The Fault In Reality

Chapter Six

I duck under the rail and start into the black horse's corral.

"Your name is Devany," I tell him. My words hang in the air, unchallenged. So that is that. My hands are still clutching the flake of hay, and I hold it out to his whiskery nose.

As usual, he's eyeing my in his distrusting way, but at least he doesn't seem scared. I idly listen to the distant twittering of the birds and wait. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that patience is key. Eventually, form bathed around the edges with golden light, the black horse steps forward. Devany, I remind myself. I'm not sure why I chose the name, but it sounds nice alongside my own. Devany and Era. The pairing has the distant whisperings of something magical, sweet and pure.

Devany and Era.

I test the sound of it on my tongue, and replace my gaze to meet Devany's own. One of his ears have slowly inched forward, and his weight is leaned towards me. Or rather, the enticing meal I hold. I pull a handful of hay loose from the bunch and let it drift to the ground. I step back, waiting and watching.

Slowly he shifts forwards, leans all his weight onto his front most crescent hooves and stretches out his neck. I watch his lips nuzzle the ground for a moment, before curling around the hay and sweeping the morsel into the expanse of his mouth.

His chin bobs up and down in the process of chewing, while his ears tip forwards. He's hungry, I can see; I wonder after the last time he's been offered a fair meal. I balance the rest of it on my outstretched palms and wait. I can see the battle between stomach and head flickering in his eyes. He knows he's being bribed, and he doesn't like it one bit.

I turn my gaze to the far post, where a pretty lark is sitting. It cocks its little head and gives a single, reproachful chirp in my direction. I whistle a note back and it takes off in a sudden swoop, gone as soon as it came. No matter, as it's served its purpose. My diverted attention has given Devany some peace of mind, and now I can feel the tips of his whiskers tickling my skin. The weight of the hay evaporates and I hear it land with a thump on the ground.

Some disgruntled dust rises into the air, but not from the prompting of Devany, as he's still standing quite still. He's inches away from my face, his velvety nose twitching and his ears quivering. I release a long, rattling breath and kneel to the ground in as fluid a motion as I can muster. Here, level with his hooves and the hay, I cross my legs under me and wait.

Slowly, the black horse lowers his head. His ears are pinned, and his gaze stays trained on me. I don't let myself stare. Instead, I play with a piece of hay, twirling it to and fro between my fingers. I can feel the weight of a final, distrustful glance, before he begins eating. At first his chewing is weary, slow. Eventually it picks up to a rhythmic beat.

Slowly, without looking up, I lift a hand up. Empty air pools around my movement, bringing up a slight shift in the breeze. The munching stops.

I refuse to replenish my position. Devany, with his nerves stretched to the breaking point, returns to his eating. Nothing but the agitated swishing of his tail tells me he's not as calm as he seems. That's alright. I know he's a loaded gun, but I'm a bit of one myself. I smile a little, and inch my hand forward.

It's a game or red light, green light. I study the stitches in the calves of my jeans, and when he becomes suspicious, I halt the sluggish movement of my hand.

It comes to the point where my palms begin to tingle, and I know I'm centimeters away from his fur. With a final, terrifying drop, I sweep my fingers down and am met with the feel of his soft nose. Everything stops. Even the birds stop their singing.

Then, as though by magic, Devany releases a shuddering, sigh and continues his eating. This small success, as unimportant as it seems, makes me feel proud. Elated, I reach up to rub his forehead.

A mistake.

The sudden movement takes him off guard. I'm met with clutter of disrupted dirt and the silhouette of Devany screaming his fear, half raised onto his haunches. I finally look up at him. His ears are flattened to his skull, with hooves slashing the air in wild, paddling motions.

I force myself to stay still on the ground as he takes off at a bolt around the corral. He tosses his head, squeals at the sky. I ignore him. His gallop slows to a canter, which slows to a trot, which slows to a walk. He prances back over to me, tail raised and neck arched. I can tell he's pleased with himself.

If this was a normal horse, I'd lunge the arrogance out of him. But the game we play, the dance we dance, it's different. I keep an aura of nonchalance around me, send the occasional unimpressed glance in his direction. I continue to twirl a sliver of hay around in my hands.

His ears pin. He paws at the ground angrily, upset at my position over his food. I study his body language as he tries to snake forward, ready to snatch a mouthful. As soon as he's close, I throw up my arms and growl. This sets him off into another round of the corral. He approaches again a few minutes later, still with the wrong attitude. He comes plastered in self-assurance and aggression.

Another swat in his directions. This time he gallops around until he's lathered in a film of sweat. I watch as his head lowers, his ears take on a more relaxed position. When he walks forwards, it's in a tentative manner. I allow him to quietly come and eat.

To me, this is progress.

Later that night I watch Pat peel some carrots. I sense something clever under her cheerful smile, her calm humming. In my mind I try to unravel her, but come to a dead stop. I realize, with a start, that she's put up some barriers.

Behind the pleasant face, there's nothing to read off of. Her personality is kind, but the kindness is accompanied by a firm, no-nonsense kind of feel that I couldn't read of off when I first met her.

"Need some help?" I ask.

"Oh, I think I'm alright," she says, and tosses the last of the gratings into the sink. "You could set the table, though, if you don't mind."

So I do. Plates, cutlery, and a bowl of green salad go onto the weathered table. The rest of the family settle in, and for the first time in months, I feel famished. It's not until after I've cleared my plate that I remember the funny little man from earlier.

"Who was that, anyway?" I say, when the conversation turns to his earlier visit.

"Just another buyer, Era, nothing to worry yourself over," my father replies.

Somehow, whenever people tell me not to worry, it only raises my suspicions.

"Which horse is he looking at?" I ask, and something in the pit of my stomach hollows. I think back to my father's words from earlier. It's as though I already know the answer.

"Err," says my father, casting a glance at Pat.

"Funny you should ask," says Chase with an unsettling glint in his eye. "Just so happens to be that old black one you were asking after earlier."