The Spirit Herd

Hela never remembered the moment during which sleep overtook her. Dreams opened and beckoned like doors already ajar, pulling her through with the soft touch of darkness. That night, she drifted off with the smell of fresh hay and newly polished leather, Chernush snuggled close, perched on her withers, and Mikhail's quiet voice humming under his breath as he latched the stall food. She felt safe, contained in her perfectly familiar world of stable dust.

Then, she wasn’t.

Suddenly, Hela was standing stiff-legged on a narrow mountain ledge, a cold gust of wind playing with her tail. The world around her glowed with the pale indigo of pre-dawn. The air was thin, crisp enough to sting her nostrils as she flared them in panic, skittering away from the edge. Snow crunched beneath her, as loud as the crack of a hunting rifle as she moved.

Chernysh let out a kraaak of displeasure as he was rousted from his perch and he hopped down into the snow beside her hooves. He fluttered his wings uncertainly, peering off the side of the cliff as if the height bothered even him.

Far below, drifting up through the icy air, she thought she could hear a faint echo of Mikhail’s voice calling her name. Distant and soft, it sounded wrong, as though carried across a long chasm. Still, hearing him steadied her. She flicked her ears forward and stepped toward the rising slope ahead, hoping that she could move around this strange chasm. Chernysh flapped just above her, warily circling as if he were afraid to leave her.

The ledge clung to the side of the cliff like a narrow ribbon. Every hoofstep sent small cascades of snow slipping down into the depths of the chasm. Hela placed her hooves carefully, eyeing the forbidding deep as if it might swallow her whole. The path wound between ice-rimmed walls, making tiny passages barely wide enough for her to squeeze through, twisting like the spine of an ancient creature. She could swear she felt the mountain humming faintly beneath her as well, a low vibration which made her chest ache in a way she was unable to name.

Chernysh called to her and she picked up the pace, as anxious as he to get off the slippery, dangerous path. It led steadily upward, and as she climbed, the world shifted subtly around them. The dawn light neither brightened nor faded, simply remaining locked in a blue-violet stillness. Clouds raced overhead, impossibly fast, their shadows stretching and twining across the mountain face. Finally, as she reached a true trail, and not merely a mountain goat’s path, Hela saw them.

Hoofprints in otherwise untouched snow; not hers, not any horse she knew. They were larger yet shallower than any she had seen before, spaced widely in a great galloping stride. Dozens of almost ghostly tracks leading higher into the mountains.

“It’s just a dream,” Hela murmured, though speaking aloud felt strange here. Her voice sounded muffled, as though wrapped in wool. But Chernysh understood her tone and fluttered closer, landing on her shoulder.

Then she heard it again, Mikhail’s voice, calling from ahead.

The path steepened, the air thinning further. Frost glittered on every rock. Sometimes the snow beneath Hela shifted like sand, and she had to steady herself with quick, careful steps. The mountain wind seemed almost alive; curling around her hooves, tugging at her tail, whispering strange notes that reminded her of distant bells.

At last, the trail opened into a broad plateau, ringed by the peaks of the mountains around. Her hooves sank slightly into a thin layer of shimmering frost that practically glowed as if lit from beneath. The air hummed louder here, vibrating through her ribs and up her spine. Chernysh squawked a warning, but Hela, intent on following Mikhail’s voice, stepped onto it anyway. As soon as she did, a soft mist rose from the ground.

It drifted upward like breath from the mountain itself, gathering shape and motion. A ripple of wind flowed across the plateau, and out of the mist emerged silhouettes; horses, but not mortal ones. Their bodies flickered like auroras captured in forms she could understand: some with manes made of drifting snow, their tails of curling fog, hooves that sparked faint light where they touched the earth. They moved with impossible grace, galloping through the air itself, leaving trails of shimmering dust behind them.

Kraaak, Chernysh buried himself on Hela’s shoulders. She swung her head back and touched her muzzle to his body in reassurance, even while her own heart hammered like hoofbeats against stone.

The spirit horses slowed. One of them, taller than the rest, with a mane rippling with shifting greens and blues like the northern lights, approached with deliberate steps. Her form glowed faintly, as though lit from an inner fire.

