The stallion

The horse-thief had been watching the black horse for hours. It was a magnificent animal, with hair as black as night and the finest he had seen. He approached cautiously. It was wild and untamed, of that he was sure. It would fetch enough for him to drink for at least three months at the inn.

He approached slowly. The horse did not move. He jumped on it and grabbed its mane. It let out a mighty neigh, almost a roar. It twisted and jumped wildly, and the thief barely managed to hold on. It turned, and he could see its wild eyes. There was intelligence in them.

The stallion buckled, and it started to run. The thief held on as tightly as he could, his knuckles were almost white. The horse was charging and covering ground at a faster and faster pace. It went past Kiev, where he had spent his many days at the taverns. Then to a small village near just outside, where he had met the woman who had broken his heart. It sped faster. The trees and stars and snow were a blur. Then it was at Moscow, where he was getting his first job, where he was full of optimism, and life held all possibilities.

It was going faster. The thief thought it was familiar, but didn't quite recognise the countryside. Then he realised he was at the village he was born. The horse stopped and threw him off. He rolled on the ground and tried to grab it. But too late, it was running away. He looked up, and saw that he was outside the hut where he was born. There was an odd feeling in him, and he looked at his hands. He was shrinking. He felt his face; it was becoming smoother. Even his hair was growing back. The horse had bought him back, not just to his home, but to the start, for him to begin again. He looked up at the sun, and let it warm his unblemished face before he forgot the last of his future.