Unsound

Chapter ||

I woke to the mutters and ramblings of the house - the cacophony of squeals and clicks running through the wood like splinter-hair cracks, noticeable only to the attuned ear. It spoke of the cold: of the sand clotting and clinging like rot to the nooks and crevices, and of how its sleep was disturbed by the tormented cries of every floorboard, nail, beam and surface writhing under the plague of midnight deliriums.

It was as the sun rose that we once more heaved the rocks to the opposite field. From far above we must have appeared as bugs; insects caught in the searing heat, scrabbling at sand and scuttling until we were little more than shrivelled, hollowed corpses in the sun. Marble kicked and scuffed at the dust, her hooves beige to the fetlock.

I held my tongue, hauling a large boulder from the cart. The layer of dust and grime curled from my skin as I winced, my marred limb crippling beneath the strain.

Beads of sweat ran clots of grime into my eyes as I staggered into the barn that eve, Marble's withers had been rubbed bare, the raw skin sore and puckered. We each leant heavily upon the other, our breaths the air of the dead mare, so little good it did us. I nuzzled her weakly, and her throat cracked in muttered thanks as we docked the now silenced cart, her leg reaching back to detach herself from the cart.

The skin on her foreleg was inflamed and sore, scabs of crude crimson caked in dried fluids and dust. I glanced to her questioningly, but her gaze flickered towards the barn door, ajar at the beckoning the brittle eve winds. There was little matter in a casual scrape.

We limped into the cooling air, the skies darkening to a hot, ash-grey hue as we finally resigned to the harbour of the derelict barn, the floorboards sputtering as if to herald our approach, and the ceiling muttering with dreams of ghosts long past. Marble strode ahead, her hooves striking the wood with the dissolved delinquency of the clink of a knife. The steady timbre in which I could've once taken comfort seemed cold; almost sharp. But I busied myself instead in lowering my head as we emerged into the dinning room.

No windows offered a brief respite for the eye; nor did the earthen floor wail as had the timber, or whistle in the sharp-tongued breeze - instead hung a time-spoilt illustration of a stallion - near skeletal as he was - straining to ease a boulder to the height of a solitary peak. Below, set into the frame, read the dust-laden engraving:

Sisyphus

"You respect him - yes?"

My spine stiffened, and I turned to dip my head to the figure at the table politely. From beneath my mane I eyed him sitting squarely at the table head - a sharply cut hat and tie; charcoal, and a sour brown coat dressed a chiselled complexion, ruggedly framed by sideburns of an austere, tarnished grey.

"Sir."

He eyed me carefully.

"Good."

His voice grated slightly, as if withered and cracked. A muddied amber gaze settled critically at my leg, before glancing sharply to the kitchen door, out of which Marble emerged, laden with our rations.

Ma's quick, tight paces could be discerned from the kitchen, the hiss and rattle of pots and pans hushing as they cooled with weakening hisses of protest, as would poisoned snakes.

"Marble - your age now?"

She glanced his way with either admiration or fear, her voice hushed and respectful.

"Twelve, Sir."

"Good, good." He murmured, before his eye caught on mine, and his brow furrowed.

"What is it, girl?"

My tongue faltered, as would the heartbeat of the shrew beneath the serpent's pallid glare. Instead, an uncompassionate, cool voice slipped from my tongue.

"Ten." I spoke. "She would be ten now, wouldn't she?"

I watched as his eyes flickered in recognition. The moment of speechlessness spurred me to the heights of giddiness.

"Pinkamena."

Like a snake gathering it's coils, his features crumpled, creasing into a outraged snarl, before slamming his hooves upon the table, his gaunt features stretched wide and his fur bristling. His wild eyes scorched me and I curled my lip to meet the stench of whiskey.

"Get out!" He screamed.

And I did so.

The following morn, we once again toiled the fields. My head span, and the lashes of dust licked my sunburnt hide like the rhythmic claps of the whip. What little respite I had found in the squeals of the cart had digressed to the brittle throb of blood in my ears, and Marble's curses as she hauled the cart from the East field to the West.

My mind lay within the illustration in which Sisyphus was so clearly depicted, the ink callously lining the malformed ribs and sunken, despairing black eyes.

Since I could remember, I recalled his tragic fable - it and been spoken on wizened, scarred and tasteless tongues, as if to convey a deeper meaning than the common tale.

I had grasped onto the concept of the eternally labouring Sisyphus; it was the only reason - the only explanation for our existence; the reason why we hauled and heaved and marred, twisted and crippled ourselves in the effort for our one fruitless travail.

But even the black-eyed stallion, dissolved to mere instinctual despair by the longitude of his fustian efforts, had a reason - a motive, even if it were not his will.

My mother always told me that he had committed a great crime against the gods.

Whether he spat on their hooves, or merely begged for water is yet to be known, and assuredly never will, but his sentence was of this; to labour, to push, to heave each day the weight of a boulder up a mountain, only to see it roll, clamber once more to the floor of the valley like an unruly beast. And each morn, he would heave it once more to the peak in a feat of what was deemed to be futile labour.

My mother told me that Sisyphus found pride in the fact that each day he toiled, he completed his task. He won - he defeated the boulder apparently destined to defeat him and cripple his rebellious spirit.

But when I saw those black eyes, I saw one already crushed, by his crimes as much as his labour.

My hoofsteps were brisk and determined that night, my hobbling gait hindering me little. I did not take pride in 'defeating' my tasks. That was stallion's foolery. But as I strode, I pondered. I thought of Sir's blistering anger, and Marble's cold refraction. I mused on Ma's distance and the ever-yielding enigma of Pinkamena. As I did so, I caught the faintest trail of smoke on the air.