High upon the mountains, nested within an alcove within the rockface, wakes the inhabitant of these peaks. The faint rumble of thunder echoes across the valley as gentle clip clops are heard coming to the mouth of the home. Astor peers outside, eyes squinting against the glaring sun, as he sees the storm clouds fading away. The rains dissipating into nothing. Life will soon return to the mountains. Travelers, flowers, and critters of all kinds will reverberate their voices around the peaks. Astor’s dark fur bristles as the wind blows against it, making the lightning bolts etched into it come to life. Crackling, sparking, living. More sets of eyes open along his back. Three on each side. The storm that was Astor.
“Hunger,” it speaks. Its voice filled with gravel and spite. A voice that roared. A voice that destroyed. Now it lives on his back and speaks in murmurs, and Astor is the only one who hears it.
“I should eat first,” Astor says softly. He recalls little from before. The drums of rolling thunder. The crackle of lightning stretching across the darkened skies. Winds howling through the mountains as the rains beat upon them. That was then. This is now.
He makes his way down a path; one he has taken many times before. He knows the terrain. Where every rock sits, where every runoff leads to, and where many travelers get stuck. He made it routine to walk the trails. To learn the land and how it responds to what is around it. He does not know why he started this. Maybe he once saw something about it. He comes to a small bench along the trail where many rest before continuing. He stands in the middle, looking out to the range beyond. Then: two steps left. A step back. He uses his hoof to dig up a spot revealing a small burlap sack.
He reaches down with his teeth and pulls it out, covering the hole once more. He opens the satchel up and as it unfolds it reveals some dried roots, berries, and a bell. He eats the food first, hearing a not-so-distant rumble upon his back. He then picks up the bell and gives it a shake. A soft ‘tingle ling’ breaks the otherwise quiet of the mountain. A sharp contrast to how Astor once announced his presence.
With the ringing of the bell, two things happen.
The rumble softens and becomes quiet. It is sated. It was heard. It was announced. It is quiet, for now.
Astor feels eyes on him. Watchful eyes. He knew of them when he first woke to this world. Something watching. Waiting. Only to be seen when needed, but not for Astor.
No. For others.
A warning. The bell signals to the watcher that Astor is himself. So the massive red eyes of a creature made of shadow shuffle away, for now.
Spring has arrived and so Astor takes on his usual duty of being a guide. He leads travelers through the range. Assists in projects regarding the mountains. He cannot explain why he loves the mountains so much. Maybe they make him feel small, able to hide away within the chasms and canyons. He cannot recall how he was before, only the moment he woke years ago. Confused, lost, and afraid. Now, years later, he is the self-proclaimed keeper of the mountains. He feels at peace in the peaks. He has found a purpose and that is enough for him.
What more could a stallion ask for in this world? New beginnings take on many shapes and forms. Some we strive for. Some are given to us. Some of us simply wake up to a new world and must figure out how we fit in. The storm has been tempered, but it is always there. It sits quietly upon the back of an unassuming stallion. Watching. Waiting.
For now.
