ORIGINAL
02 Sep
The paint slowly walked up the meadow that led to the rocky overlook. It was the little valley it had grazed in since it was a colt. It should be comfortable here, at home. Yet something was unsettling, something commanding him forward. Occasionally he would drop his head for a few bites of the tender grass, sweet and moist. Something deep inside gave him the urge to run- there was a stronger urge to continue toward the rocks.
Spirit Talker sat cross-legged at the edge of the meadow below the rocks. He had been there immobile for several hours. He had seen the paint come into the valley, as he knew it inevitably would. It was now all up to the horse. He would either forge the link between them or decide he never would. He knew he could take the horse by force. He could rope him and go through the process of breaking him down to be a horse able to be ridden. He had broken many horses before, and he was good at it.
But this horse, this majestic meshing of colors, was different. It was wild and free like the wind, as welcome as summer rain on parched ground. Spirit Talker could feel the horse's strength deep in his own heart. He did not want to break this horse. He wanted to become one with him.
It took another hour before, finally, the paint stood no more than five feet in front of where he sat. Spirit Talker still did not move, barely breathed. Another step closer, and the paint gave a light shudder. Two more steps with his ears erect, eyes wide, frightened but unable to resist coming closer. Spirit Talker could have been a stone. Slowly, very tentatively, the paint lowered his head, almost touching the young boy's face.
With a deep and quiet indrawn breath, Spirit Talker exhaled into the nostrils of the paint. The horse shuddered vigorously, bobbing his head up and down several times. Had he been a few more inches forward, he would have knocked the young Indian over. But he did not bolt. He shook his head as if clearing some confusion and stood still.
As smooth as a gently flowing river Spirit Talker stood, a rawhide lariat in his hand. He put his hand out, palm upward for the horse to smell. As the paint gathered in his scent, he eased the rope around his neck with his other hand. The horse still did not bolt even when Spirit Talker placed his forehead against the forehead of the horse. With a sigh of release, the tension left the paint.
With the paint following peacefully, they walked over a mile until they came to the rise above his village. He stood for a moment. This village was his home. He looked at the paint, and it became clear to him that it was his home, but it was not the home of the horse. He looked behind himself at the open meadow, the clouds dancing lazily as they rudely interrupted the perfect blue sky. Out there, out there was the home of the paint. Placing his head gently against the head of the horse, he slid the lariat free and said, "We are one, but you are not mine. You are as free as the land. I will visit you, Spirit Horse, in your home. Go now."
The paint chuffed and shook his head as if clearing a moment of confusion. Spirit Talker through both arms in the air and gave a short, loud cry. Then the horse did bolt, racing back across the meadow, mane, and tail flowing in the wind as he returned to his original wild state.
After a bit, he became aware of Bear standing next to him and heard him say, "Your spirit is as strong as the paint, my brother. You are much stronger than I could ever be."