It's Raining Mares! {Calca}

[Ehetere]

The landscape was dark that night, the insistent calls of cicadas ringing thought the evening. High above, only the stars twinkled in the sky, offering barely a dull glimmer to highlight a ghostly pale stallion moving silently though the night. In the canyon below was his herd, which had swelled in numbers of late, doubling in fact. He did not want to think it was just because he was King – surely there was more quality mares searched for than a stallion’s rank.

He had been unable to settle that night, for reasons unknown to him. The night air had seemed charged, electric. Every hair on his white coat had been tingling with anticipation, but for what? There were no clouds to further dampen the net of tiny lights high above, and no other stallion in his right mind would even dream of coming hunting for a runner of the night in conditions such as these. All the same, he could not shake the feeling there might be something coming.

So he had moved off from his herd, offering a few reassuring whickers as he went, to circle around the canyon so he might get a better look and calm his urge to run and run. Perhaps man was on the prowl, though how could that be? Men did not hunt at night - the were to preoccupied by their magical glowing pits of fire. The stallion sniffed the air, checking for any trace scent of smoke, or the unmistakable smell of tame horse. There was none.

Trotting a little further along the ridge, and further from his herd, he stopped again, listening. The sounds of the night tickled his ears, familiar like an old friend. Nothing was out of the ordinary, and the thrill in the air had turned exciting, and exhilarating. Unable to deny it any longer, he took off in a swift canter, his hooves beating out a steady rhythm as he twisted and turned amongst the trunks.

The crack of a branch had him pulling up in a sudden stop, dust billowing around him and clogging his flared nostrils as he stared out warily, searching for the slightest movement. Dread gripped him, ears pricked to pick up the quiet jingle of a bit or the creak of a leather saddle. Every muscle was tensed, twitching, on edge, ready to spring at the slightest provocation. He would have to lead the men away from his mares, if it was indeed men who were following him.