Two Stories
by Shirley Parker

The Old Grey Mare

The low-walled valley lay quiet under the sighing breeze. It was as though all inhabitants had left.  The land spoke of emptiness, yet was not empty. Birds of many-hued feathers and intemperate song had settled down on leafy perches, heads cocked, listening. Rabbits and smaller, furred creatures sat up on their haunches, looked around, then dropped low to hide amid grasses and plants, rushes and shrubs. From the ponds and inlets, came the silence of abruptly hushed croaking and peeping.

Lifting her head from the lush grass, the grey horse tossed her mane, then stamped her feet.  She snorted wildly, flattening her ears back toward the north.  A tremor rippled through her.

A faint sound was approaching, advancing, increasing. It was the sound of many sounds gathered together, many voices, many feet, but it seemed legless. Legless, as it rolled and rumbled, gathering speed, gathering strength. The mare trembled, turned her head to look over her stiffening back. Closer it came, but still there was nothing for her old eyes to study. No apparition sprang in front of them.  But the breeze sighed no more. Now her mane lifted in a cloud about her neck.

 Suddenly she wheeled, heading for a grove of silver birches.  Their protection was sparse, but the trees were closer than the shed, and an aging horse needed more time than was left to get to that.

The long row of black clouds crested the far hills, firing thunderbolts down the darkening slopes. Rabbits and mice fled for burrows and nests.  The birds became almost invisible. Frogs vanished with a plop. Lightning marched across the carpet of dappled green, burning a long zigzag of brown through daisies and goldenrod and purple heather.

Behind the lightning came the rain, torrents of wild, slashing, silver water that cascaded from boulders on the hillsides and spilled into channels that its forebears had gouged out over the ages.

Behind the rain came the dripping and splashing and the tentative chirps and rustles and murmurs.  A brilliant shaft of warm sunlight penetrated the grove of silver birches, releasing steam from the flanks of the shivering mare.

And behind the signs and sounds of reviving wildlife came the travelers. There were three at first.  They stood on the ridge looking down at the valley, their valley.

"We have come home," said the white-haired one. Of medium height and still straight of back, he struck a pose of contentment, even though his clothes were drenched. "We have come home."

The younger ones at his side tightened their hold on his elbows as he stepped forward, stumbling. Their eyes met over the old man's head. They nodded.

"Now you will feel much better, Papa," said the one whose blond hair hung in wet ropes.

"You have earned your rest, Papa," added he with the black curls showing around the edge of a brown hood of homespun.

Other travelers had labored to the ridge now.  After a short rest, they started down the other side, leading children by the hand, leading two donkeys laden with bundles of belongings. Tired, bedraggled, yet they sang a low song full of joy.

The mare lifted her head, ears pricked toward the sound. She watched as the travelers straggled toward a boarded-up shed she might have chosen. A memory stirred.

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A Lone Voice Does Make a Difference

Occasionally there’s little response to your postings on the Internet, and no interest at all shown by paper editors. Those may be the days when you feel you might be better off writing graffiti, instead of wasting your time on essays and articles. At least graffiti polluters get attention. Of course, it’s invariably the wrong kind. Rare is the true artist who creates beautiful murals in the neighborhoods. I’ve always thought that if we could catch graffiti scribblers often enough, their punishment should be to clean up their own trash and everyone else’s within a few square miles, and then do community service to learn how helpful they could be with their abilities, instead of destructive.

Now that I’ve digressed, does it ever seem that you can’t make a difference in the world? What can one writer do in a world of loud-mouthed giants of varying talents? How can a single, lowborn voice be heard in a world dominated by the scions of the silver-spoon-in-the-mouth brigade? (Or the silver-foot-in-the-mouth!) What do you do when you’re only one and small?

Someone once posed that same question to a mosquito. The pesky insect hardly stopped whining long enough to answer. “See that big guy over there?” (whine) “He thinks he’s going to get a well-deserved nap.” (whine, whine) “Watch me!” (whine, whine, whine). And you can fill in the rest of the story yourself. Anyone, regardless of size, can indeed make a difference in the world, even when he or she is perceived as something of a pest.

It doesn’t matter how small you are, or how insignificant your co-workers or bosses deem you to be. Sooner or later, you will make your point, drive the nail home, or cause someone to become so uncomfortable that you bring about badly needed social change. It might even be in that corporate environment that is so filled with spite, or in a larger area of the real world. The corporate arena, in case you didn’t know, isn’t the real world. As a veteran of the business environment, I can state it’s merely a stage where people play out their dramas, often at your expense. But at very least, it’s free entertainment, though the wounds are real enough!

Never think your voice isn’t worth hearing. You might need to check the ground under your feet and the condition of your bank account first, but always in a so-called free society, there is a reason to speak out, and a way to do so. When it comes to the Internet, praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition!

Thanks for the stories Shirley... J. Wolf

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