On Pale Wings

Last night, out upon the field, I spied a queer-looking raven perched among the stalks. Its feathers were white as snow, and its red eyes locked on mine, as if I were somehow familiar. I slunk forward, hoping to get a better look at its magnificence, but it took flight at my approach. Unsure I could trust my eyes, I stooped to pick up one of its fallen feathers. Suddenly, I was elsewhere, the sounds of nature roaring in my ears. The noise of birds and beasts and insects soared around me. But also… drums! Where the white raven had been, there stood a waiflike woman. Her skin was ivory, and her cascading blonde locks so sun-bleached, they were almost white. She took me by the hand and raced deeper into the woodlands, tugging me along behind her. I dashed after her, free hand raised to protect my eyes from branches whipping by on either side. The ground began to shake, and I realized what I heard was not the retort of drumbeats, but a cavalcade of horse hooves! A huntsman’s horn sounded, and jet-black steeds broke through the foliage, each one beset by an ashen rider, pale and unearthly like my strange attendant. The great host enveloped us, but my companion ran on without fear, leading me on in her wake. The hot breath of horses stuck in my throat as dust filled the air, until all was darkness save the sounding of hooves and the beating of my heart and the clarion peals of her laughter. Then I was alone again, racing at a fever pitch through the hemp, each gasp of the cool night air chilling the ecstasy in my heart.