Donkeyskin - ON HOLD

Of Mornings

*Of Mornings*

        As the season wore on, Elodie slowly became accustomed to the pace she'd kept the first few days, pushing on uphill as summer dwindled. She woke each day before the sun, ate a cold breakfast of whatever she had found the day before in her foraging, brushed out the pony's coat with a handful of dried grass, and saddled and bridled her, moving on as the sun touched the horizon.

        The deeper she pushed on into the mountains, the colder even summer became, until she was very glad for the thick donkeyskin, especially at night. The pace and lack of food began to show, both in the pony and her rider. The little mare's coat was matted and peppered with burs that, hard as she tried, Elodie couldn't work out. Though she never shirked, the pony was tired, and her rider too.

        Both yearned for the warmth of a roof over their heads, and a hot meal of bran mash and stew, respectively. Elodie did her best with the brews she fumbled together over her campfire, but they were lukewarm at best, and rather tasteless.

        Every now and then, they would pass a trapper with fresh pelts and meat, and Elodie would sigh, and wish she could trade him something for just a rabbit's leg, but she had nothing. And he would take one good look at the ugly pelt she wore, frown, and hurry along down the mountain, back to whatever tiny village he lived in.

        Elodie woke one morning at the tail-end of summer to heavy clouds hanging low over the rocky peaks, and hurried to pack up her little camp and move out. Even a sheltered princess recognized storm-clouds when she saw them.

        They got in a solid hour's ride before the skies opened up with a rumble and a crash. The rain came down in sheets, solid as pebbles, cold as ice, soaking through even the donkeyskin until pony and girl were soaked to the skin.

        Shivering beneath the weight of sodden clothing, Elodie huddled in the saddle, glad the pony was content to just follow the path leading up, up into the mountains, for she wasn't sure she could have gripped the reins effectively enough to steer.

        The day wore on, the rain so heavy Elodie could hardly see her own hand when she held it in front of her face. The icy wind pounded her, and she shivered so hard her very bones ached with the force of the cold.

        But finally, as the day came to a close, the sky cleared, and Elodie became violently aware of some great change. Blinking, she looked around. The trees were black shadows along the road, the sky a patchwork of orange and blue and pink and green and purple as the sun set below them.

        Elodie straightened. Below them? Her heart sped up. At some point during that awful day they'd crossed the summit of the peak. Elodie glanced back, behind them.

        At the top of the slope, not to far behind them, two whitewashed posts marked a change in the road, a border crossing. They'd made it to Northmoor.

        Half-laughing, half-crying in relief, Elodie leaned down and patted the pony on the neck, over and over, exhausted, filthy, aching, hungry, cold, but finally at peace. Her father's men wouldn't come past those two posts. They were not allowed.

        A little later, just before darkness fell, Elodie's eyes, taking in this new kingdom, caught sight of a flickering plume of smoke, the first sign of other people she'd seen in days.

        In a little clearing, down a path that was more of an overgrown cart track, a farmhouse, barn, and shed nestled among the trees, as the path continued on past.

        Elodie dismounted and led the pony along the path, gazing longingly at the glowing warm light that shone from the cottage's windows. The pony snorted, and Elodie patted her neck, murmuring a hushed, "Good girl."