She was nothing like the medieval writers had claimed. No multi-coloured hybrid of lion, horse and
buck was she. The horn was the only
part they got right, although there were certainly no elephants to pierce with
it! Neither was she anything like the
cartoonish plastic abominations my sisters used to play with.
Though only the size of a pony, she was perfect in proportion, fine and
elegant. A sweet face, thin and a little
stubby, jewelled with great blue eyes and crowned with a mane of white hair
that formed a ridge down her neck. Her
coat was purest white, a tiny bit shaggy and seemed to shimmer a little whether
she was in the shade of the forest or the rain or shine of her clearing.
I watched her from my little tent on the edge of the clearing all day,
just walking around, eating flowers and occasionally jumping about through the
airborne rivers of dandelion seeds or chasing the cabbage white
butterflies. And I knew I was right to
be here, to want to capture and tame this little angel.
After an hour or two of watching in wonderment I tentatively stepped out
of the tent to see if capture and taming was even necessary. I stood carefully while she was eating and
turned toward me, moving forwards slowly and smoothly, watching her face for
signs; she seemed to smile serenely to herself as she chewed thoughtfully. The moment I began to outstretch my arm to
stroke her, her head darted upwards and she looked at me for the first
time.
I froze solid. Flipped up my hand
to gesture safety; friendship. But she
neighed, in fear I think, turned and fled.
It seemed my plans would have to go into action. I hoped against hope that she would be here
every week.
Needless to say she was.
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