WIPE YOU CLEAN WITH DIRTY HANDS

They all become ghosts, eventually.

Gael is almost sure the black mare is one, too. Her movements are to deliberate, everything about her is precise – it makes him shiver. Even here in this endless swath of sand, she has made him feel cold down to his very bones. Her words have cut the throat of his fragile hope. The stallion takes in a deep breath.

Silence can speak volumes and he is left with a ringing in his ears. There is no reason to continue when every road is blocked. It is his own fault, he lost the little bay the moment he left. When the black mare tells him her names, Gael looks at her with one dark eye – he chews softly on the gritty sand between his teeth. Valve was a good name. At least she was trying to help, which was more than he could say about anyone else.

“Gael,” he says, “that’s my name.”

What happens now?

He looks over this kingdom of sand and sun, then back to Valve. She is made for this land and he can see it in the shape of her head, the length of legs – her ears and her nostrils. The width of her chest.

“It was so long ago, too long ago. We met by chance, on a place known as the Inlet. She was looking for trouble, I think,” Gael chuckles, “she found me, instead.”

Gael sighs, looks away from Valve towards the sun.

“Valve, do you know what it’s like to lose someone you love?”