05/07/2025
Thought I'd share one of my short stories,
Currently unnamed,
Brae was a cart horse living once in a peaceful valley encircled by crumbling hills. Broad shouldered and steady, Brae had a thick hide worn by sun and frost and a heart meant for service. Every day, from the gray light of morning to the purple quiet of dusk, he hauled his master's cart across mud, across snow, over harvest and poverty.
He didn't whinge.
His master, an older man called Garven, said good things about him frequently. "Good beast," he mused upon himself, patting Brae's neck as he loaded another haystack, another barrel, yet another load. "Strong as a rock." Born to help.
And so Brae provided. He bowed his head as the cart got heavier. He rooted with his hooves when his legs trembled from the weight. He carried it even when the yoke started to rip into his shoulders, bleeding. Brae thought, like all pack animals are instructed, that duty wins belonging.
Years passed. Under colder months, the fields died. The cart ages. Brae did also.
Brae attempted to get up one morning with stiff oak joints and frost cracking in the grass, but the weight on his back resisted lifting. The cart lay heavier than it ever did, seeming to be laden with stones. Every stride he took sent pain searing up his backbone until he staggered, legs collapsing, and crashed in the dirt.
Garven yelled. He chastised Brae, calling him worthless. And something antiquated and hidden turned in Brae's heart, something untamed. He spun his head in agony and doubt and bit Garven's arm.
Not to injure. Not from malicious intent. Still, because the agony demanded a voice.
Garven gasped in rage, holding his arm. Snarling, "That's your thanks? After all I gave you?" he spat on the floor next to Brae.
Brae was unattached just like that.
No more neck pats. No further yoke. No more home.
Eyes distant, his back raw, ribs visible, he drifted along the rim of the valley. While the other animals observed but did not speak. Brae had developed into a cautionary example for breaking rather than biting.
He lay under a dying tree one night and observed the heavens rotate above him.
He pondered on the years he had given. Regarding the silence he had maintained. of the conviction that loyalty would protect him amid the storms.
He was mistaken.
Still, he did not curse the planet. But he began to question:
If the day you stumble you are fed to the wind, what worth is a life devoted to serving?
Morally:
Unlimited loyalty may be praised, but not necessarily care. Even pack animals crack; when they do, the silence they maintained might bite more than any roar.
