The fog wreathed and wraithed the horse fences along the lane. It was no longer day, but it wasn’t quite night.
And I walked the lane alone.
The fog was cold. It chilled my skin. But the fog smelled like watermelon in June –
warm, sweet and balmy.
But I didn’t feel like I was alone.
The fog lifted and the fog fell. It revealed and it hid what it chose.
I wasn’t alone.
I remember the sounds of hooves. The sound of hooves hidden in the fog. Clopping, clopping, clopping. Somewhere in the fog.
I remember standing still.
I remember feeling confused.
I remember panic.
Whatever was in the fog was heading straight for me. And I couldn’t tell which direction it was coming. It was coming fast and steady and relentless. I dropped to my knees and ducked my head down. I hoped that it would miss me. I hoped it would jump over me. I really hoped that it wouldn’t trample me.
Then, it just stopped.
I remember it just stopped. The smell of watermelon and peaches and beachcombing scented the fog. I raised my head.
And there it was.
I remember now.
It stood there so proud, so beautiful, so rare. It was part of the fog. Swirling black and white and gray. It looked down at me with solemn horse eyes. Its fringed ears flicked independently of each other.
It bowed its head and leisurely sniffed me: head, neck, shoulders.
I remember I wanted to touch it, to see if it were real.
I raised my hand.
It became one with the fog without a sound.
I was alone.
I could feel that the gadzook was gone.
I sat there in the foggy lane. I waited for it to return. Maybe it would return.
I’m still waiting for it to return.