Running Wild

god-awful jump. He was way out of practice, and it wasn’t as if he’d ridden bareback all that often. He was half on and half off the horse, legs flailing as he pushed himself up farther. Before he fell right over the other side, he managed to drag one leg across the horse’s rump and wrap his arms around the patient animal’s neck.
Amazingly, it continued to stand in place. Seamus blinked, unable to believe this had worked, that he was astride the horse and potentially on his way out of here. Would it move forward if he squeezed with his legs in encouragement?
Before he could decide, there came a warning snort and a stamp from the animal, as if danger was about to descend. Body memory asserted itself. Seamus settled on the horse, his legs adjusting so he could ride, correct posture shaping his back. His hands reached for the mane, given there was no bridle or halter to use.
“Fucking Christ.” The words were uttered by that awful voice from this awful night, shocking Seamus afresh. Those goddamned men continued to find him. It was as if they had a tracking device on him, and he couldn’t understand it. All he could do was press his legs against the creature’s sides and give a hoarse, urgent plea. “Go!”
On cue, the horse flew, changing from standstill to gallop in a split second, and thank God Seamus knew how to stay on a horse.
To say that the rest of the night passed in a blur was an understatement. Not only was Seamus’s mind clouded by fear, the horse never stopped moving and the countryside seemed to smear by him as they traveled.
It was surreal. At times he wondered if he was dreaming or hallucinating, although the horse felt fucking real, as did the wind created by riding on a cool night. He stayed low on the horse to gather body warmth, and he wondered if the night would ever end and the horse would ever stop.
He couldn’t bring himself to attempt to rein it in though. There were no reins and he didn’t think the mane would be terribly effective, plus he wanted as many miles as possible between him and that horror of the woods.
At one point, the horse decided of all things to walk through water. On and on through a river they went, and whenever Seamus ventured to speak, which mostly consisted of “horse?” he received a rather impatient whicker.
Though perhaps that impatience, like so much else, was imagined. The whole night might have been of his own mind’s making—except for the fact he was riding this horse.
As the horizon to the east turned gray, the first hint that this long, horrendous, cold night might end and bring warmth with it, the horse left the water and ran yet again.
Exhaustion set in, and Seamus began to fear he might fall off. His eyes were drifting closed, and he fought to keep them open. Maybe the horse would simply never cease moving.
However, as abruptly as the horse had started this trek, it stopped, and Seamus sat up straight, looking blearily around to realize that day was breaking and they were at a farm of sorts, something he would have welcomed last night.
He didn’t know what to think of where he was this morning. He didn’t know what to think of anything. He wished his mother’s last words hadn’t started up in his head, ringing out.
Leave my sight. Get out of here.
He wished he was strong enough not to flinch at that memory. He leaned forward and rested his cheek against the horse’s neck for comfort.
“Grandson.”
He’d dozed off, clinging to this horse’s back like he didn’t know how to do anything other than ride and ride this horse. Seamus lifted his head and came face-to-face with an elderly man with faded brown eyes, gunmetal gray hair and a broad forehead. He wasn’t speaking to Seamus though, he was speaking to the horse, and there was the biggest smile on his face.
The horse blew softly in greeting, and Seamus almost felt invisible except the man said, “Who have you brought to me?”
With that, the man’s gaze rose to meet Seamus’s, and his eyebrows lifted. “You better get off my boy before you fall off.”
Though Seamus managed to nod in agreement, instead of dismounting, he listed sideways just before the ground rose up to meet him and blackness hit.
    Seamus’s dreams might have been nightmares if he’d had the energy to be frightened. They consisted of shaky impressions of being carried and set on cushions, as well as light smacks on his cheeks so he was alert enough to drink water, while otherwise the hands on him were