Split Infinity

“Now I thought I could conquer you, Neysa. I thought I could ride you and make you mine, as I have done so many times before with other horses. I see now I was wrong. I rode you, but you are not mine. You will kill yourself before you submit to the taming. I hardly know you, Neysa, but I love you; I would not have you sacrifice yourself to escape me.” Stile felt moisture on his cheeks and knew he was crying again, as he had with Sheen. Few things could move him that way. A woman was one; a horse was another. “No, do not hurt yourself for me! I grieve at the very thought. I will let you go, Neysa! I can not impose respect on you.  You are the most perfect steed I could ever hope to associate with, but I will seek another, a lesser animal.  For I must be accepted too; it must be mutual. I can not love, and be unloved. Go with my regret, my sorrow, and my blessing. You are free.” And he let her go, slowly, so as not to startle her, and stepped back.

“Yet I wish it had worked out,” he said. “Not merely because I can see how good you would have been for me. Not only because the love of such a creature as you, not lightly given, is more precious than anything else I could seek. Not only because you are another example of what I like to see in myself, in my foolish private vanity: the proof that excellence can indeed come in small packages. No, there is more than that. I believe you need me the same way I need you. You are alone; you may not be aware of it, but you need a companion too, one who respects you for what you are.  You are no ordinary mare.”

He saw a scrape on her foreleg. “Oh, Neysa—you were hurt on that run.” He squatted to examine it.  Pain lanced through his knees, and he fell over, dangerously near the brink. He clutched at turf and drew himself back to safer ground. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly. “I have bad knees .. . never mind.” He got up carefully, using his hands to brace himself, for rising without squatting was awkward. He had never fully appreciated the uses of his knees, until their capability was diminished.

He approached Neysa slowly, still careful not to startle her, then bent from the waist to look at her leg. “I could wash that off for you, but there’s no water here and I think it will heal by itself. It is not serious, and the blood helps clean it. But let me check your feet, Neysa. I do not want to leave you with any injuries of my making, and feet are crucially important. May I lift your left front foot?” He slid his hand down along her leg, avoiding the scrape, then drew on the ankle. “Easy, easy—I just want to look. To see if there are any cracks—cracks in hooves are bad news.” The foot came up, though the unicorn was obviously uncertain what he was doing, and he looked at it from the bottom. It was still fairly warm; wisps of vapor curled from the frog, the central triangle of the hoof. “No, that is a fine clean hoof, a little chipped around the edges, but no cracks. You must get plenty of protein in your diet, Neysal”

He set the foot down. “I should check the others, but I fear you would misunderstand. This is one thing a man can do for his horse. He can check the feet, clear the stones or other obstructions, file them down when they wear unevenly or get badly chipped. The welfare of the steed becomes the responsibility of the man.  When food is scarce, the man provides. When there is danger, the man fights to protect the horse. Some animals who prey on horses are wary of men. I might face down a wolf, while you—“ He looked at her horn.  “No, you could handle a wolf! You don’t need the likes of me; why should I deceive myself. I could tell you that to be the associate of a man is to be protected by the intelligence of a man, by his farsighted mind.  That a man will anticipate danger and avoid it, for both himself and his mount. His brain makes up for his lesser perceptions. He will steer around sharp stones that might crack hooves. But why should this have meaning for you? You have savvy like none I have seen in any horse; you don’t need protection. I delude myself in my desperate need to justify myself, to think that I could in any way be worthy of you.”

A fly buzzed up, landing on Neysa. She shook her skin in that place, as horses did, but the fly refused to budge. Her tail flicked across, but the fly was on her shoulder, out of range. She could get it with her mouth, but then she would have to take her attention off Stile. The fly, with the canny ruthlessness of its kind, settled down to bite.