Mortis

The colt with the ashy colored coat stood upon sturdy legs at four months old and watched with keen interest as his mother was led from the stable once again.

At just three months old, the wee horse had accepted the fact that its mother was led away often and knew she’d return before the sky grew black. He had at one month old freaked out as she was led away- bucking his sort of wobbly legs and crying shrilly.

He'd been beaten then. With a wooden pole, hard enough to hurt but not so enough to leave scars. His mother leaving became a routine, but the little colt still felt anguish in her absence. He felt her uneasiness upon leaving him and his panicky nerves jittered as if live wires burned under his skin as he also felt that she too, worried about not coming back. Other horses in the stable had never come back.

The stable owner was tall, barrel-bellied, with a short grey beard and a mass of dark greyish curls under a cap. His blue eyes danced charmingly sweet for the well-dressed men that came by the stable but when he gazed upon the foal the eyes turned icy and grey like winter storm clouds over a battlefield. He shook his head slowly side to side and muttered under his breath, “freakin fuckin freak. Oughta name you Spook.”

The little horse blinked at the man and as he watched, the man’s face began to bubble. Small dark spots appeared and as they grew larger, joining together, they began to smoke. Within seconds, the man’s charcoally face began to peel, revealing the white bone underneath; lips peeled back in a grinning rictus and the eyeballs bulged and swelled and gloopy rivulets of yellow pus began to run down flaking charred remaining flesh…a voice in his head said calmly, ‘You’re better than this.’

The wee horse shook his head and blinked fiercely. The man was intact again…and staring at him strangely, frowning. He raised his hand and touched a forehead that was sweating profusely.

“Pardon me?” asked a proper English voice from behind him.

The breeder whipped his head towards the stable door. His expression switched from revulsion to merry congeniality. “Heh heh. Didn’t hear ya step up. You Mista Moorehead? From, er, uppin Manchester?”

In the doorway stood a well-suited man in a nappy bowler hat. His accent was one of fine old breeding. His smooth featured face bore a look of amusement. “Indeed. You must be Mister Miles. Pleased to meet you.” Moorehead extended a cashmere gloved hand, and they shook. “Your reputation precedes you. These animals are even more magnificent up close. I’ve been watching them race since I was but a wee lad.” The man wore a tailored black suit with a red brocade vest peeking from his black wool overcoat. His eyes were seawater green.

“Thankee sir. Horse breedin bin in ma famlee for over two hundred years.” Miles stood straighter and puffed out his pigeon chest.

“Have you truly given this one here the moniker Spook?”

“No no. Ee’s got no handle yet. Ise jus commenting bout is oddness.”

Moorehead inspected the little colt, feeling his forelocks and looking into his nearly black eyes. The colt blinked his long feathery white lashes and leaned into the gloved hand as it stroked his forehead. “He seems perfectly fine to me. Long legs, clear intelligent eyes, a friendly disposition.”

“Well sir, you see…is mum is chestnut, a dark shade, with black mane an tail an forelocks. Is pappa, the stud, is pure black cepting a small white star on is forehead.”

“Not so unusual, I’m sure. Perhaps farther in his ancestry---?”

“Last white horse I’ve ad ere were…oh…praps eight years back. Sold to a fella from up in Glasgow. Me fadda were alive then an ee tole me never to race the white ones, twas bad luck. This ere colt’s ancestors been dark of coat as far back as me grampy’s day an he didn’t take kindly to the pale ones neither.”

“I see. Well, that certainly does sound odd then.”

The two men walked the aisle to the far end of the stable and talked about racing. They turned and walked back as a young stable hand led the colt’s mother in. He had a tweed pageboy cap pulled down over his eyes, his face under its shadow, he did not look up at the men and said nothing. The little white colt pranced and whinnied excitedly. Mr. Miles frowned at him, throwing daggers of ice from his eyes. Mr. Moorehead’s green eyes sparkled with amusement. Miles may be a horse breeder, but Moorehead was a horse lover.

Moorehead exclaimed, “Ah now, here she is. What a fine animal.” To the mare he said as he stroked her shoulder, “And such a champion. So pleased to meet you Miss Hazel Whiplash.”

The stable hand passed the reins to Miles and left, unpresumingly silent and subdued just the way Mr. Miles liked his boys- less like employees, more like servants.

Miles said, “She’s in top shape and rearin ta go.”

Moorehead looked Hazel over more intently than he had her offspring. “She’s in fine shape. Worth every penny.”

“I thank you again Mr. Moorehead. You are a most generous sponsor.”

“The pleasure is mine. I look forward to seeing her race this afternoon.”

After the gentleman in black left, Miles led Hazel Whiplash out the stable door. The nameless white colt cried with dismay and reared in frustration. Miles tied the reins to a hook and pulled the wooden pole- an old axe handle- from the wall. He whacked the colt with a fast and heavy hand across his back in a frenzy.

The colt nipped the man’s arm, and he cried out gutturally, “Gaaaa! Good for nothin Spook---” He raised the stick in blind anger and was about to brain the little horse…when Hazel kicked out her back legs and nailed the man in the chest. He flew backwards and landed on his back with a puff of yellow straw dust. He lay there trying to catch his breath for two minutes. At last, he rose and grabbed hazel’s reins which were hanging loose beneath her soft muzzle. Her eyes followed his and taunted him with contempt.

“Ohhhh you.  You spawned that freak. Sumptin evil…I’d butcher ya here and now if it wasn’t fer ya winnin streak. Shoulda called ya Lucky Lucy.” He looked around for his beatin stick, found it, and re-hooked it on the wall by the door. “You nearly done though. Gettin old. Soon to be glue. Heh heh. We’ll have us a beanfest in yer honor ye fuckin bitch. Heh heh.”

