Some weeks after her meeting with Al-Hattaal, Cee had finally found the energy and motivation to explore further inland, where the land rose in smooth, tree-laden hills. In the distance these hills gathered to form a great, naked peak, which loomed over the island like an ancient sentinel; the Arabian mare had no desire to venture toward this mountain just yet, instead preferring to wander through the forests of its foothills. The trees here were not so grand and tall as those from her homeland, but there were endless varieties of them, which gave the land an almost magical feel, especially now that it was autumn.
As she wandered, Cee mused over her predicament. Her grief and shock over the events that had landed her on the islands still throbbed like a fresh wound if she thought about it for too long, but her numbness and apathy were slowly fading, and her appetite had returned; she was beginning to feel alive again. And with this fresh wave of wakefulness had come the realization that she was stuck in a strange land full of strange horses who could not speak her language, and that she had no plans for her future, or any idea of where to do or what to do with herself.
She was, in every sense of the word, lost.
To distract herself, she spent her time memorizing the landscape and listening to the voices of the locals, making note of their accent, and practicing her English by mimicking them under her breath. She rationalized this by figuring that if she could break down the language barrier, she would feel more at ease and more confident in making herself at home; in truth, the idea of abandoning her mother tongue for another was huge and nerve-wracking. She did not even know the customs of these islanders yet (for that required familiarizing herself with them), so how could she expect to accurately learn the ways of their language?
Eventually her worries were dashed away by the discovery of a secluded waterfall carved into the side of a hill. Having heard and felt its rumbling as she unknowingly approached, the Arabian mare had almost turned away in fright, for she had never experienced such a sound before. But the sight of it, she found, was quite delightful, and after sating her thirst and examining the manner in which the water spilled from the crest of the hill like fine silk, she settled beneath the sparse shade of an oak tree and watched the yellow-gold leaves spin gracefully into the water.
Eventually, as they always did, her thoughts turned to her mother. “J’espère le Créateur vous soigne bien,” she said outloud, then for practice added, “I hope the Maker is treating you well.”
CÉLESTINE
warm me up and breathe me |