a blade's edge. One wrong move and she's under that stampede. And he'll be helpless to save her, crippled as he is.
His body ruined. His son dead. His daughter indentured. For the nation.
As the hours and days pass, a transformation greater than that of bone to gold occurs in the horsemaster. A man of gentle temper, driven by simple kindness, becomes a man of cruel intentions, driven only by rage.
Paddy Dobson
9th July 2022