The White Horse

A young woman lived alone on the high plains between the sawtoothed peaks of indelible mountains. To pass the time, she collected sacred footprints, old wooden wheels that could fit into her palms, golden tape measures, brass coins with holes in their centers, silver tweezers, and the odd gear or screwdriver. One day, she encountered a fox, the most beautiful fox she had ever seen. It could teleport from one place to another. One moment it was on the horizon, and a moment later it was resting under a dried-up tree close by. The longer she gazed at it, the more she wanted it to keep her company, but she remembered that foxes are dangerous beings; their presence only leads to trouble. She walked on, scouring the land for stone beads, rare things, and sacred footprints, when the fox began to speak to the wind, telling it the story of the enchanted wooden horse. The woman had never found one of those before. Curious, she stopped to listen as the fox related all of the misadventures and mysterious exploits of the wooden horse. The shadows shifted on the rocks, sand and golden grass. Clouds raced back and forth across the high blue sky. Night began to fall when a cluster of stars formed themselves into a galloping, white horse. It must have been the enchanted wooden horse itself, descending from the sky in a light, quiet snowfall. The white horse neighed and trotted up to her, bringing its soft muzzle down to her cheek. Then the young woman gasped. The fox was nowhere in sight, and all of her screwdrivers, stone beads, wooden wheels, brass coins, silver tweezers, golden tape measures, rusted gears and sacred footprints had vanished. It has long been said in legends and in lectures that the words of a fox remain in the air for a long time after he has gone. In the great night of the mountains, the young woman rode the white horse through the endless desolation.