The Girl with Horses in Her Head

She tossed as the ocean does in nightmares. Roiling, wrinkled sheets of water like knotted muscles. There was no rest for her that night.

Father and Mother watched from the doorway, their hearts aching. Father’s helpless hands twined themselves to Mother’s. They didn’t pray that night.

You see, they had prayed many, many times, and prayer costs a good deal of hope, and hope is replenished by good things and kind deeds, although a sunny day might suffice. But no goodness or kindness had come to them in many days, and the sun, even when it shone brightly, was only a washed-out white to their eyes, and so their hope had been exhausted, and they held no prayers in their heart which they could pray.

Father and Mother left the doorway empty. A frame with nothing in it.

It was hours before the girl finally gave up on sleep. By then, her feet were ice and her fingers jittered. The horses ran wild in her head.

She threw the covers to the ground, and sat up. She pulled trembling hands through her hair, tearing strands from their places, and combing out knots. The horses always seemed to like this, and they began to run together as a herd. Over the hills in great, pounding, stampedes, then through the valleys like a river bursting free from a dam.

The horses sang their choruses, bellowing bass voices, and tenor whinnies. The young calves brushing against one another as they chased each other in and out of the forest of legs, while the old ones panted, feeling the strain of their tireless pace.

And the girl pulled at her hair untli her hands were full, scratched her nails across her skin until it turned white then red, and pinched her lower lip tight between her teeth until she tasted blood.

Hooves tore across endless fields of grass, leaving mud in their wake.

The girl tiptoed out of her room, her whole body rocking to the rhythm of the gallop.

Down the stairs, through the hall, out the door, and into the dark.

Into empty places.

She took off, trailing her hands behind her. Wide-armed and floating in the wind. Her hair became a mane, and her fingers trembled no more. She leapt over the sidewalks, felt the cool night-dew of the lawns upon her bare feet, and the gentle burn of the asphalt on her calloused soles.

The horses rejoiced in her head.

She ran until she was far from home, and her feet were numb from dew and scratches.

Then she collapsed in a bed of dandelions, and all was still but for the gallop of her heart and her steady panting, pooling clouds in the Autumn air.

The horses stopped and let out a joyful chorus, then returned to their running.

The girl got to her feet, worn now beyond what she could bear, and stumbled back towards her home.

It was long past sunrise when she arrived, and Mother and Father were fretting about anxiously. They were so happy to see her, despite her spent body, torn and bloodied skin, and the ragged look in her eyes.

They had prepared breakfast for her, and she ate it all and part of Father’s. Then she returned to her room to sleep.

She slept until the day was coming to its close, and then she awoke.

She awoke to the beating of hooves.

There were tears in her eyes then, for she just wanted to rest, but knew that she could not.

Stubbornly, she buried her head in her pillow. A chorus of neighing met her.

She turned, and pulled the covers about her face. The hills were alive with them, echoing a rumbling thunder.

She began to shout, to scratch skin and tear at her hair.

Mother and Father watched from the doorway, then left with a look of sadness, for there was nothing they could do for her that hadn’t been done.

The horses stood before her now, in every color and type. They had untamed fire in their eyes, and their lungs held the wind.

“What is it you want?” she called to them.

They ran and ran, beating down the earth beneath them, and sending up great clouds of dust.

“You want to run?” she asked.

The horses replied with a loud chorus of neighs and whinnies.

The girl scowled, and hardened her resolve.

“I won’t run,” she declared. And with that, she lay back down on her bed to sleep.

The horses went wild. They set out in all directions, groaning and snorting and kicking their hooves in the dirt.

The girl couldn’t take it for long, and she sat up again.

“Look!” she shouted, and they hushed. “You want me to run, right? And I need to be able to rest or I won’t be able to run at all. So, you have to use better manners, alright?”

A horse snorted. Nobody had ever spoken to them of manners.

“Look,” said the girl. “Line yourselves up, I think I have a solution.”

With a good deal of huffing and grumbling, the horses put themselves into a line. The girl smiled.

“Now, wait,” she said. And she went to sleep.

They let her rest, although it seemed an eternity to them.

When she awoke, they erupted in impatient excitement.

“I will give you each a place to run, but it will take time.”

Angry snorts were their reply.

“Well then, you’ll learn patience,” she laughed.

Then she looked to the first horse in line, squinting, and stared at it for a long while.

Finally, when the horses had begun to think that was the extent of her plan, she looked away. She took a pen and a notebook from her desk and opened to a blank page.

She wrote and scribbled for the better part of an hour, then came back to the first horse.

“Here,” she said. “I wrote a story for you. It’s about a woman who joins the circus.”

The horse stayed still.

“And I want you to get out of my head, and go into this story. Run wild, go wherever you’d like. I left it open-ended for you.”

The horse trotted into the story, vanishing from her mind.

As the girl folded up the sheet of paper, she saw that where she had left off with the words, new ink was scrawling the next chapter into existence.

She folded the sheet carefully into a little paper boat, and set it on her desk.

“Who’s next?”

She stayed up for hours, giving homes to the lost spirits in her skull. When finally she lay down the pen, her fingers ached and her back was sore. Still, it was better than the running had left her. The herd was smaller now, not by much, but smaller nonetheless. She promised to continue on the next day, then shut her eyes to sleep.

It took weeks, but she slowly worked at giving the horses stories that they could run wild in. Some were easier than others, taking only a few minutes, while others needed to be pieced together over many nights. Some made her happy to write, others reduced her to tears. She needed only remind herself that they were not for her, but for the horses. In fact, the stories were not hers at all, for she only wrote the start to them.

The paper boats became a vast fleet on her desk, and the longer they sat there, the more the ink spread, until some of them had written over themselves so many times that it was nothing but a black stain anymore.

Finally, the girl came to the final horse.

She stared at it for a very long time, but she saw no story for it.

The horse batted its tail, but held its tongue, for it knew that it needn’t wait much longer.

The girl asked for a night to think about it.

In the morning, her mind was no clearer. She took a walk about the neighborhood to think about it. Still nothing.

Hooves kicked up dirt.

The girl ignored the horse, knowing that the pressure wouldn’t help her find the perfect story any quicker.

She decided to go for another walk. This time, she gathered up the paper boats in a wagon, and brought them with her. She walked down to the riverside, hooves and snorting in her head for the first time in weeks. She took the dog-eared notebook and pen with her, in case she found the inspiration on the road.

As she walked, she noticed that her hands had become weak, and her feet heavy. The wind pushed her aside, and gravity pulled her shoulders to a slouch.

She was old now, you see, and no longer the girl she had been.

Beside the river, she threw in the paper boats one at a time, watching them swirl in the current as the pulp drank up the water. When she had thrown in the final one, the horse went quiet, for it was clear that she had reached a decision.

“I have a story for you,” she said. “The most patient horse of them all.”

The horse stood very still, listening.

She said nothing, but carried a sadness in her gaze as she stared into the water.

The horse whinnied.

The woman shook her head. “This one I will not write.” And, saying so, she let the notebook fall into the river, and threw the pen in as well.

The horse stomped and kicked.

The woman smiled. “I have put down the pen,” she said. “And I have your story now, if you will listen.”

The horse quieted.

“Good. The story I have for you is about a girl who had horses in her head. She spent most of her life with them, and worked hard to give good homes to all of them where they could run free. She forgot to live her own life in the meantime, however, and life passed her by. Her story is yours, if you’ll have it. Run freely, and go wherever you wish to go. I left it open-ended for you.”

And with a whinny and a nod, the horse left her mind,

and entered her heart,

and she began to live.