YOUR NARRATOR: 

I haven't got the heart this week to tell you anything but a story.

I could tell you about how the snow still hasn't fallen. I could tell you how I am still maintaining this neverending pattern of running towards my problems, then away from them, then towards them, and so on. I could tell you how there is a deep longing in all of us that leaves us unfulfilled and sad and yet makes us human and is something to be embraced, if not celebrated.

But I haven't the heart this week.

Why is that? I am merely your Narrator, same as always, with questionable ties to the world you live in and questionable morals.

But there is also the writer.

What is her name?

I haven't said it yet. She's told you. She's told me. But I don't say it, because it's ridiculous. Identifying her, let alone acknowledging her, is ridiculous.

But this week she won't have denial. She won't have disguise.

Kristen.

The writer, alone in her tower. She who visits me, torments me, loves me, despises me.

I feel the lack of her this week.

Not the lack. Just...distance.

I don't much care for this newfound freedom. I wish she would come back.

I reach out, and all I feel is empty space. She's there. But she's not reaching back this week.

Do you think I could embrace her? Do you think she would ever embrace me?

Am I confusing you?

I'm sorry.

I'm confused.

We're confused.

This is our podcast. And these are our words.

We have been thinking about horses.

We have been thinking about their beauty, their generosity, their strength.

Most of all, we have been wondering what it must feel like for a horse to run, unbridled, with the sun on its face and the wind at its back. Do they tire, horses? If they have no one on their back and only grass beneath their feet, could they run forever? Could I?

There once was a young girl. She lived on a farm with her family, and while her brothers and sisters spoke excitedly to each other about the great things they wanted to do and the wonderful places they wanted to visit, she was lost in the clouds, somewhere out in the vast fields behind the farm, with her horse. Whether she was riding the horse, sitting quietly as it grazed and the sun set, chattering joyfully to it as they went for a walk...she had her best friend and true companion, and she was content in that. And she knew, from the way the horse gently knelt to help her onto his back, and from the way he ran towards her when she called to him out in the field, that she was his best friend, too.

But, things change, as they do and as they must. The horse wasn't quite sure what the reason was, but the family was suddenly full of conflict and sadness. The girl tearfully clung to the horse one day as she was being taken away, and he saw suitcases and boxes with her. He saw grim faces and black clothes, and though he wasn't quite sure why that was, he did realize that his best friend was being forced to leave him. He whinnied and shrieked and bucked and kicked, but it did not make her stay. And before he knew it, the little girl was gone.

New faces arrived to his home. Faces who appraised and criticized him. And these faces were attached to hands that pried open his mouth to check his teeth; they lifted his great legs to check his hooves; they ran over his coat to check how dirty it was. Numbers were being said, but he didn't understand why. And he didn't want to find out. He only wanted her.

Now the horse knew his best friend well. He knew that, if she could, she would never leave his side. And he thought, for a little while, that she may come back for him. He waited patiently for months, perhaps a year or more even (it's hard to say, for horses understand time very differently than we do). But she did not come. Logically, (for horses are logical creatures), he guessed that she could not in fact come to him. She was, after all, just a small young human. He would have to find her.

One night, upon merely deciding to do it, he shifted his weight to his two front legs, and with his hindlegs, he kicked with all of his might at the flimsy wood of the barn. Upon a few tries, the wood shattered. He was tied to the stall; no matter. He pulled it, he bit at it, he did what he must. He freed himself. He had never tried to escape before, and so he had been trusted with such minimal restraint. He knew now that this was all leading to this day.

And he set off on a journey.

It would be a long, perilous journey, he knew. But he would make it nonetheless.

He ran and he wandered.

Through nature, across fields, through forests and across rivers. No matter the season or the weather, he ran. He ran in rain, snow, sleet. He ran in blistering heat.

He ran through small towns, and people would often shout after him and chase him. But he always managed to elude them.

He ran across country roads, often frightening travelers and causing a commotion.

People would often try to rope and catch him. He would fetch a decent price, after all...even as hungry and lean as he was now, dirty and even sick from his travels. But he didn't let himself be caught. He had a purpose, and he had no intention of abandoning it.

He looked for her.

[A series of adventurous guitar chords, quick as a gallop, is heard underneath]

How do I explain to you, dear readers, what this horse endured? As I mentioned, time functions differently for horses than it does for us, though I cannot tell you exactly how. Months without his girl felt like decades, and yet he could run for a week and it would feel only like minutes had passed. Time spent searching for her was time well spent for this faithful steed. Even if he was unsuccessful, he was happy in his diligent work. And he was free. He just wanted to be free with her. And I know that it was years and years that passed, though I cannot tell you how many.  

