The horse had run off, but it circled back after the ogre left, pacing in the field, then settling down, and after her shaking subsided, she walked over to where it was grazing. A couple of hours had passed, and the horse seemed focused on the grass, and calm. After all, the eating had been brief, and the man had barely had time to scream, and ogres were just about food, not about power play or torture. They were just endlessly large and hungry beings. She mounted the horse and rode lazily along, digging around in the thick leather packs on the side where she found some snacks—turkey jerky that she used to love, made in the village, and some peaches, a rare delicacy for her, as ogres couldn’t care less about peaches, and the fragrance consumed her mouth, like eating perfume, like kisses of nectar. She found a letter from a wife in royal-blue ink from a quill pen, wishing the man well. It was all awful, she thought, tossing the peach stone onto the green hillside, where it wedged against a rock, near some bees. Happy bees. She patted the horse’s neck. Now she and the widow had something in common. Though loss did not pass from one person to another like a baton; it just formed a bigger and bigger pool of carriers. And, she thought, scratching the coarseness of the horse’s mane, it did not leave once lodged, did it, simply changed form and asked repeatedly for attention and care, as each year revealed a new knot to cry out and consider—smaller, sure, but never gone. Stillford, she thought to herself, as the sun grew high in the sky. My sweet Stillford, with his dirt art. My funny Lorraine, who danced to the lute so earnestly. Out of my body, these beautiful monsters.
It was ridiculous, at times, how many tears one body could produce.
A few hours into the afternoon, during a nap on the horse, who was eating clover in the inverted bell of a valley, the ring of trumpets awoke the woman. She jerked awake, recalling the sound from her childhood, when trumpets were the way news was delivered, and sure enough, across the field emerged a troop of human men and women on horseback, some walking, two trumpeting, one waving a bright-red flag. From what she could recall, a bright-red flag meant war.
Ho, woman! called the strapping man at the lead, and she did not have time to put on her cloak; even if she had, they’d take her horse, and she liked having the horse.
They trotted over, a whole mess of people, and she hadn’t looked at so many human faces together in years. How refined they were! How tiny and delicate! Those dot nostrils! Their hairless hands!
Are you lost? the head man asked, not unkindly. He wore a helmet wrought with silver swirled markings on the sides that seemed to speak of royalty.
No, she said, thank you. I’m on my way to the river.
This is ogre territory! said the man, sitting straighter. You’re not safe!
He turned to the others, beckoning them closer.
No, no, she said, waving him off. It’s fine. I’m skilled at hiding. I’ve been living in this territory for years.
Ho! he said, digging his hands into his horse’s mane. Years? And survived? You must help us, then! We sent out a scout earlier to look for mines, and we have not heard back. Did you see anyone?
Of course, one careful look at the horse and all would be revealed, but the man was very focused on her face, as if he had been trained in it.
No, she said.
You saw no danger? said the man.
Nothing but crows, she said.
Ogres eat people, said the man, leaning in.
To her annoyance, her eyes thickened with tears.
Ah! You’ve seen something?
She shook her head, tucking her hands under the saddle and feeling the horse’s warm coat beneath her, the large and living backside. No. I just heard a story once, of someone getting eaten, and I found it sad, she said. The tears tracked her cheeks.
He nodded. They all had their own stories.
Our sentry is a good man, the man said, and he said he’d contact us immediately via light signaling with use of the sun and his mirror and we have not seen a thing. Ah! Is that his horse?
He glanced down, and saw the packs. She had in her lap some turkey jerky that she’d been eating earlier.
Oh, I don’t know! she said. She widened her eyes. Is it? I was just walking and came upon this horse and needed a rest. Hours ago. It did not have an owner.
The man’s brow furrowed. The horse, alone? Hours ago?
Alone, she said.
He consulted with a short man next to him on a taller horse, making them even.
You’ll have to come with us, the main man said.
Oh no, she said, slipping the turkey jerky into a pocket. I’ll walk. I’ll give you his horse. I didn’t realize it belonged to anyone recently. I thought it had been wild for a while.
No, said the man, firmly. We need you to come with us.
He gave a nod to his short man, who began to dismount.
The woman leapt off her horse, and backed into the meadow. The afternoon sun filtered through pine needles on high fir trees to the side, and with a quick move she had the cloak out of her bag and on and had turned into light and shadow.
Where’d she go? said the short man.
Witch! said the first.
The trumpets raised and blared.
The woman crept quietly to a corner of the meadow. Had any one of them been attuned to light, they would’ve seen one patch of splattered sun shapes moving along in a way that did not correspond to the breeze.
But they were not. They were preoccupied with what had happened. They had liked their handsome, courageous scout. They quickly assimilated the man’s packs and letters into their crew, and put a child who had been previously riding with his mother onto the horse, and the two lead men swore, and the woman watched silently from her spot in the meadow as they moved in a clump over the hills.
She stayed in the meadow in the cloak for hours, and the sun went down and lit the grasses with orange light, and she wondered about her husband, who was likely going to see one of his women on the side. Although it made her cringe inside, a fist in her stomach, there was also a distant relief in it, in people just doing what they needed to do. She found comfort in the way the grasses swayed, and murmured, and at dinnertime, in a little whisper, she asked the cake to change flavor, and, magic cake that it was, it shifted from vanilla pound to a chocolate Bundt, and she ate it with pleasure, plus some more almonds she had in her pocket and the remaining turkey jerky. Water from the spring. The moon rose in a crescent and crickets rubbed their wings together and in the far distance, now and again, she could hear the shining bleats of the bugles and trumpets.