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There is dust gathering at her feet, lazy clouds of dirt spiraling up and around her fetlocks, accompanying the rhythmic sound of her footfall. Like curtains, eager to be wrung apart, aflame with the zeal to present whatever they hold in the shadowy underbelly that lies behind them. But the entrance is not of a spectacular nature, however white and pristine they young mare that emerges from the thin filigree of summer-dust and morning-mist might appear she is no spectacular thing.
Her pace is unhurried but her gaze is bright and curious, dancing and goring itself on the vastness that spreads luxuriously before her. Iyana knows that this is a place foreign to her. Not only because it smells so, but because there is something inherently different about this place – something so tangible and at the same time utterly inexplicable. She can almost taste it. She does not understand precisely what it is and decides, true to her rational nature, that she will not spend any more time dwelling on it. In time, she tells herself with a shrug of her shoulders, it would reveal itself.
And she inhales a morning that is still fringed with the silvering chill of night – Iyana is as early as the mists themselves – stepping from the path and into the meadow. As the path that initially lacerated the landscape with as sharp and clear edges as cusps of blackened mountain-rock gradually grows swollen and blurry with grass – only to bleed out into spring-green oblivion – the white mare stops. (Where the path begun, she does not remember but she knows she has travelled far).
On the wind, she can smell the distinctive signature of horses – sweat and musk and stupid infatuation, greed and tragedy: the treachery that befalls them all. Time and time again. Iyana sighs as the ghost of a smile, hard and dour whispers its presence on her lips.
She is young, but she has smelt this before.
The swaying grasses, however, are quick to welcome her, bending and tickling, cajoling.
And Iyana? There have been many things said about the young unicorn, and particular is not one of them. She begins walking across the threshold into a world she does not know, giving herself up to whatever is to be made of her.
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Simple things [whoever it may concern]
