The prophecy
She sits beneath a leaning sycamore tree combing through blades of grass pondering just what Homer meant. The blind poet who saw her thoughts before she did. How can one see what they do not understand let alone translate it? The snap of a branch leaves her question hanging, stuck on the branches of the drunken tree towering her. There is a horse honey -colored who stands with his rider slumped on its back. There is a stream that cuts between them like a scar. She cannot see his face hidden beneath his hood, his arrival is like something out of a fairytale. A sight so strange that her curiosity could not perceive it true in any sense. Who is he? What happened to him? And why is he this deep in the woods? They are both right under the sun glistening underneath the rays. He is a needle in a haystack that somehow found her.
The stream slithers through rocks babbling and gurgling down its continuous path. The slick passage of stoney slabs protest at each step forward; silt dancing with the shallows as her feet plunge into the water logged earth. She is closer to the mounted man and the stallion, pointing his head towards the ground and upward to the sky. She goes for the stranger’s hood to reveal his face but the stead interrupts snorting and pawing at the dirt. Where did you come from? The words never come from her mouth but remain on her face. Her hand glides over Honey’s silk coat, easing him with subtle strokes. Affixed on the horses’ hindquarters bears a brand of the royals who never come this far into the timbered enclosure unless there is war or someone is going to die.
The slouched dweller lets out a moan with unintelligible dialogue next, he raises his head and leans towards her. His body weight is more than she can hold but she is able to cradle his limp frame, vigor is needed to place him upright. She, Honey and the incapacitated man precede through thick foliage and interlocking shrubbery. The heat of the sun is pressed against her neck as they trudge over pine cones and scurrying furry creatures. When they arrive her home is as she left it white and purple litter the ground where a row of magnolia trees guard the handwoven arch, made by her mother and grandmother some time ago. She leads the way to two tall double doors with peeling paint and mud spatter, the creaky barn doors announce her arrival. Behind her the setting sun watches as she disappears with her guests into the barn shutting out the twilight. She struggles to get the stranger down while the animals watch in silence. She gives Honey some hay and turns on the lantern as then gnawing and rustling resumes from the onlookers.
She pulls back his oversized shirt with a gelatinous red goop, exposing a gash to the right side of his abdomen. As she tears some cloth apart, dust particles expel in a puff just as the last thread breaks. She then douses it in a clear liquid pressing it to the wound. His eyes break open with a steady gaze on her, while his hand firmly grips her wrist. She lets out a squeal but covers her mouth to not alert her grandmother just next door. His fingers are taught around her, a perfect fit in his hand, his grasp is tight but not enough to leave an impression on the skin but a call for help, a grip of surrender, of permission to tend to his wound. “What happened to you?” she says.
His eyes vanish behind his eyelids leaving all her questions still unanswered. She finally lets out her breath; she threads a needle and holds the tip over the flame of the lantern; she can still feel the prickly sensation of his skin to hers. She pokes the needle into the top layer of skin trailing the string into the air high above her head. After several sutures her work is finished, she takes the strand between her teeth and snips it. She pours some pink liquid onto a rag, holding the stained pink cloth over his nose and mouth for a couple of seconds until life pours out of him with a sharp inhale, sending her falling onto her butt. He is awake, his dark hair splayed all over his head.
“Where am I?” he says with a cough. She is strangling the rag in her hands. He winces in pain as he tries to sit up.
“Please— you’re badly hurt, I–brought you here to help you.” she grabs a bucket of water, scooping some with her cupped hand and bringing it to his mouth. He stares at her hand and then her eyes before sipping from her flesh.
“You found me…well Honey did,” she speaks.
“Honey?” His fingers trail the stitching, and his head begins to swivel and then his body until pain shoots up his side. He then looks down and then at his arms and then at his legs and feet.
“Did you find me this way?” he says, his hand is searching for something.
“Your horse— he brought you here,” she points to Honey who is currently snapping at a fly.
“In these clothes like th–never mind” he straightens his body.
“What were you doing in the Timbers?” She can sense he is hiding something from her Is someone going to die? Is there a war coming?” everything tumbles out all at once.
…they had been following me when I fell off of Nutmeg,” his head never lifts when he mentions the horses name. She stifles a giggle and continues with questions.
“Who are they? And where did you come from!” her voice raising with each inquiry.
“You keep asking me that! but the truth is I cannot tell you…it will only do you more harm than good if you knew” he speaks, his facial expression lingers in a plea for secrecy to be kept.
“I will leave the questions for later…but I cannot make any promises I will bring you supper soon but if you want to stay here, I will need the truth from you,”
She brings herself to her feet. “May I ask your name?” he tries to mimic her movement, but he stumbles and falls back on the hay. “You can call me Thea” her back is turned to him as she makes her way to the door. “I’m…Sylas” he pauses as he speaks leaning against the pig pen. “Nice to meet you,” she closes the door behind her smiling behind them before she takes a deep breath and starts toward the cottage.
In the house her grandmother stands with her back turned, plunging a huge stick into a small brown pot while something sweet floats in the air. Her ashen hair is braided and tucked over her shoulder. “Can you take over Deary — the biscuits are ready,” her grandmother says before she even turns around. “Hello Grandmother,” she kisses her on the back of her head and takes over poking the stick into the hole which feels like prodding wet mud. Her grandmother is covered in flour and smells like lilac and cinnamon, and Nutmeg. Her mind reverts back to the stranger in the barn without food and water and his spicy horse. “Did you find anything on your travels?” the old woman’s voice rides on a scented cloud. “Oh yes, just Nutmeg and a beautiful stranger” she says but the last bit was in a low whisper. “Oh wonderful, I am making my lilac, nutmeg and cinnamon biscuits for my voyage. “You’re leaving — now?” she asks while no longer jabbing the stick. The petite white-haired woman grabs her by her head and plants a kiss on her forehead, with her creased lips yet soft and gentle Thea’s face cupped between her puffy hands. “Thea you’ll be fine Deary and so will I— besides my prophecy was right”
“Gram, will you please stop with this prophecy—if a prince was coming here don’t you think he would have shown up already when you had the prophecy almost ten years ago?” Thea’s head is facing the ceiling as she protests. “Thea sometimes things take time—and sometimes things are right in front of us we just cannot see them yet” the older woman stares out the window as she picks up her cloak.