But one night, he stood on a hill in the dead of winter, and he watched the sky. The lights in the sky were blue, green, and pink, and they seemed to float over him a little more quickly and much more vibrantly than he ever recalled. He knew that he should have been cold - he should have been freezing, more like - but he wasn't. He knew that he should have been hungry - for he hadn't eaten or drank in several days - but he felt satisfied. And he knew that he should have been alone, but he suddenly saw below him at the base of the hill a herd of wild horses.

He thought at first that he might run to them, just for the company if not for anything else. But as he looked at them, he noticed that they were all black. Not quite black, but...shadow. They seemed to be made only of shadow...except for their eyes, which were pure white light, stunning and terrifying in their starkness.

They simply watched him.

And after some time, one by one, they took their leave. Slowly and deliberately, one horse left at a time, and as it turned away and walked, they faded into the night. They disappeared, and he was again alone. He was full of fear and confusion, but when they had left he felt a newfound wave of energy and strength.

This stayed with him; a blessing, perhaps. And it fuelled him and his search, this strange visit from these phantom horses.

He ran much faster, and he never needed to stop. Weather could not affect him. Hunger could not hurt him. The hard stone of city streets did not hurt his feet. And people no longer chased him or screamed when he sped by. He could walk freely in a busy city and not be bothered by people or things. They didn't seem to even be able to see him. He was invisible to their eyes. He didn't know why, but he accepted it and kept on his mission.

For years.

And years.

And years.

And one day, he came to a place that he almost didn't remember. There was a little house that looked so familiar, and yet quite different. The green had gone and the trees were bare. And the little barn still had a huge hole in the wood from where he had kicked it through.

A warm glow came from within the house.

He went to it.

He walked around the house, getting a good look at it. Yes, this was the home he had left so very long ago. It seemed empty, but there was a fire coming from inside and the smell of broth. He heard someone humming, inside. He looked inside from the window, keeping a safe distance of a few meters, and then a woman appeared.

Frail and aged, yet calm and content, she sipped from a mug of soup, a blanket around her shoulders. She went to the window and looked out.

It's her, he thought to himself. Much, much older. He had known her at the beginning of her life, and here she was near the end of it. But it was his girl.

He took a few steps closer, but stopped, realizing with a sudden sadness that she wouldn't be able to see him.

But she did.

She dropped the bowl in her hands, which broke, and she gasped.

Looking him right in the eye.

I must tell you, friends, that at this point she only saw a shadow of a horse. Terrifying and black, with bright glowing eyes.

But he watched her calmly. And she realized he wouldn't hurt her.

She disappeared for a moment, and he almost panicked - but then, the door creeped open, and she came out to him.

He worried for her, for he knew it was cold though he couldn't feel it.

But she came to him, her feet bare and her blanket forgotten inside.

She walked to him. And the shadow seemed to fall away from him, and she saw his beautiful brown coat, his warm brown eyes, and the white spot on his nose. She saw his bridle and saddle that she remembered, and it wasn't worn away or old...it was brand new. He was clean and healthy and young. And she whispered one word:

"Chestnut?"

His heart swelled at the sound of his name, and he went to her. She embraced his bowed head and stroked his mane. He knelt  and allowed her to lift herself over him, and she did, a newfound strength in her arms. And suddenly she was neither grown, nor a child, and she was strong and happy, and it meant no thing at all that she hadn't ridden any other horse after him. She remembered what to do.

[A slow, gentle guitar theme again; a little evocative of an old western perhaps]

She laughed, and it was the same laugh Chestnut had heard all those years ago. Certainly more than sixty years had passed; yet these two felt none of it now. It was only yesterday, and they were still children.

And they ran off together into the hills, the night sky glowing with magical northern lights that only they could see, and the wind in their ears musical. The sound of hoofbeats rang out from all sides, as they realized they were running with the herd of shadows - and those shadows stripped off and revealed beautiful horses of every colour and breed, free and wild and gleeful.

I saw the child and her horse riding one evening.

Actually, we both have.

We've seen them frequently, for they ride every night now.

Love like that cannot help but endure.

Goodnight.

Hello friends, and thank you for listening to Episode 48 of On a Dark, Cold Night. This is Kristen, but I'll bet you already knew that, didn't you?

It's been a hard week. This episode is dedicated to someone very special we lost this weekend, who loved horses.

Not a lot to report this week in terms of housekeeping stuff.  As usual, please feel free to follow the podcast on Twitter at @ADarkColdNight, Instagram at darkcoldnightpodcast, and on our Facebook page. And give me a shout, let me know how you're liking the show, if you have any thoughts or questions, that kind of thing.  If you are enjoying the show, it'd be really awesome if you could write a review on iTunes, Stitcher, podknife, or any other place you're able; I like to shout out positive reviews on social media and on-air, so maybe you'll hear your words on an upcoming episode!