The Pastel Prairie

He came back to himself at the top of the rise. This hill, he knew, was the horizon he had seen his horse disappearing over. At first glance at what lay beyond, he drooped. The view was the same in front as behind, except the horizon was a whole lot farther away again. He had no idea how long it had taken him to get to this one; the journey had seemed plodding and endless.

The brown trail ran straight away, narrowing to a point and vanishing long before it reached the limits of his vision.

His hands felt bulky, and he glanced down. They were thickly wrapped in the pastel grasses. Huh? When did I do that? What's happening to me? Is this a dream? Gotta wake up. Gotta wake up. Where the FUCK am I? Enough! That's it, joke's over. Nobody's gonna pull the wool over . . . over . . .

He tried desperately to insert his name into the thought but could not remember it. He opened his mouth in a soundless scream. His chest heaved, but he could feel no air.

He sat down in the grass, put his head in his hands, and tried to think it through. Thinking was tricky in this place, with its never-ending swirl of pastel hues and its suffocating, airless silence, so he was not aware that he had given up on it almost as soon as he sat down.

He suddenly recalled an incident where he had fallen off the retaining wall at camp into the lake. He'd been three then, and the water was well over his head. He had thrashed below the surface, unable to see clearly, not knowing which way was up, or how he had gotten there. The memory was so vivid that he could feel the cold, silky brush of water on his limbs. Most of all, he remembered how desperation and confusion had flooded him like water in his lungs, in his soul, a terror so immense it would have taken the breath from him had he been able to draw any.

He felt that same terror now.

Inundated in this memory, awash in the long-ago sensations, he physically felt the hands of his father scoop him up and cradle him in a loving embrace just as they had done after pulling him from the water those long years ago. He felt it and opened his eyes, hoping to see his father, knowing it was ridiculous; Dad had passed nearly thirty years ago.

He was alone and once more on his feet. The memory had vanished, taking fear with it. He did not know it, but both, as well as his name, had gone beyond recall. He bounced on his feet. Holy hell, but I feel better. Lighter! Jim, I'm coming for you, Jim, and when I get there we'll ride together again.

The naked man started down the hill, eager to catch his horse.

Many times more along the path, the naked man stumbled and fell, caught up in some living, present version of a memory. Reliving each one, he again experienced all of the emotions powering the reverie. Pain, sadness, joy, love--oh, yes, hate too--all of them coursed through him like electric shocks. After a fit passed, he rose and moved on, intent on his goal, never noticing that each time he got up, he left that part of himself behind to soak deep down into the twisted skeins of grass under his feet. The lightness he felt after each fugue invigorated and suffused him; the empty places left by his subtracted memories were newly filled with peace. On he trod, falling, thrashing, rising, walking, falling again. There was no day, no night. The man traversed an unknowable multitude of watercolor horizons in this fashion, unseeing of anything but the brown streak before him.

He paused only once, remembering his maimed and scarred hands. He unwrapped the grasses. Oh, that's looking better. He examined his hands with relief. all the open wounds had closed, and the deep, angry red of the underlying scars had faded. Healing nicely, I guess I'll be able to grab Jim's reins after all. Hi ho! The man re-wrapped his hands and pushed on.

He traveled unstopping after that--ever deeper into the Unending of the pastel prairie. Behind him, his dropped memories healed the brown scar of the fleeing thief, leaving no trace of its passing.

* * * * *

A stimulus so strange that it pierced the intense focus brought the (man?) to a halt. (He?) paused, pondering, knowing (he?) knew what that sound was . . . if only . . . horses! Yes, yes, of course, that's what horses sound like. So many of them!

The (man?) hurried then, gliding up to the crest of the hill (he?) was climbing. Spread out in the valley below were--thousands?-of horses.

Color erupted into being around (him?). The pastel hues of the endless prairie deepened and strengthened into colors so brilliant that the (man?) was awestruck. (Overjoyed?) to at last have found his horse (he's here, I know he's here, he has to be) the (man?) rushed down the hill toward the sight and sound of horses.

End of Part II