Marbles: The Hawk Who Refused to Die a Virgin

Chapter 7. The Wizard Mounts Up

Clementine had been dealing with human insurance agents all day. She was in the field, helping to lay blankets over what was left of the dead and cart them back to the warren, and these guys were up her ass about compensation. They stood there, ankle deep in mud, chaff, and gnome viscera, with their sweat soaked scrolls in their trembling, inked stained hands and had the absolute gall to say that their interests were entitled to a full reimbursement for the profits lost due to this year's slowed, if not ruined, harvest.

"You were insured against acts of God, not the death of one," said Clementine, lifting up the silk, lemon yellow hat back from her brow and wiping away the layer of grime she'd been accruing during hours of backbreaking, and heartbreaking, cleanup efforts.

"Our people will contact your people within the month. In the meantime, let's work on having some goddamn decorum," said Clementine, looking up at these small men and nodding over at the grieving families trying to identify what was left after the massacre.

"We understand that this is a trying time," said one of the agents. "However, Miss Stone, it's best to nail down these particulars as soon as possible. The details of these tragedies tend to fade quickly, even in the minds of those directly affected."

"Oh my God humans and their airs and their platitudes," thought Clementine to herself. "When did they learn to even read? Like three hundred years ago? Please. PLEASE." Clementine calmed herself and prepared a more diplomatic rejoinder.

Just then a horse stepped between her and the agents. Clementine looked up, shocked. She had never heard the horse approach, couldn't hear it breathe even now when it was right in front of her.

Clementine had never seen a horse like this. Just as they hated and feared dogs, gnomes also had no time for horses. Humans were already huge, and fast, and strong, so why were they obsessed with surrounding themselves with animals that made them faster and stronger? Horses were the worst. They're terrifying, and they think that gnome hats look like delicious silken mushrooms.

There have been major diplomatic incidents involving gnomes getting trampled by horses. At the First Council of Sapients the entire gnome contingent had been ground into the dirt of the mountain road on the way to the conference by the clueless human contingent. Gnomes knew the score. Humans on horses were bad news. How can you continue to stack gigantic, sloppy, inconsiderate animals on top of another and expect modern society to continue?

But this horse was different. First of all, it was clean, which was rare for humans and almost unheard of for horses, especially in the middle of this horror show.

It was a draft horse, heather gray, gigantic, kitted out in a black leather bridle and saddle with glinting silver trimmings. Tightly braided, ink black mane ran down the left side of its neck. Like

there were all these little braids and they dripped down into the main braid. I don't know. It's hard to describe braids. But like this braiding was on point, and heavily threaded with baby's breath and bright orange marigolds. Its tail was also intricately braided, and cinched back up over itself to keep it off the ground. It had dinner plate sided hooves that refused to sink deeper into the dirt, even in the soft upturned earth of this killing field.

Its fetlocks? I mean I was going to move on to the horse's intelligence and personality. It frankly seems a little rude to keep ogling this animal I mean it's not his fault that he was this beautiful. But you're right, this is the first time we've seen him in the story and if we don't talk about his fetlocks we

1. Do him a disservice because his fetlocks are world class and we need to celebrate every inch of this magnificent beast.

2. If I don't do it now, I will be tempted to try to shoehorn in a description of his fetlocks later on in the story. 

3. It will ruin the flow and you will see right through that shit instantly.Even though I'm pretty sure I already shot my fetlock description wad back when I was talking about unicorns, if you didn't already know what a fetlock was then, you went and Googled it like I had to too, which primed your mind for even more impactful fetlock descriptions. I would be undermining the covenant between writer and reader if I didn't take advantage of that groundwork.

Anyway these fetlocks. Choice. Mwah (Italian chef kissing noise). They looked like giant dandelions before any of the seed tufts have blown away. They looked like the heads of the mops they use in heaven. They each blew in their own localized breeze, wispy threads trailing just above the mud, no matter where the horse stepped. They smelled amazing too, their tops were right at gnome nose level. What was that, orange blossoms? And then vanilla? And sometimes cardamom? Did each fetlock have a separate yet complementary scent that shifted depending upon which hoof was closest to the observer?

"It might even be relaxing to die under that horse," Clementine said to herself. "Like being trampled by a bath bomb."

OK its personality. Finally.

This horse was completely serene. In some centuries the Buddha can be reincarnated as a horse and this was one such century. And this was that horse. It was just chill. Endless reserves of strength and speed lay humming in his tendons, in the rise and fall of that breathing barrel of toasty satin called his ribs, but the machine behind this horse's eyes did everything possible to put the people around it at ease. Its eyes were gentle, and black, and brimming with reciprocal positivity. Just one humble thunderstorm of a horse.

It didn't obey his rider, it deferred to him, as if they had both rehearsed how they would ride up beforehand. He had a velvety snout with big expressive nostrils in broad brushstrokes of pink and gray. This horse went to Vassar but you wouldn't know it unless you added him on LinkedIn because he doesn't make a big deal about it.

"Nice horse," said Clementine.

"Thank you," said its rider. While it would be unfair to compare the rider to this equine god he sat astride, the rider was no slouch either. Mid-fifties, shaved bald, with an auburn, neatly trimmed goatee that had a few gray hairs at its center. Heavily furrowed brow, no wedding ring. Brown eyes, nice smile. He wore a thick gray robe of quilted linen. "These gentlemen were just leaving."

And indeed they were. Those agents were scooting across the field, away from Clementine and the rider. Unaccustomed to hustling, they held their insurers toques to the tops of their head with their right hands, and their sacks of scrolls were bundled under their left arms.

"Good riddance," said Clementine. "You certainly put the fear of God into those losers. My name is Clementine. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," said the rider. "My name is Aloe Vera, wizard extraordinaire. And your brother Opal is in grave danger. "