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Faerie stories. Who these two are is not actually important. Only a few of these are real superstitions. 411 words.
Because there are things deeper than his own little life, the rider is careful. Never walk under a ladder, don’t follow the lights at night, never get between two mirrors. There are reasons.
He doesn’t have to worry it much though. Where he is now, nights are black and there is nothing to climb to and he hasn’t seen a mirror in six months, and wouldn’t look in it if he had. And his partner, he knows, too, and because his partner was born fast he doesn’t even have to think about the rituals anymore, just does them natural as breathing. Pour salt on tilled land if it spills, never look over your shoulder at a sunset, never hold a horseshoe upside-down.
The rider runs sand through his fingers in place of salt and hopes it holds. He resolutely looks ahead when he drives the herd east at dusk. Cross your fingers when you say someone’s name, put your shoes wrong way ‘round at night, don’t walk where a cat or fox has been.
Still he sees her, in the sixth or eighth week of driving. It’s sunset, and he hears something behind him; he glances back and stops, wheeling his horse. His partner flinches back, already picking up sand to throw in his eyes, but it’s too late; he’s caught the vision.
Later, when he’s drunk, the rider tells his partner, “a woman on a horse, but not on so much as of. She was part of it and it was part of her, and neither of them had the sense of a real horse and rider,” and his partner nods and says nothing, because the rider has told him this near fifty times now, dancing around the same wording every time.
It happens in just a moment, and after, the rider is as if it had never been; he blinks, fixes the loose tether that caused his distraction, and turns back to the trail. His partner gives a deep sigh of resignation, because he’s lost good men to this before. The rider looks solid as ever, but he has the wind and the fire in his soul.
When they reach the next town he tells anyone who will listen about what he’s seen. And when they’re going back, headed through the slow honey-coloured desert, their faces to the sunset, he does not stop when his partner turns to the south, but continues to the red edge of the sand.
Because there are things deeper than his own little life, the rider is careful. Never walk under a ladder, don’t follow the lights at night, never get between two mirrors. There are reasons.
He doesn’t have to worry it much though. Where he is now, nights are black and there is nothing to climb to and he hasn’t seen a mirror in six months, and wouldn’t look in it if he had. And his partner, he knows, too, and because his partner was born fast he doesn’t even have to think about the rituals anymore, just does them natural as breathing. Pour salt on tilled land if it spills, never look over your shoulder at a sunset, never hold a horseshoe upside-down.
The rider runs sand through his fingers in place of salt and hopes it holds. He resolutely looks ahead when he drives the herd east at dusk. Cross your fingers when you say someone’s name, put your shoes wrong way ‘round at night, don’t walk where a cat or fox has been.
Still he sees her, in the sixth or eighth week of driving. It’s sunset, and he hears something behind him; he glances back and stops, wheeling his horse. His partner flinches back, already picking up sand to throw in his eyes, but it’s too late; he’s caught the vision.
Later, when he’s drunk, the rider tells his partner, “a woman on a horse, but not on so much as of. She was part of it and it was part of her, and neither of them had the sense of a real horse and rider,” and his partner nods and says nothing, because the rider has told him this near fifty times now, dancing around the same wording every time.
It happens in just a moment, and after, the rider is as if it had never been; he blinks, fixes the loose tether that caused his distraction, and turns back to the trail. His partner gives a deep sigh of resignation, because he’s lost good men to this before. The rider looks solid as ever, but he has the wind and the fire in his soul.
When they reach the next town he tells anyone who will listen about what he’s seen. And when they’re going back, headed through the slow honey-coloured desert, their faces to the sunset, he does not stop when his partner turns to the south, but continues to the red edge of the sand.