His question gives Shararat pause, but she smiles as she considers it. "I don’t know," she replies. "The heat is no more intense than any other territory on Salem; less, I’d argue, for the towering steppes provide ample shade even when the sun is highest. It has water, so of course vegetation... I don’t know," she says again, laughing. "Perhaps when you come visit you can puzzle out why it carries such a dour name."
He’s young, but Shararat finds his mindset refreshing, especially as he dismisses the concept of deities with an amiable flippancy. For a long time Shararat has grappled with wanting to believe in her mother’s goddesses or even Ak Burun’s multi-faceted God, feeling she is somehow missing out by not sharing the faith that something greater than themselves is watching from somewhere. But even Bahadir’s gods seem as if they belong in fairy-tales and children’s stories, not real life. Much as she would like to believe in a higher power, Shararat can’t. Not after witnessing the bloodshed from her mother’s desert in the name of those same deities, and not after learning of not one but many other belief systems— if so many exist, how can one claim to be any more right than the others? And how can anyone really know?
These thoughts have plagued her since her return to the Isles and, of late, she’s had ample time to consider them all in detail. However, it isn’t until Akello dismisses the awe she has come to associate with Gods as.... creepy. Shararat chuckles to think of how offended and irate the red mare would be to hear this blasphemy, all puffed-up and self-righteously indignant that anyone might suggest Iç or The Mare With Two Wombs are little more than stories, and the Arabian’s laughter grows until her head hangs to her knees as she tries to catch her breath. "Yes," Shararat finally says as she lifts her dished face. "Creepy is a good way to put it. Akello, what a blessing it is to have met you tonight." She is still smiling, amused further by the irony in her choice of words, and ever so pleased to finally put that matter to rest. She needn’t believe in the stories of Gods. What evidence is there that any ever walked the earth, besides the high metaphors and allegories horses have contrived to suit their need for answers?
Shararat needs only here and now to know the truth of the world: that the wind sends sand scudding grittily across the dry, cracked earth and carries a memory of the afternoon’s heat now faded into the cool of night. That above there may be so many stars but here, below, two horses stand together with hearts pumping hot blood through their veins and those who are fully present in life are those who give meaning to it— not some stuffy cast of immortals and their fearsome authority over souls.
The black mare tosses her head in invitation as she turns and continues her venture into the territory, though for now she keeps her pace at a sedate walk so she may get to know the young stallion better. "Is this where you were born? I myself grew up in Paradise— and I can tell you the land well warrants the name! Lush vegetation, no end to fascinating and colorful wildlife, and the storms, Akello— furious but swift, the rain falling so fast and hard you might think the ocean has come on land to wash everything away before the skies suddenly clear and all is bright and dripping and vibrant. I’ve never seen a land more beautiful, nor felt sand so soft beneath my hooves. I miss it," she sighs. |