White Horse

As they crested a ridge, the white horse for the first time understood the terrible sense she had been suffering on their ride. Though the air remained as still as before, an unmistakable smell washed passed her. Smoke. Looking higher up the ridge she could see it curling up through the trees, growing in size as it stretched across the mountainside. The unusually dry, warm autumn that she had taken so much pleasure in had had a darker side. It was exactly what a fire needed to spread.

At first, the only thought to the white horse was to turn back and make for the lower valleys as quickly as possible. As usual, her rider’s thoughts were just the opposite. His command drove her forward. It was a command that caused the white horse to shake despite everything she knew about her rider. Forward? Into the fire? What could possibly be the reason to go straight into a fire? Then she remembered – the rest of the horses were still making their way down the mountain. Most likely, they were now trapped and confused by the growing smoke and flames. The rider had to go to them. He was their only hope of survival. The white horse knew she had a duty just like the rider. She would go. Summoning what courage she could, she leaped forward, choosing her speed without urging from the rider. If into the fire they must go, she was prepared to do so for the sake of other horses. After all, the rider would never leave her.

Through the thickets they rode, crashing through low shrubs, snapping branches with their passing. Soon they were passing woodland creatures that were fleeing the approaching danger, racing southward down the slopes in hopes of finding sanctuary near meandering rivers. Only the white horse headed north, against the rush of fear-stricken animals. Gritting her teeth, she endured the sight. Her nature told her to join the rest of the animals. Her rider told her to ignore them. The inward struggle was great, but the trust she had developed in her rider was stronger.

Soon they were alone again. The air was no longer just still; it was heavy. Each breath became labored for the white horse. What were supposed to be the cool, crisp mountains were now hot and suffocating. She labored on, each step being praised, each moment an encouragement from her rider. By his hand she navigated the woods, coming ever closer to where he knew the horses would be trapped. Never once did she question whether he knew where he was going or not. She had long since learned not to try and understand his gift of insight.

Just trust it, she told herself, and run.