Hayfield, Scotland, Spring, 1018
The air hangs crisp and clean this morning, the scent of heather and new growth clinging to it. It's the sort of day that makes your coat shine, makes your mane flow like silk, and makes you feel full of life. This morning, the sun glistens on my grey coat, and I stand in the pasture, gazing out at the rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands. My long, white mane and tail ripple in the gentle breeze, reflecting the morning light like scattered pearls. The wind whispers secrets through the long grass, carrying tales of distant lands and wild adventures. It makes me feel connected to something grand and ancient, to the history that has shaped this land, and all the horses who walked before me.
I'm Emma, and this is my world. I am a 20-year-old draught horse, sturdy and strong, with a heart as gentle as a summer breeze. My home is Hayfield, a peaceful village near Aberdeen, nestled among the lush meadows and rolling hills. The people here are kind, they treat their horses with respect and affection. We work hard, it's true, but it's all part of life, all part of this beautiful rhythm of the land.
Today, I have the honour of pulling the farm cart. My sturdy legs carry the weight of barley sacks, delivering them to the mill a few miles down the road. My owner, a gruff but kind man named Duncan, speaks in hushed tones as he prepares me.
“Steady, Emma," he murmurs, patting my neck. "We have a long journey ahead."
The village is just starting to wake. The morning light paints the cottages in soft hues, and the sound of birdsong mingles with the rhythmic clang of blacksmithing. My heart beats in rhythm with the steady rise and fall of my chest, my muscles humming with anticipation for the journey ahead. I am part of the fabric of life here, my work an essential part of the daily cycle.
Today, however, the air feels charged with a strange tension. Duncan's eyes are darker than usual, his brows furrowed with worry. I sense it, too – a tremor in the wind, a disquiet in the heart of the land. It isn't the familiar anxiety of upcoming storms, but something deeper, something unsettling.
As we pass through the village, whispers reach me on the breeze. Talk of distant battles, of armies marching, of a new King in the south. I can't understand the words, but the emotions behind them are clear. Fear, anticipation, a sense of unease that hangs like a heavy mist in the air.
These whispers echo through my heart, stirring up questions within me. Questions about the world beyond our valley, about the wider tapestry of life beyond the familiar green hills. This world feels much bigger, much more complex, than the daily rhythm of my life in Hayfield.
My journeys to the mill, the blacksmith's, and the market, are an important part of my life. These paths lead me to other villages, exposing me to other horses, to different people and different lives. The wind carries news, whispers of events, struggles, and triumphs that are happening in faraway corners of the land.
My most recent trip to the market revealed the world’s great horse fair, a place buzzing with the excitement of horses, their owners, traders, and spectators. This year, the news buzzed with the spectacle of a horse breed I’d never encountered before. I heard whispers about the “Barb” – a fiery steed, imported from distant lands with the Middle East. My cart pulled alongside a beautiful chestnut mare with long flowing hair and a wild look in her eyes. The tales told about this magnificent breed ignited a sense of wonder in me – a deep yearning for something different, something exciting, something that lives beyond the horizon.
I feel drawn to these distant lands, to the adventure that seems to dance in the wind. My hooves long to touch the sun-baked plains of the Barb’s origin, my nostrils long to smell the foreign scent of spice and desert sands. My heart beats faster with the urge to break free, to leave the comfort of Hayfield and its gentle rhythms for something bold and unknown.
But it is in this longing, in this desire for the unknown, that the whisper of my past comes to me, carried on the wind.
The stories of my forefathers, passed down from one horse to the next, paint vivid pictures of a world far from Hayfield. Stories of horses, large and strong like myself, pulling massive carts carrying supplies for battles that shaped the land. Of galloping over fields of blood and fury, of feeling the ground tremble beneath their hooves as mighty armies clashed. These were the stories of my ancestors – the steeds of battle, the valiant knights of the past.
My heart, for a fleeting moment, longs to carry that weight, to be part of something bigger than myself, something that could shift the tide of history. But this desire quickly fades, as the image of the young foals I see running in the pastures around Hayfield fills my vision. They play, oblivious to the worries of the world, trusting in the simple rhythms of life, the warmth of the sun, the kindness of the people they know. I would protect them, I would shelter them from the storms of war.
The memories of my ancestors echo the murmurs of the village about a king in the south and an uneasy sense of dread in the air. Their battles and victories had etched a path in the landscape, and their history resonated with the spirit of this time. I am one of many, a link in the long chain of history. I carry within me the past of horses, a legacy of strength, courage, and loyalty.
Today, as the wind rustles through the leaves, I hear a faint echo of their courage, a whisper of their legacy carried across the centuries. And in that whisper, I find a deeper understanding of myself – a strength, a resilience, a deep connection to the land, and an undeniable sense of purpose.
The world outside Hayfield may hold grand battles and distant shores, but my heart finds peace in the rhythm of this familiar land. The call of adventure is powerful, yet I am anchored to my purpose - to be a steadfast worker, a gentle companion, and a loyal protector.
This is the story of the year 1018, and it is a year filled with uncertainty and possibility, with whispers of war and tales of strength. But it is also a year where the wind carries the secrets of our ancestors, whispering of a connection to something grander than ourselves – a story that continues to unfold with each beat of our hearts, each rustle of leaves, each step we take across this beautiful land.
Next time, I’ll tell you about the new mare I met on the journey to the market, who whispered tales of far-off lands, and her journey across the seas. She made me realize the world beyond Hayfield is bigger than I ever imagined.
Until next time, keep your hooves strong and your spirit true.
