User:Posti/Trespassers

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Icon	Works by Bob Stein on Shifti

{{#ifeq: User |User| Trespassers | Trespassers}}[[Title::{{#ifeq: User |User| Trespassers | Trespassers}}| ]]
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 {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Bob Stein | Bob Stein}} | | 
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}} | || 
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}}| ]]
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   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}} | |
     Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| Bob Stein | Bob Stein}} |
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Bob Stein | Bob Stein}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| Bob Stein | Bob Stein}}| ]]
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 {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Bob Stein | Bob Stein}} | |
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}} | | Authors: ' | 
     Authors: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}}]] 
   }} | 
   {{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}} | |
     Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| Bob Stein | Bob Stein}} |
     Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| Posti | Posti}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| Bob Stein | Bob Stein}}]] 
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}} {{#if:| — see [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}

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The mare wasn’t watching for Mark today. He was a little disappointed, since the normally friendly black Percheron was the highlight of his morning walks. Even though she was dirty and usually covered in flies, he enjoyed the scritches that left his hands dark and smelly as much as she did.

Of course, she was probably more interested in the apple he pilfered from the hotel breakfast bar every morning. It had become part of his morning ritual, standing by the fence and biting off chunks that the mare would delicately lip from his hand. Jeannie, his horse-crazy daughter, had been insanely jealous ever since he mentioned the animal on one of their nightly phone calls. Which reminded him – the seminar ended in two days, and he had promised to get a picture of the mare. He’d have to bring his camera tomorrow.

As he got closer to the split-beam fence that enclosed the mare’s pasture, he saw her in the shadows of her open shelter. She was obviously busy with a bale of hay or straw. Mark had to grin – the expanse of her hind end was evidence of her appetite. He probably shouldn’t be feeding her the apples, but the only sign around was a whimsical hand-carved plank that read ‘Trespassers will be eaten.’

The view was beautiful. It was hard to believe that busy highways and business districts were only a mile away in either direction. According to some literature he’d found in the hotel, the state had imported authentic buildings from Germany, Scotland, and Ireland to create this 1800s farm. The mare was window dressing, like the two cows in the field next to hers. No people, though. In the past week and a half, Mark hadn’t even seen a guard on his dawn hikes.

At least until now. A hard reflection caught his eye as he walked around the last curve. There was a vehicle parked next to the fence at the other end of the pasture. Mark felt a touch of guilt – he had never actually asked if it was OK to walk through the park. What was the saying? It’s easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission? Still, even if it was security, all they could do was make him leave. This access road had no gates or warning signs on the end that came out behind his hotel.

It definately wasn’t security. A gaudy metallic purple Japanese sedan was stuck between the fence and pavement, the uneven ground being too much for the ‘Rice Rocket’s’ two-inch ground clearance. Glancing in the open window, he saw keys dangling from the ignition. Whoever had left it here was either very trusting. Or very drunk. He wrinkled his nose at the stink of booze. Beer bottles littered the floor and back seat.

As he stepped back from the car, he heard a faint whimpering sound. Spinning, he moved to the fence and listened carefully. It seemed to be coming from the shelter. Something crunched under his shoe, and he glanced down to see shards of glass. There was more of it visible in the pasture, now that he was looking for it. Damn! Could the drunk have thrown bottles at her? That would explain why she hadn’t come out to get her apple. What if her face or forelegs had been cut?

Now he wished there was a guard around. The park didn’t officially open for another three hours. He could call the police when he got back to the motel, but even that would take a while. Anyway, he didn’t know if she was injured or not. There was only one way to find out. Feeling a bit self-conscious, he climbed over the fence and walked cautiously towards the building.

He was within twenty feet when the mare finally heard him. She lifted her head up and gave a short squeal, then trotted out intercept him. It was a bit alarming to have a ton of horseflesh approach with no fence between them, and he pressed up against the side of the shelter. The big Percheron seemed agitated, even when he offered her the apple. Her ears were back, and used her snout to try shoving him out into pasture. At least she did not seem injured. Just as he was contemplating making a dash for the fence, he heard the soft moaning again. It clearly came from inside the shelter, yet the mare was in front of him, still trying to herd him away. Was there another animal? Or - Mark hadn’t considered this possibility before – perhaps the drunk had staggered inside. Even if he had simply passed out, the mare could inflict serious injuries just by stepping on him.

Although the black horse squealed again and pawed at the ground when he started sliding towards the stall opening, she didn’t actually do anything to harm him. And when he finally got inside, still facing her, she blew air through her lips in a long raspberry, and took the apple he was still holding out as a peace offering.

Feeling a bit safer, he edged into the shelter and looked around. “Hello? Is anyone in here?” The mare shuffled behind him, snuffling the dirt floor, but gave no further signs of aggression. There was something here in the back. He squinted in the dark shadows. It looked like…

“Shit!” Mark leapt backwards, nearly colliding with the huge Percheron. Then he got a better view of what he had just been scared by and felt stupid. A scarecrow. It was sprawled on the floor, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and jacket from the local university. The mare must have gotten hold of the straw-stuffed clothing somehow, and had been busy chewing on its right leg. Too bad, really. Someone had done a good job. Except for where the pants were torn up, the figure had been artfully done. The head was amazing, tight-packed hay shaped to give a good impression of a young man’s face and hair. He grinned and kicked at the figure idly, annoyed with his reaction. And froze when the scarecrow opened dusty eyes and moaned.

