lead me to a place
where i can be found
The sea is unlike any the pale mare has ever encountered— a living creature without warmth or heartbeat. A
leviathan that breathes and yearns toward her with white-clawed fingers that dissolve into mist around her feathered hooves. Like the river that she has followed here— like
herself— the ocean is always moving and never still, never silent. By all appearances, it also forms the edge of the world that has been Fernweh’s calling to explore, its shapeless body extending so far into the distance that it melds seamlessly with the vibrant blue of the sky. But something within the wanderer calls her forward anyway. Something deeper than thought or instinct leads her forward until she is
drifting along, her great body as light as it feels in the moments before she escapes reality for dreams. Something in her pulls at the puppet-strings of her limbs until they are propelling her through the salty liquid that tastes like tears. Something in her insists that her journey is not done; that it
cannot be done.
And if it will not be finished in this world, then she will follow it to the next.
She swims until the sun crests overhead— a single golden eye that watches her progress curiously. She swims until the weight seeps back into her buoyant figure, until exhaustion fills her bones with lead. And slowly,
slowly, the sea begins to claim her. With each breath, her body begins to slip further into the oblivion that yawns beneath her, her head dipping closer to the saltwater’s gently-rippling skin. For a moment she is certain that she is about to cross over into the realm-beyond-reality, but Fernweh does not feel fear— only the gentle tickle of curiosity in her thoughts. As ever, she seeks out a final piece of beauty to take with her into this otherworld, and finds it at the horizon. There, a number of stone fangs jut into the heavens, then slope gently down into a large, dark mass of land. Her dark eyes hold onto this last blessing as they slip closed, and as the breath leaves her lungs in a gentle, forlorn sigh.
But the peace of her surrender ends there.
As soon as her nostrils dip beneath the surface, saltwater begins to flood into her lungs. Coughing,
panicking, Fernweh finds the hidden reservoir of strength that exists at her core— and she
fights. Her hooves strike out again and again at this unseen threat until somehow she has emerged back into the blissful air, dragging coarse breaths of it into her lungs. During her submersion and struggle, the distant blot of land had somehow pulled itself closer. The draft female
sees it when she squints between the streaming tendrils of her forelock— sees the grey stone of its beach and the green promise of the forest beyond. And without conscious thought, she yearns towards it in a manner not unlike the waves that curl up its shore. Only minutes later, her hooves find earth instead of emptiness and she embraces it with a silent, relieved sob.
Like the ghost of a kelpie the mare emerges from the surf, saltwater streaming from her in rivulets. The pale tangles of her mane and tail are plastered to her damp skin and her throat burns, but Fernweh is more dismayed by the deep ache that has settled into her muscles. Knowing that she has reached the limits of her stamina, the wanderer discards her dream of exploring the distant forest in favor of the nearer refuge that a grassy meadow offers. With weary, drunken strides she stumbles her way into the knee-high grass until— abruptly— she stops. The spot that she chooses is no different than any other that she has passed, but Fernweh turns about four times before settling down into the hollow carved by her tramping hooves and thick body.
In no time at all, the warm sun and the humming drone of bees have lulled her to the brink of slumber— but for now, Fernweh rejects the escape that oblivion offers.