Measurable Suffering

Measurable Suffering

A stallion and an aged, pregnant mare with her two-year-old filly still at her side move slowly through the night in search of water. Spring in the high desert is unpredictable and with the morning's light comes the worst blizzard in a hundred years. The mustangs huddle together for warmth as the wind whips their long tails into twisted ropes. When the snowfall abates, they move on. The tiny band has picked up a shadow however, a badly injured, half-starved wolf now moves unnoticed with the herd of three. Hiding behind mounds of wind drifted snow the wolf waits for his opportunity, his patience stretched thin by hunger and pain. As the bleak day gives way to night, the wolf senses the odds are shifting in his favor. Exhausted from lifting her legs so high in order to move through the deep piles of thick snow, the young filly finally gives up her fight allowing herself to sink into a snowbank by an outcrop of boulders. Grabbing his opportunity the waiting wolf now leaps upon the golden youngster. As his teeth close about her throat the horse squeals in shock and pain and her whinny, moved by the wind, is carried to the ears of the young stallion; who is also near exhaustion as well.

With the first taste of blood, the wolf abandons all caution and begins to tear ravenously at the filly, instinct driving him to rip at her belly, where her hide is thinnest. But the wind which brought the filly to her knees and carried her scream to the ears of the stallion now muffles the sound of his approach until he is nearly on top of the pair. Drunk on the filly's warm blood, the wolf reacts too slowly and the cracking of the wolf's skull echos like a gunshot in the frozen air as the stallion's hooves find their intended target. The stallion rears, again and again, pummeling the wolf until nothing is left but bits of tattered fur, stained with the wolf's blood. Spent, sides heaving from his exertions, the stallion stands motionless for a moment, then raises his head to call to the filly. When no answer is forthcoming, he screams into the wind once more; his utterance half challenge, half demand. This time there is an answer. A soft nicker returns to him, but it is from the old mare. Swinging his head in her direction the stallion moves toward her. His herd, reduced to two, move on in search of shelter from the storm.

Before too long, the mare's footfalls slow and stop. Her unborn foal has begun its struggle for freedom. The young stud keeps his distance, uncertain of his role in the unfolding drama. Waves of contractions wrap themselves around the mare until, despite the cold, her entire body is soon slick with sweat. Her foal is stuck in the birth canal, one of its legs folded backward under its body. Snow begins to fall once again. Over the quiet of the gently drifting flakes comes the sound of wings. The mare, aware of the new presence, makes one last attempt to push her foal into the world. But her womb, once a nurturing vessel has become instead, her foal's reliquary.

Druzel looking at the mare for a moment speaks a question into the icy silence.

“Why is struggle necessary? She has given everything!” Drawing her sword she hesitates, perhaps listening for the answer to her question: an answer she knows will not come. As her arm raises the sword slowly, her mind relentlessly hammers her with its questions. "Could the withholding of her golden foal be the manifestation of the mare's view of her world? A world she judged undeserving of continuation? For a moment the sword hovers in the air, an accusing finger pointing toward heaven. Then it falls, slicing downward with deadly precision to end the mare's suffering. Druzel knows even as the sword falls, she will pay the consequences for her choice.

Trembling with fear at the sight of the winged apparition the stud stands, head bowed. The ferocity of the storm builds, snowflakes multiplying until all is obliterated. In spring the bodies will be a reminder that death is the conclusion of life; its only variable: time.