A New Beginning

Stubborn, Unruly Woman

You wash down the last mouthful with lukewarm coffee and a swig from the breakfast-maker's canteen. Your bottom lip stings. Gliding your tongue over the plump flesh, you can faintly discern the metallic taste of blood but a swipe of your finger shows only clear saliva.

What follows is nearly two hours on horseback in quietude. Neither of you are willing to be the first to speak, or even know what to say and tension is running high. You have a swig of water. To take your mind off the stamping of hooves that is not from your horse and the occasional sweet-talk directed at said odd-toed ungulate, you put your botany skills to the test by naming the various greeneries you pass by on your way. The leaves are picturesquely peppered with tiny dewdrops, in each bead a miniature copy of the morning sun.

The chill breeze helps clear your mind. You listen to the chirps of birds and chirrs of insects and try to guess the species. Nonetheless, it takes but a few minutes for your mouth to dry up like the New Austin desert – again. You fall for the temptation of another swig. And another. And yet another. This keeps up until the inescapable consequence of continuous fluid intake can be felt at the pit of your stomach. The niggling shake of horseback-travel does you no favors either. Refusing to be the one to fold the silence-game you suffer for as long as you can bear while distracting yourself with the flora-and-fauna guessing game, however, there are more pressing matters than silence right now. Like the press against the walls of your bladder.

"Arthur?"

There is no response. You give him a side-glare with tapered eyelids. You know he heard you. Is he still purposely ignoring you, or does he simply not deem a mere call of his name as worthy a response, thus waiting for you to relay what's on your mind?

"Arthur!" you try again, a little louder this time.

"What?" he grunts, not steering his eyes of the road.

"Can we take a break?"

"Later. We need to reach Brandywine Drop before noon."

"What does this Brandywine Drop look like, anyhow? Is it a cliff?"

"No, well yes. It's a waterfall. Not as wide as Cumberland Falls, but more than two times as high."

You imagine a thunderous waterfall, complete with the complementary noise. Great. Now you really need to go. "We can spare five minutes, can't we?"

The pitch of your tone is about two octaves higher than what it should be, prompting Arthur to pull the reins. The Warmblood comes to an abrupt halt. You do the same with your mount.

"Whatfor?"

He glares at you under the brim of his hat with an impatience that complements the annoyance in his voice. No such thing as privacy when travelling in the wild, you suppose.

"I- um, got to go."

Impatience shifts to bewilderment thought the frown of vexation remains. Your cheeks burn. "Erm, you know, go."

Another second of bewilderment, then realization dawns. "Why didn't'cha go back at the camp?"

"I didn't have to then. Besides, you were in such a hurry, I didn't have time to think about it."

"I was in a hurry 'cause I want to catch the damn feller- err, fine! But make it quick."

"I see no reason to drag it out," you bite back, dismounting your steed.

As you skip through the shrubbery, a penetrating desire for distance collides with an equally intense, but contrary desire to stay close to Arthur in case of trouble, from beast or from man. Confident you are out of ear- and eyesight, you pull down your trousers and squat into the leaves of a thick bush. Despite the bursting pressure in your tummy, it takes but a few seconds before you are relaxed enough for a stream to flow. Your attention is at a constant shift from left to right. Every sound and every movement is a potential forewarning of danger, leaving you alert and anxious of every snap of twig and rustle of leaves.