She bowed her head. And though no sound passed her lips, Hela felt the words inside her mind. 

“We know you, Hela.”

Chernysh tensed, but Hela kept her head lifted.

The aurora mare continued, her voice a soft pressure behind Hela’s eyes. “We have been waiting.”

Hela swallowed hard. “For me?”

The spirit nodded, mane drifting like smoke. “You walk between worlds with the steadiness of the living and the memory of the ancient. You are not bound the same way others are. You may run with us if you choose.”

Mikhail’s distant voice drifted upward again, faint and stretched thin. Chernysh shifted his weight anxiously. Hela felt her chest tighten.

The aurora mare turned her luminous eyes toward the echo.

“The one who calls you cannot follow here. His feet are too heavy with life. The little dark one beside you may try, but he cannot keep pace with us.”

Chernysh kaw-ed indignantly at being called little, but the spirit mare did not seem to notice.

“You may join us,” she repeated, stepping closer. “Run with us upon the spine of the world. Leave behind the weight that binds you to sorrow and gravity. Become more than flesh.”

The air around Hela softened. The ground beneath her hooves felt suddenly lighter, as though she stood on the edge of flight. A tremor of exhilaration ran through her, this idea of galloping among the stars, of leaving behind fear and frailty, of feeling the wind not against her, but through her.

She took one step forward.The spirit herd parted, inviting her into their midst.

Chernysh cried out sharply, fluttering from her shoulder as a mist rose between them, forcing him to fly away from the herd.

Hela hesitated.

The aurora mare’s eyes softened. “He will be safe if you leave him. You must leave all things behind.”

Another echo of Mikhail’s voice drifted upward, this time strained, like panic pulled thin by distance. Hela’s ears flicked backward, her body turning involuntarily toward the sound.

“He will fade,” the spirit murmured. “Mortals always fade.”

Hela’s chest constricted. Chernysh called again, soaring as close as he could before the mist pushed him away. The spirit herd watched silently, their forms flickering like candle flames.

The mountain trembled. A deep rumble rolled beneath them, shifting the plateau. Frost cracked like glass underhoof. A seam opened in the mist, revealing a long path stretching into a swirling horizon of light. The aurora mare extended her neck.

“Choose now, Hela.”

Hela looked at the path; the bright, weightless promise ahead. Then she looked at Chernysh, trembling and stubborn and faithful. She listened to Mikhail’s voice, fraying with fear but still calling her name. And she stepped backward.

The aurora mare blinked, startled.

Hela moved outside the mist, allowing Chernysh to settle on her back again. “I won’t leave you.”

The spirit horses stirred uneasily, their forms flickering. The mountain groaned. A wind rose suddenly, swirling around Hela as though trying to push her forward, but she planted her hooves.

Mikhail’s voice surged suddenly from below, clearer now, frantic. “Hela! Please, don’t leave me…”

Her breath caught; she had never heard Mikhail sound like that. Hela turned, stepping away from the spirits. And the dream shattered.

The plateau cracked. Mist curled into claws. Frost dissolved into a swirling vortex beneath her. Chernysh cried out as the ground gave way beneath them as they fell as the entire mountain seemed to collapse.

Down, down, down, they fell through a rush of light and dark, cold and heat. 

Suddenly, everything was silent. She lay in soft hay, her heart hammering, her coat covered with sweat. Her body trembled.

Mikhail was curled beside her, blankets tossed haphazardly around them, buckets of water and the container of medicines just beyond his reach.

His arm was thrown over her neck and it appeared he had fallen asleep from exhaustion. Hela took stock of herself, realizing that she felt truly awful.

I must have been sick, she thought. She breathed in deeply, letting the warm, earthy scents of the stable fill her lungs. There was no frost or awful cold. No mist or spirits.

Outside, dawn light gently filtered through her window. Soft and golden, it fell on her and made her black coat shimmer slightly.

Hela lowered her head onto Mikhail’s shoulder, feeling Chernysh snuggle against her with a soft, exhausted sigh.

And though the mountain wind was gone, she felt the memory of it, that bone-deep cold and then the fear as she fell through the dark.

Just a dream during illness, she whispered to herself. Nothing real.

But she wondered… how close had her body been to succumbing to the illness that night?