The red mare sleeps. She’s tall when she stands, but now she’s on her side, head curled around one knee and legs tucked close to her body. When I stand, I can see over her belly. It rises and falls with each deep breath and I check her ears and eyes for any signs of flickering wakefulness. It’s dark out, but overhead are lots of little bright lights called stars, some of them in the shape of my ancestors. It is a great honor to be in the sky, the red mare told me. She’s always talking about honor. It’s a relief to hear only her steady breathing now.
I can’t sleep.
Somewhere out there is the FatherSound, and I’m going to find it. With one last glance at the red mare’s face —it’s still— I flick my short tail into a flag and trot away from her. The ground is soft, so soft, and I buck and kick my way over the grass until I meet a new sensation. This ground is softer, and shifts under my weight, threatens to hold me. I pause and lower my head to snuff at it, and when I get some in my nostrils I throw my head up and sneeze. Looking around, I see that there is more of the stuff stretching all the way before me, leading up to a great black beast who chews at the earth.
"FatherSound!" I grin and leap forward, frolicking down the soft-sanded beach until I reach the dark, damp place where FatherSound had just been. I press one toe carefully into the moist sand, then leap and skitter backward as the blue-black stuff comes rushing forward. It’s so much paler as it stretches and thins over the sand, leaving little bubbles and foam-flecks behind as it recedes again. I put one whole hoof on the damp area this time, but my bravado is false and as FatherSound surges up the beach I jump away again before it can swirl around my feet. It becomes a game: I step forward, bold, and flee with each incoming wave, my laughter sprinkling the air over FatherSound’s rumbling growl.
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