It took a moment for Mark’s terror to ease up enough to think. The missing driver. He must have been lying here all night and gotten covered with dirt and straw. But what happened to his leg? There was no sign of blood. Before he could investigate further, the mare pushed past him and snuffled a clump of hay that seemed to be embedded in the young man’s thigh.

“No!” Mark tried to push the animal away, but it was like trying to move a building. She shifted over, trapping him in the corner as she pulled a clump of the fodder into her mouth. The young man made another soft whimper. Sliding along the wall, Mark was able to get down beside him. “Look, I’ll get you out of here. What happened?”

The kid’s eyes turned towards him, wide and frightened, and so full of dust that they looked the same color as the straw. Mark tried brushing some of the debris away, then jerked his hand back as a chunk of the young man’s forehead flaked off to reveal more straw underneath.

He stared, bewildered and terrified. Then the mare nosed him aside as she snuffled the guy’s chest and face. The solid yellow-green eyes shifted to look at her approaching muzzle, and there was a final, soft sigh. As her lips pulled gently at his chin, the young man’s features blurred into a tied-off bundle of fresh hay.

Pressed against the wall in horror, Mark heard the sound of distant, high-pitched laughter as the horse yanked free a mouthful of what now was nothing more than a scarecrow. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself. It was all an illusion of shadows and his imagination. He’d been taken in by an cleverly-made straw dummy. Except that even the clothing was falling apart as he watched.

‘Intruder.” He heard the word clearly, even though no voice had spoken it. Like the laughter, this thin, croaking voice seemed to come from far away. “Trespasser.” More laughter, all around him. Laughter that was cold and evil, and promised death.

Panicking, he tried to push past the huge Percheron, only to get knocked aside as she swung her body around. He fell backwards over the remains of the scarecrow, and landed on his back. That’s when he saw them. There were about a dozen small figures looking down at him from the rough-hewn timbers of the shelter. They were about the size of small birds, dark and wrinkled, with large eyes that were solid black and dead like a shark’s. A couple of them moved, leering down at him as they actually sank into the wood and emerged in a different spot.

What were they? Probably the basis for pixies and fairies, though there was nothing beautiful or playful about them. He sensed their power, felt it strip his will and ability to move. They were full of malicious hate. Centuries old, perhaps? Taken from their world when the shelter was sold and shipped to another country. Had they come from Germany? Scotland? It didn’t matter. He was about to join the hapless drunk as more fodder for the mare.

The creatures moved down closer, oozing in and out of the beams and planks like a school of piranha swarming towards their prey. He wanted to scream, to cry out, but his body was already becoming numb. The closest were starting to reach out for him when the mare shook the ground with a stomp of her hoof. Bristled lips that had so recently plucked an apple from his fingers now brushed his forehead, and then pulled lightly at his nose and mouth. She stomped again, then squealed loud enough to hurt his ears. However, the noise also caused the things creeping towards him to stop, even draw back. Mark felt unreasoning hope. Was she helping him get away?

Then he saw her eyes, glowing blood red in the dim light of the stall, and knew that the swarm of creatures around him had not come to this country alone. She reached into his mind, pushing into every cell of his body with a presence that threatened to obliterate awareness. His soul was enveloped and penetrated by a million tendrils of power that found his place in the cosmos, the purpose of his being. There was a flicker of emotion – amusement? And then the mare yanked.

Waking up was a surprise. He was lying on the floor of the stall, with warm afternoon sunlight streaming in. It was hard to clear his head, especially with the flies swarming around him. Struggling up, he shook himself, and shuffled outside in hopes of escaping the annoying insects.

The mare was on the far side of the pasture, cropping grass. He looked over towards the fence and saw that the car was gone. Had it ever been there? It was a struggle to think. The image of the young man crumbling away into straw was still clear in his mind, yet the details around it were already getting vague. There had been other creatures, things in the wood. And the mare had done something…

He caught her scent wafting in the hot breeze and felt his loins stir. That puzzled him. So did other thoughts in his head. He shouldn’t be in this pasture. He should be in a large dark space watching pictures on a wall. But why would he want to leave the pasture? Leave the female who was moving closer?

The flies swarmed around him again, and he kicked idly with a hind hoof and shook his head. It was a mild annoyance, one he was long used to and yet new. He twisted his head around, taking in the broad, dark expanse of dark hide in a field of vision that was much wider than it should be. His body was familiar, both in feel and appearance, almost a match for that of the inviting female. What was the odd, pink shape in the back of his head? Many such creatures stood outside the fence every day. This one had a sound attached to it, though. Mark. A name. His name?

The mare rubbed her chin along his back, and he whuffled deep in his throat. She had done this to him. Turned him into a stallion, a companion and mate. Why? In gratitude for a few apples and some scratches? More likely, she was bored and had chosen him as a diversion. It was hard to attach any emotion to the knowledge he had been transformed into an animal. She had done more than change his shape – reality had been twisted, his place in the universe redefined. As far as the world was concerned, he was now, and always had been, a horse.

Perhaps if he were to dwell on it, this change of station might bring him sorrow. If he did not exist, neither did Jeannie. Everything he had accomplished in 36 years of life had been erased. But the mare was offering herself now, her scent calling to his body with a promise of pleasure that outweighed grief for a life that never was.

The stallion snorted and snuffled the mare’s rump. All that mattered was the female. And when that was done, he would join her grazing on the clover, and hoping for an occasional trespasser.

end