The world was small.
He knows this and he holds it inside himself.
Like a promise,
or a riddle.
His mother told him the world was a vast place where the mountains never ended. Çevik knows it was a lie now. He has accepted the truth. Where was his mother now?
The young stallion makes his way through the underbrush. Against the slick poplar and white oak he rubs his horns, scratches them in frustration一he catches the limp, dry bark on fire. Little clouds of black smoke follow him, ash dusts his broad back. He must be careful.
From the innards of the forest he moves gracefully, like a ripple in time. One step after the other. He remembers so little from before but he knows there used to be something else. It is like a glimmer at the back of his mind. A three-eyed crow watching from above. Çevik smells the grass singe whenever his tail brushes against it.
Summer sun beats down against his spotted coat, turning the black a faded rust. He has journeyed too long. “You are here,” his voice cracks and rasps against his dry throat, “and you can hear my voice….”
His eyes look from left to right, he lifts his well made head and his ears swivel. “I’m here to gather up the outsider, the shadow walker, those who burn,” he lifts his chin defiantly, “who are tired of the rat race一with haughty kings and queens. Who no longer want to be part of kingdoms but desire,”
Çevik smiles, grins. It’s wicked.
“Freedom.”
He knows this and he holds it inside himself.
Like a promise,
or a riddle.
His mother told him the world was a vast place where the mountains never ended. Çevik knows it was a lie now. He has accepted the truth. Where was his mother now?
The young stallion makes his way through the underbrush. Against the slick poplar and white oak he rubs his horns, scratches them in frustration一he catches the limp, dry bark on fire. Little clouds of black smoke follow him, ash dusts his broad back. He must be careful.
From the innards of the forest he moves gracefully, like a ripple in time. One step after the other. He remembers so little from before but he knows there used to be something else. It is like a glimmer at the back of his mind. A three-eyed crow watching from above. Çevik smells the grass singe whenever his tail brushes against it.
Summer sun beats down against his spotted coat, turning the black a faded rust. He has journeyed too long. “You are here,” his voice cracks and rasps against his dry throat, “and you can hear my voice….”
His eyes look from left to right, he lifts his well made head and his ears swivel. “I’m here to gather up the outsider, the shadow walker, those who burn,” he lifts his chin defiantly, “who are tired of the rat race一with haughty kings and queens. Who no longer want to be part of kingdoms but desire,”
Çevik smiles, grins. It’s wicked.
“Freedom.”
çevik