Fjö∂ur stands with ears pinned at the edge of Salem, staring down at the water with disdain. She glances up for a brief moment, noting the cloudless sky, before glaring at the sea again. Bhaskara has already left, and is gliding through the surf as though it is nothing. The tobiano now knows what the ocean is capable of, though, and she doubts she will ever trust it again. Still, swimming is the only way she will ever find her Þoka, and so she tentatively steps into the shallows.
When she reaches the point where she can no longer touch the ocean floor, Fjö∂ur pauses. The whites of her eyes are showing and her nostrils flare with worry. Meanwhile, Bhaskara presses on at a steady pace, though she seems to be considerate of the silver’s hesitation. She is grateful, once again, for the bay mare, but she cannot pause too long to ponder this emotion. The longer she waits, the further away her guide will be.
Taking in a sharp breath, she steps forward once more and her legs begin to wildly flail in an attempt to swim forward. Fjö∂ur struggles not to panic as the gentle sway of the waves sweeps her left and right. It is not as extreme as the day she and Þoka had left their homeland, but she is anxious that the gentle swaying could quickly turn violent. Her blazed face lifts high above the surface – probably too high – in an attempt to keep her nostrils clear of salt water. Gradually, as she focuses on the serene way Bhaskara swims, she calms and attempts to move her legs in a rhythmic way. To her surprise, it works. Despite her success, she remains on edge for the entire swim.
By the time they reach the shore, Fjö∂ur is exhausted from the effort of swimming with all her muscles tensed. She staggers through the shallows on shaking legs. With a brief glance at Bhaskara, she proceeds past the sand – blasted stuff – and collapses into the lush grass of the meadow. Stretching her small body as long as it will go, she sprawls her legs and relishes in the sweet scent of greenery. The painted pony had begun to think in the Dunes that she would never see proper grass or trees again. She closes her eyes tight with a bittersweet sigh, thinking, if only Þoka was here.
FJÖÐUR
mare . icelandic horse . eight . silver black tobiano . 13 hh |