in the full moon’s light I listen to the stream
There is something about him – the gentleness in his half-hidden eyes, perhaps, or the quiet wisdom of his words, that settles her soul. There are no words for it exactly, but the closest Lysandra gets before the sensation slips away from her with the next breath of wind, she remembers the early days of her childhood, when she wanted for nothing, and any fear that dared encroach upon her innocent heart could be banished in an instant by a caress from her mother, or her
father.
Truth rings clear through his words, and Lysandra finds herself humming in agreement while her lips still brush against his muzzle. So much of what he says reminds her of one closest to her, and the white speckled mare wonders if it is an inherent understanding of the world, or if, like the silver black sabino who set her on her path to the islands, it is something he had fought for with all his strength. It is something so many take for granted; understanding the world,
knowing one’s place in it. Lysandra, for her part, was searching still. That was why she was
here.
And, that was
why she was here.
“It is a wonder, the resilience of nature, how miraculously it recovers, renews and replenishes.” The Teke mare’s voice dips and rises in a manner not dissimilar from the melody of the river further downstream. There is a clarity to it, an earthiness, and even when she murmurs along to the wandering of her mind, there is no sweetly cloying tone to her words. When she speaks - her eyes faraway – of consuming fires, it is as though she carries smoke in her lungs, for the husky resonance of her voice.
“The way a forest burns – ridding itself of the dead and sick trees within it, to make way for the next generation; a better one.. And from all that death, there comes new life.” Lysandra trails off, and stand solemnly in silence, until it is broken by the magnificent, humble soul beside her.
When she hears of his birthplace, Lysandra first sees it in her mind’s eye – columns of towering pines standing like sentinels – and then she recalls her utterings, and wonders for a moment if she should apologise. But her tongue lays behind her teeth, at peace, because some part of her knows (some part of her
hopes) that he was one who would understand. Of course, surely it would pain him to imagine his forest burning, just as it pained her to think of the valley plains of her birthplace flooding in a torrential rainstorm.
“Brother, Woodwalker, for all your claims of mortality, I still fancy there to be traces of stardust in your soul,” she says finally, the smile on her lips softening, even as her eyes half-close and crinkle at the corners, her joy sinking deep into her bones.
Following his lead, she moves with him up the bank, her dark ears turning to catch his voice as she continues. Lysandra ponders over what he says, finds herself intrigued, the curiosity chattering within her in the manner of a mountain stream – reviving her and clearing her senses. It is with blanketed anticipation that she settles beside him in the sun, and the sense of warmth upon her skin almost goes unnoticed, focused as she is upon the mystery this woodwalker has become to her.
“I have done little,” she murmurs, not to dismiss the importance of whatever revelation she had presented him, but in a vague, round-about way to impress upon them both that her gratitude ran deep, right to her bones.
Lysandra sinks to her knees and settles in a pool of light. When she returns her gaze to him, she finds his gaze upon her already, and she feels
seen, and known, in a way that matters to her very much. And then he speaks three words, and her head drops dizzy, the ground feeling as though it tilts beneath her in the most disconcerting way. But she recovers quickly, such is the effect of the tranquillity she feels in the silver haired gypsy’s presence.
“I am sorry, sorrier than you could ever know, to say that I never met him,” the words are little more than a whisper, and in the moments after she speaks them, the sooty bay mare raises her head and reconnects, not shying away from latching onto the steady gaze offered her.
“But I was brought up on stories of him. Those stories led me here, from far across the sea. And though I do not doubt the teller of Moonwalker’s tales, for there was far too much pain in his telling for it to have been contrived...”
A breath is drawn in, deep, carrying traces of water, the woodwalker’s scent, and what might a hint of bitter pine.
“Brother, I seek my own truth about Moonwalker, because if things had been different, he might have been everything to me But he was not there, and so another took his place in raising me, to prevent me from being hurt beyond repair. Please,” it is she who beseeches now, her gravelly tone becoming ever more urgent.
“What significance does Moonwalker hold for you?”