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The would-be warrior covers the ten feet from window to ground with ease. Perfect timing, as Uncle's servant is just passing by with a freshly groomed horse, the one with eyes that shine like pearls at dusk. The boy takes hold of the reins and leaps upon the horse's bare back. Hyah! he urges. Hyah! And the horse, not much liking this young ruffian, rears up, but the would-be warrior holds firm, earning trust not through force but by simply being. You! Uncle is at the front door, gesticulating wildly at his servant. Stop him! Stop him! But the servant is used to the soft life, and does not have the agility of mind to do much beyond waving his arms in a desultory manner, mimic- king his master. The would-be warrior snaps the 
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reins and the horse thunders out of the court- yard, faster and faster, and he can hear his uncle shouting, Nephew! Nephew . Come back right now! He has covered enough ground that those last words are only as loud as a whisper, and when he hears them he pulls up. He is in the golden fields, mere yards away from the outskirts of town, and a slight wind rustles. The meadow flutters like thousands of delicate hairs, and the smell of spring smothers him. Someday, he will be fast enough, quick enough, and he will not hear his uncle calling come back, and that will be the time he will whip the reins once more, his horse will not stop, and he will continue onward until he and the horizon are one. ***  |
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