The Vindhestr by Rowena Harding-Smith

The Vindhestr

The last month of Endur:

Foamy, the horse on the garden path, watched me through the open door as I galloped from the kitchen to the hall and back again, painting the walls with shadows, the air streaming behind me like a cape. My artwork of light and dark patterns could fly, but it wouldn't hold together once I stopped running. The dark lines would sag into the corners of the room like a blurry puddle. It needed a strong breeze to hold it together. I was waiting for Vindr, the wind season, so my sketch could sail like a kite. Pretending I was a westerly gale, I ran faster and flung my arms wide, waving my hands to create the straight lines, the way Hrafn had taught me before he died.

Mummy blocked the doorway. 'Gamli! Stop!'

I dropped my arms. She hated me practicing, now. The shadow painting shuddered and dissolved, dripping down the walls like paint.

"Too much noise. Have you finished cleaning your room, yet?"

Mummy used to enjoy playing with Hrafn and me. We would all chase each other through the garden under the tall trees, stitching leaf shadows together until you couldn't tell which painting was Hrafn's and which was mine. Mummy didn't paint but she liked looking at our shadows. She said we took after grandfather.

Endur was nearly over, and the yellow trumpet flowers were poking their heads through the dirt, but Mummy hadn't picked any for the vase in the kitchen. If she went into the garden, she'd only rake weeds into mounds, like small graves. On the weekends we used to shop at the market, but now Mummy leaves me behind. It's okay because I don't really want to go. She shuts the door and tells me not to open it to strangers. Luckily, Foamy isn't a stranger. Last Saturday, as soon as Mummy left, we cantered to the park. We go side-by-side because I don't know how to ride and he's too tall for me to get on his back; I only come up to his shoulder. Sometimes, he lets me put a rope around his neck to lead him, even though he doesn't need it.

At the front gate, Foamy's head hung low, stretching his nose until it was much longer than it needed to be. His ears were pointed forward, asking a question. He pawed the hard dirt and nudged the gate latch with his shoulder until it swung open. Foamy wanted to come in but Mummy won't have animals inside. She says they're dirty. That time she found the old dog under my bed she screamed, even though it was asleep and curled up so small it was invisible in the dust. After that, she'd rampaged through my room searching for more animals. She even evicted the moth cocoons I'd hidden in my socks.

Foamy's pale fur shone in the sun and his mane spilled across his neck like a stream of water over a rock. I wanted to plunge my hands into the strands. I opened the front door quietly then jumped back. Mummy loomed.

I shrugged sorry to Foamy. He snorted and wandered back down the path to the orange tree.

Mummy's knees were red and irritated and her hips were as wide as the doorway. I was scared to look above them in case I saw her eyes. The shadows in her lashes rippled when she was angry.

"What were you doing at the door? Were you sneaking off to the river?" Her teeth snapped.

I hung my head like Foamy.

"How many times have I told you to stay inside?"

"I'm safe with Foamy," I said.

She scowled. I tried to slip my hand into hers, but she shoved her hand into her pocket. My arm dangled with nowhere to go.

"You're too old for this. The horse is not real."

"Just because you can't see Foamy, doesn't mean he's not real."

She ran her hands through her hair. "I've had enough of this nonsense."

"He looks after me so no bad things can happen."