The Wild Hunt

I stand in the silence and wait. Down in the valley farmers are bringing their livestock into waiting barns and fastening the doors tight. Mothers tuck children into bed, pulling the covers a little tighter than usual, leaving a nightlight on in the corner. Stragglers wander home from the pub, pulling up their collars and bowing their heads against the wind.

 

I am whistling, a low constant breath of sound, like air passing across the top of a bottle. The sound rolls down the hillside, into the valley, and the wind howls its reply.

 

They have forgotten. They have forgotten who they are. They have forgotten who they are and they will remember. Or they will die. Nature is simple that way.

 

I am the storm. I bring remembrance.

 

I stand on the hill facing South and I summon the Wild Hunt. With arms raised to the the sky I call the elements and they respond with a deafening roar. Then comes the rain; great swollen drops start to fall. A shower becomes a downpour becomes a great raging torrent from the pitch black sky.

 

All down the valley trees are bent double, every sinew and fibre stretched to their limit as the gale blows on. I...

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Katherine Horejsi
May 13 2020

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