The chill of winter’s long edged tongue slides up over her spine. Involuntary shivers like Eskimo kisses, snowflakes caught in the long, spidery tips of eyelashes. There is something terribly poetic in the soft frost. Winter is a beast who wanders aimless and eager into the unknown, devouring whatever it can wrap its slobbery mouth around.
It is a slick, wet death.
Like crawling into the jaws of a snake, like drowning in the depths of the ocean. There are so many deaths that are similar and she sighs to think there is such a lack in creativity – her thoughts push forward like waves, lapping over one thing and then another. She has not long been a resident in this new world but it feels like somewhere she’s been before – except she cannot quite remember where it was she came from. There is only the vague impression of an island, calm in the swath of blue water, this silver scar in the middle of the ocean. She can sometimes taste salt on the edge of her mouth but there is no recollection of how she happened from there to here.
She watches the curled fingers of young oak and tulip poplar sway in the breath of winter, they sing a quiet song to each other. For days now these trees have been her only company and the spotted mare grows tired of their chatter – they speak a language she does not understand. It is beautiful and terrifying and Tsibyah images their faces are angry. Twisted up in a savage protest of this wandering soul through their groves, down their little darkened paths. Not once has some meet someone like herself and she has begun to worry there are no others.
Nothing except the trees.
Not even a bird, not even a print of some other life. Tsibyah wanders in-between the patches of trees and she feels the cold bite of the winter animal on her heels; on her nose; on her lips. It is impossible to escape but that is when she catches the scent. Like something sour or dangerously sweet. The spotted mare lifts her head and breathes it in, cautiously stares out from the patch of woods she has concealed herself in.
There stands another mare – smoky and hazy and angelic.
Tsibyah marches forward, determined, relieved. Her tangle of black forelock covering the pit of her eyes and twisted around the thin horn jutting out from her forehead. She is a mess but it doesn’t matter. She’s found someone else, finally.
“Hello,” she says and comes closer, “excuse me! I’ve been wandering around for ages and I haven’t seen another soul. Could you help me?”
Tsibyah comes into the inner circle of where the mare stands but she does not make a move to come any closer. It might be dangerous.
