The Last Winged Horse - by Deborah

Prompts: Bright light, feathers, something overhead (actually, it was "something overHEARD", but I misread it [desperately need glasses] and this is what happened).

She soars high in the clear summer sky, white wings beating lazily in the updraft from the green valley below. The sunlight brilliantly illuminates her pale coat and feathers, creating the illusion of a second, smaller sun in the blue sky. No hoofbeats can be heard in the air, though her strong legs mime a galloping motion. She lands gracefully in the flat meadow, hoofbeats now audible on the ground. She folds her magnificent wings to her sides and trots to the clear, cold water of the stream. She drinks deeply.

Suddenly she raises her head, nostrils flaring as she breathes in a new scent. Could it be...?

A glorious elk steps from the forest’s edge into the meadow and the mare’s eyes fill with sadness. For just a moment, she had thought it was another of her kind. But she is the very last of the winged horses and will never see another one such as herself. Born of the gods and sent to grace the world with their beauty, they have become hunted by men until she is the only one left. Slowly she walks to the base of a large pine tree. Folding her front legs under her, she settles herself among the fallen pine needles. She gently lifts one wing and tucks her head beneath it to doze, dreaming of her herd now long gone.

An old crone enters the meadow, walking along the streambed with slow, unsteady steps. She was once a very powerful white witch, but her powers are beginning to fade. She is bent with arthritis and her skin is ravaged with age. She was never attractive, not even in her youth. The years have only magnified her unpleasant appearance. The witch treasures beauty above all else, perhaps for having lived so long without it, and is dumbstruck by the exquisite vision of the sleeping winged horse under the pine.

Sensing her, the horse suddenly wakes, rising to her feet. They regard each other intently. She senses the crone will not harm her and cautiously approaches. The crone reaches out a trembling, wart-covered hand and lightly strokes the horse’s soft muzzle. The horse blows air gently through her wide nostrils, signaling her content. The witch’s eyes fill with tears as she beholds the grace and beauty before her.

“I am a witch and will grant you the ability to speak for I must know what it is like to live as such a beautiful creature.”

After a blinding flash of light, the winged horse is able to speak.

The crone asks her, “Tell me, is it wonderful to be so beautiful?”

“I once thought so but now that I am alone it brings me no joy. I am instead filled with fear and hatred for man. He has taken from me all I loved.”

The old witch is surprised at the animal’s answer. She expected to hear that happiness was found in being beautiful. She had been alone all her life and did not miss the company of others. She finds it very hard to understand the mare’s point of view.

“Tell me, my beauty, if you could become another animal and be again with others of your own kind, would you?”

“Yes, I would,” the horse answers immediately.

“I feel I have a couple of good spells left in these old bones and possibly a solution to both our problems. I could turn myself into a common animal of your choosing and then switch places with you. Would you like that?”

The winged horse thinks deeply for a moment. She knows she has no future as she is. She begins to imagine a future as something else…a future with a purpose.

“Yes, I would gladly become a different animal.”

The crone cannot conceal her joy. Oh, to become this beautiful creature! It is everything she’s ever wanted. “Are you certain, my beautiful friend? For this cannot be undone.”

“I am certain.”

“What animal do you wish to become? I can only make myself into something common; nothing as beautiful as you are,” the witch warns her.

The mare answers without hesitation, “I wish to become a rat.”

Sputtering in disbelief, eyes wide, the witch asks, “A rat?!”

The horse nods her affirmation.

After waiting a moment to be sure the mare is certain, the witch begins chanting ancient words. With a blinding flash of light, the witch is gone and a small grey rat stands in her place. Its beady black eyes regard the horse solemnly. The mare dances about nervously, hoping with all her might the next spell will also work.

The rat begins squeaking wildly and, in another blinding flash of light, the winged horse finds herself with her nose in the grass. Only the grass looks very big indeed. She sniffs at it and discovers scents she never knew existed. She is aware of her little pink nose and whiskers twitching rapidly. She is a rat - the spell worked! She looks up and sees the winged horse prancing about. The witch seems very happy with the spell also.

The horse dashes over to the stream, admires her reflection and gives a happy whinny. With one last look at the rat, the horse spreads her wings and lifts into the air, leaving the little rat behind in the grass.

The Crone, who is now a winged horse, loves her new beauty and freedom. It has been only two weeks since that fateful day in the meadow. As she curls up underneath the old pine, she hears something approaching quickly. Before she can get to her feet, her sleek white side is pierced by a long, wicked arrow. Pain clouds her beautiful dark eyes. Then another arrow. And another.
The last of the winged horses is gone.

The rat searches for and finds many others of her kind. They sense she is somehow different and allow her to lead them. She urges them to go into the towns and live among men. Soon they number in the thousands. They begin to wreak havoc on mankind, slowly destroying village after village with plague.

The war between men and rats still rages today.

Some say the rats are winning.