He pulled on the reins and Hazel followed him out the wide double doors.

The young stable hand was waiting dutifully by with pitchfork in hand. He peered out from under his cap up at the man leading the beautiful horse away. The waning sunlight caught his eyes for just a second; brilliant emerald flashed, and his brows furrowed with repugnance. Then he turned to the stalls and went to the white colt. He first knelt and hugged the animal. The colt, starved for affection, leaned to the boy. The boy stood and smoothed the colt’s ashy white coat with his small bare hands. He’d been instructed to muck the stall out, like the rest, and feed the young horse the old oats, the near moldy ones and nothing else. That, and a pail of water.

The boy pulled an apple and three carrots from his pocket and fed the colt while talking to him softly. “Don’t you worry little one. I’ll not let him harm you.”

The colt believed him. When the man had raised the stick to him, he’d seen the small pale hand reach into the doorway and untie his mother’s reins.

His mother did not come back.

Up in Manchester, in a fine three storied Victorian, Mr. Moorehead sat at a dinner table with his son. The boy said, “why can’t we just eliminate him?”

Moorehead said, “Son, his time is not up yet.”

“But he is a nasty bad man who lets those beautiful creatures---”

His father cut him off. “---yes. When his time is due, his soul will shuttle south. Those who abuse the innocent are considered the most heinous.”

The nameless little white colt grew depressed. He hated this place ruled by that man and missed his mother - her essence, her strength and kindness, and her milk. He would not drink the foul milk the woman brought, she reeked of the man’s wicked scent. One time the man came, and the white colt sought his eyes with his own, daring him to look…the colt saw the man’s head burst into flame…again, just his imagination…but the wicked man held both hands to his head as he left the stable.

At last, the boy came back. The colt, now five months old, drank the milk he offered.

But he cried for his mother for two more months and felt so very alone. Except for the boy. The man ignored him because all he did was lie down and cry. He didn’t act out anymore, he didn’t make noise. He didn’t care. He slept a lot.

And he dreamed of flying.

The colt had grown tall and sturdy by six months, and his coat had turned sleek and the color of fresh cream. His irises had turned completely black like shiny polished onyx. The man was preparing to sell him. He remained nameless and he understood that it was a meanness.

“Ahhhh, finally getting rid of ya…ya wicked Spook. Gotta buyer forya. Ida killed ya but, yknow… gotta get paid. Guy owns a glue factory. Hee hee hee haha! Guy needs a puller for is cart…and then, well…I oughtta call ya Sticky! Har harrrrrr!”

The young stable hand who slunk around in the shadows watched and listened. His green eyes sparked like festival lights in anger…then turned a deep bloody red like turnpike warning lights. He reeled in his anger and hatred. He had to. He was being trained to. The warning lights calmed to sea green once again.

From the shadows, his father places a hand upon his shoulder and whispers, “Don’t worry none. You watch and learn. Patience is our creed son, the glue man’s time is up.”

Mr. Miles and the Glueman drank in the house across the yard from the stable. Whiskey was aflowin’ and the deal was made.

Miles said slurrily, “Damned colt got’s somethin in im, somethin devlish…”

“Ya don’t say?” said the Glueman, equally slurry.

“I swears he sees inside me ‘ed. Weird to be white from nothing but dark.”

“I seen many a weird. Good ard work and a leather strap’ll beat the spook outta im.’

“Heh heh heh. Good.”

They toasted again and eventually the Glueman came outside to relieve his bladder, unaware that the father and son watched, hidden in the shadows. The drunken man stepped on a rake left on the ground. The tines under his feet lifted the handle that whacked him in the head.

“Father! You told me to leave that rake…oh you!”

Mr. Moorehead shrugged in the darkness. “I can pull some strings now that I’m retiring.”

The drunken man fell headfirst into a water trough where he drowned. At least it was a peaceful death.

Moorehead turned to his son and said, “you see? His soul was ripe for harvesting. His time had come.”

“I still wish we could take that awful Mr. Miles.”

“His time will come. His soul will go south. Get your horse. I will inform Mr. Miles.”

The boy raced into the stable. The Glueman had paid for the white horse, it was tied and ready to be taken. The horse pranced happily at the sight of the boy and his spirits lifted as the boy took his reins. The horse had never been happier. He was beautiful and sleek and tall. Creamy white with black eyes. His mane flowed like silk, long and magical.

In Manchester, at the Moorehead’s small stable, the boy brushed the sleek pale horse. His father came in and the boy beamed at him. “He’s ready Father. I’m ready too.”

“Yes, young Fredrick Thanatos, you are.”

The boy had dressed in a suit of black, complete with a long flowing cloak. His long dark hair was tied in a tail and his eyes flashed green like his father’s. In his left hand he held a sickle on a long black rod.

At the stable where the boy had worked …and spied upon the horses…the young Thanatos dismounted and followed his horse inside. The man was there. He turned around and said, “Wha the? You canno bring im back mister…”

Fred was silent. His horse strode towards the stable owner.

“Wh-wh-at the fu---”

The huge white horse towered over the man who tried to hide his face. Slowly, inch by inch, the man turned towards the horse as if he was a clay dummy being turned by artist’s hands. The artist then pushed up his chin to force the man to look at the horse.

The man stared into the eyes of the white horse, he could not move otherwise. The polished onyx eyes softened at first…then a flame sprouted within the iris until it glowed red.

Once again, the man felt his face melting off, hot and charring and peeling. And once again, it was merely an illusion.

As Miles groped at his face his heart stuttered and quit.

“You are Mortis,” said the boy now the reaper to his horse.