Yes, it's another "Last Knight" inspired fanfic. BUT it's not too
depressing, you can read this.

The unnamed stranger belongs to TPTB but I think he escaped. Consider
Standard Disclaimers issued. "The old man" belongs to God nowadays and
is used without permission of either, but they don't mind.

Mel has my grateful permission to archive this. You want to put this in
some other archive? Thankyou. Thankyou, Thankyou. Please let me know
where so I can brag.

All comments are welcome at stevte00@hotmail.com

Finally, if you don't like this, blame it on Sue O'Reilly. She pumped me
up to post this. Every first time fanfic author needs someone like her.

Early Morning by Teresa Stevenson  1998

Five in the morning has always been my favorite time of day. Even in
winter, the deep of the night is gone, no matter long until dawn truly
arrives. Feeding the horses, the first run with the dog, this is when I
know life is really good. It's 5 am and nothing has had time to go wrong
yet.

I feed the old man first. He thinks it's because he runs the place. But
I have a hidden agenda. By the time I feed all the others the old man's
looking out his stall, thumping on his door, wanting me to hurry up. I
take the old man for a walk every morning. Since he got kicked in the
shoulder during a breeding mishap, he's dragged the toe on his off fore.
Doc tells me exercise is good for him. I don't dare ride him, he
stumbles too often for my peace of mind; although he hasn't fallen. But
I can feel in my bones, I don't bounce anymore. So early in the morning,
after he's inhaled his hay, we walk, the two of us.

We went down our neighbor's back road to the pond. It's one of my
favorite places. I got a surprise today. A stranger was there. I saw him
highlighted by the moon. He was standing erect, still, radiating
tension. His hands were in his pockets. He was a tall man, with deep
lines in his face.

I nearly passed by. I hate pain. I know it when I see it. But that
damned conscience of mine whispered 'Strays are God's gift.'

So I walked toward him, stopping about ten feet away from him. I kept
the old man between myself and the stranger; letting the old man nose
for grass as I leaned on his back. I contemplated the stranger briefly
over the old man's spine.

"Well," I said. "I don't believe in coincidence, do you?"

His head whipped around to glare at me. I could have sworn I heard him
hiss. He snarled, "I have no interest in talking about the grand design
of the universe."

Oooh hooo, a live one, indeed.

I answered "Okay, What can I do for you?"

"What makes you think you can do anything for me? Why would you want
to?"

"I'm here, you hurt. And I still don't believe in coincidence."

"Unless you've seen your family and friends die, unless you know the
mystery of death, how dare you talk to me. You have no idea."

"Yeah . . . I don't." I paused, wondering if it was too late for even a
graceless exit. "Unless you tell me."

"Why should I confide in you?"

"No reason. It's my nature to offer."

He looked as though I'd slapped him. He turned to face me.

Feeling bolder, I continued, "I am a stranger, you'll never see me
again. What do you care what I think? If I pass judgment on you? I can
listen to you without flinching because I am a stranger. Twice now
you've brought up the mystery of life, death and the universe. My guess
is you're looking for clues."

"I suppose you think you have an answer, a pipeline to the infinite.
Some sort of faith you wish to share."

I exhaled a snort at that. Then I answered him, "Faith, like dogma I can
proclaim as eternal truth? Sorry, no. But, I've stumbled across some
things that have helped me find some balance, a bit peace."

"My son asked me to kill him last night."

Oh boy, mental whiplash.

"Why?"

"You want to know why? Don't you really want to know whether he lives?"

"Do you even know why?"

"He spent years working on atonement and he wanted to end it."

"Atonement for murder?"

"Yes, do you think it possible?"

"To atone for murder? Absolutely."

"You speak of it so easily. What do you know of the matter?"

"I am somebody's atonement. It wasn't easy, wasn't . . . a warm and
fuzzy . . . type of thing. I don't think it's a complete repayment. But
it's real. My life, regardless of how bad it gets, has meaning."

"Meaning . . . you find meaning in your life. And just where does that
lead you?"

Unsure where it was leading me, I answered with the first thing that
popped into my head, "I find that I am irrevocably prejudiced in favor
of life."

He looked away and looked back. I saw tears on his cheeks. They looked
dark, a trick of the moonlight.

"Death comes always. Losses are inevitable. How does the ledger even
begin to balance?"

"Maybe it's one of those things we learn for ourselves the hard way. But
I think I have a clue to the mystery. Not quite an answer. I could try
to tell you."

"Yes, do tell."

The snide sucker.

I paused for a pep talk to me: 'Down girl. It's time to pay attention to
being gentle, we don't need no pissing contests 'round here.'

Then I said to him: "Old horses."

"Old horses?"

That got his attention. He walked up to the old man and laid his hands
on the spine, staring into my eyes. Boy, there was something creepy
about his eyes. It was way past time to get out of here. Even the old
man raised his head and turned his ears back, listening.

"What possible relevance have old horses?"

"Yeah, old horses. I've been really lucky. My first riding teacher
persuaded me to take a chance on some elderly mares. They had good
bloodlines, maybe a foal or two left in them. But she told me the mares
themselves would be their own reward. She was right. Old mares have a
peacefulness, a wisdom, a serenity, that they give away. But the
pleasure of their company . . . that's one of the finer things in life.

"But you lose them. And so quickly too. There is such a short span left
to them and then they're gone. Or worse, you have to decide when to put
them down. After the first one I lost, I swore I'd never get involved
with another. Except it was already too late. She was out in the
pasture, approaching the age of twenty five. There was a gelding - 32
years, at our best guess. So I had no choice. It's not possible to deny
their nature, old horses die. Somewhere in the process they taught me
the pain of loss is the price paid to love . . . and that it's worth it.
The same goes for people, only harder."

"Old horses are the secret of the universe," he looked like he'd been
sucker punched.

I stood there praying he'd find a parallel in his own life.

What expression I could see in the growing light vanished. He stepped
away, patted the old man on the rump. He walked away down the road,
around a bend and out of sight.

I wondered if his son lived.

End

Love it, Hate it, Flame it, but talk to me.

Teresa Stevenson
Forever Knight - Can the vampires come out to play?
http://stevte00@hotmail.com


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