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Roland, hmm? At least he had enough sense and manners to answer her the first time; at the moment, Cal didn’t really have the patience for a smart mouth. She was comfortable and warm, with the sun shining down on her with merry rays, and she didn’t feel like being heckled. Her eyes caught Spe-shul, listening to the gal’s groan and watching as her knobbly legs seemed to fail and find the ground to set her body on. Once more, the old mare’s discontent was painfully apparent; it was almost tangible on the tongue, and more than ever Cal’s sense of discreet warred with her innate motherly instinct, an instinct that she rarely felt nowadays. She didn’t know why it applied to this raggedy creature—to the eye, she seemed able enough to know right from wrong, and looked as though she had enough experience to handle herself—but some inner muscle twitched in the depths of Cal’s mind, prompting her to feel this protectiveness over Spe-shul. Was it intuition? Was it the beginnings of nosiness?
*"Do you belong to a herd?"*
In response to the young buck, Cal gave a hurrmph! of evident amusement, even though an ugly scowl wrinkled her nose in memory of her recent run-in at the Threshold. Was it a competition to get as many people as they could to join their club? Cal had been there already, and she had no desire whatsoever to go back. “Nope, and I’m tryin’ t’ keep it that way,” she said, nodding firmly to emphasize her point. Cal didn’t feel like being handicapped by “laws” and “territories”. It might kill her, but Cal valued her freedom and the chance she might get herself into danger. It made life spicier and flavorful—more pleasant on the palate.
As Cal answered, she turned her attention to Spe-shul, suddenly curious as to whether this thang belonged to a herd—or was running from a herd, now that she thought about it. This curiosity morphed once more into that concern that Cal was fighting with—but all at once, her concern overpowered her learned-habit of keeping quiet, urging Cal to throw caution to the wind and break her #1 rule: Mind your own damn business.
“Spe-shul,” Cal started, using a tone that she hadn’t used in a good decade; a soft, motherly croon so raspy it came out as a sort of squeaky whisper, “Spe-shul, dear, are you okay?” Beside the uncommon epithet Cal never used, she tried to imbue the meaning in those simple words, hoping that Spe-shul would know what Cal was really asking: Why are you so sad? What’s life done to treat you so poorly?
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