Melrunnin

The grass-green field shimmered in the wake of the gentle Ireland breeze and the soft, dream-like clouds rolled across the sky with a graceful, poetic charm within their every undulation. Old and weather beaten stone walls rose to hip height on the far-reaching outskirts of the field, high enough to signal that strangers were not needed, but low enough to welcome wanderers and invite those that felt the need to frolic.

A young boy, nearing the end of his teenaged years, stood squinting against the sun and enjoying the soft wind against his freckled face and dull red hair. The Irish blood that ran thick through Donovan O'Shaunessy's veins kept him constantly warm and urged the smile or grin that tended to play on his lips to appear and sustain. He ran a callused and farm-worked hand through his bramble of hair and whistled between the fingers of his other hand for his horse.

Her bridle and lead lay on the ground limply.

After several moments' passage, when she did not show, he whistled again. This time, a beautiful chestnut mare came galloping toward him over a crest in the field, her gilded mane and tail flowing in the wake of the breeze. She looked to be almost a mystical creature, having so grand a coat and white patches at her ankles and a star on her forehead. She slowed to a trot and stopped in front of the boy, dropping her head and nuzzling his chest with a slight whinny. He pet her soft nose that yielded to his touch and tickled his senses.

"Aye, y'are a good little Shire Penny, aren't ye?" he laughed and praised the mare.

He picked the headstall from the ground and slid it easily over the horse's nose, under her jaw and behind her ears, then fastened the lead to it. Shire Penny pranced excitedly in place, understanding that they were to be going for a ride and then home for oats and maybe a special treat of an apple or carrot.

Donovan grabbed hold of the lead, clenched the mare's mane tightly and slung one leg over her shoulders and slid easily into place. He enjoyed riding bareback; it gave him a sense of freedom. He reached to the rear pocket of his denim overalls and made sure that his cap was still there, and tucked it in tighter to assure its survival of the journey.

Shire Penny whinnied loudly and reared up on her hind legs, only broadening the smile on Donovan's face.

"All right, girl! Giyyup!" And he nudged her with the heels of his boots and they hastened off into the sun-drenched field.

They galloped at full speed and loved the feeling of wind in their faces; it was friendly and warm. In the distance, at the end of the field near the stone wall, Donovan pulled the horse to a halt, clearly disrupting their rhythm. The broad, gap-toothed smile slid from his face and was replaced by a look of amazement and wonder as his eyes fell upon the most beautiful pure black stallion he had ever seen in his life. Its neck was thick and muscular and lowered to the ground, searching feebly for a good, edible patch of grass. He just looked at it, watched its every move. He thought of what his mother and father would think about him bringing home a horse such as this one. Shire Penny sidestepped uneasily underneath him and grunted. The stallion looked up from the ground and Donovan was completely taken aback by the markings on its nose. The horse had patches of what seemed to be solid gold fur in the shapes of raindrops from between its eyes down to the fleshy part of the nose.

"Aye me! You're a gorgeous little buggar, aren't ye? Pretty little markin's on yer," His voice faded with every word.

Shire Penny backed away uneasily from the animal, rearing her head and pointing herself toward home, giving Donovan no choice but to go with her. He had a terrible time of pulling his gaze from the horse and strained his neck, craning to see. He snapped forward to face the wind, for Shire Penny had sprung into a quick, choppy canter that jarred him to the core and took him all the way home.

Donovan stabled and watered the horse and turned to the farmhouse. It looked warm and inviting. He turned the knob and pushed the wooden door open, stepping into the modest and busy kitchen. His mother turned at the sound of him and, wiping her hands on her apron, scurried behind him and closed the door.

"Momma, I saw a horse in the field today," he started, dodging her as she buzzed around the room, moving pots and setting dishes.

"That's nice dear, would'ye be a good lad and set the plates for your momma?"

Donovan smiled and took the plates from her, setting them on the table, but still contemplating the animal he'd seen. He remembered hearing something about such a horse sometime in his childhood, but could recall no more than the name of the myth: Melrunnin. His thoughts distracted him so that he dropped one of the china plates and it shattered on the floor, waking him from the trance with a start. He jumped back a step and immediately began to pick up the pieces, apologizing profusely to his mother.

"Aye, boy! Go an sit with your father until suppar's ready," his mother scolded, more frustrated than angry.

"Yes, mum," he obeyed and then went into the den with his father.

The den was a comfortable room, with his father's large armchair sitting next to the fireplace, a large sofa with decorated end tables and a large picture window with a seat embedded in it. Off in a corner of its own was a tall, freestanding radio which, although a novelty, was rarely used except by Donovan in the late evening. An entire wall of the room was decorated with a lavish antique bookshelf inherited from older members of the O'Shaunessy bloodline. Donovan searched this with feverish excitement, looking for a book of old Irish lore. His father lowered one side of his newspaper and cocked an eye at him curiously, but charging it off to teenaged peculiarity, shrugged and went back to the news.

"It's got to be here somewhere!" Donovan muttered under his breath as he fingered the spines of old, worn books, trying to read the faded titles.

And then he found it, a thick book with an ornate cover, reading:

"Here it is!" he proclaimed and ran to the window seat that overlooked the eastern borders of their land. There he opened the book and flipped the pages, scanning and looking for the story of Melrunnin. He found the page and a grin of satisfaction shifted onto his face. Squinting, he read the small text:

The Tale of Melrunnin In the early years of fair Ireland, a terribly frightening tale of treachery was told in hopes of keeping young adults reminded not to overdo the privilege of enjoyment. The vision of the horse Melrunnin is said to appear to a boy or girl who is about to come of age, but only a special few. Melrunnin is fabled to observe children carefully and quietly for years and then mindfully choose a young person whom he feels will benefit from knowing and realizing that trouble, pain, and disparity exist and hold the ability to affect him. To such a child, a beautiful black horse with not a hair any color than black, except on the forehead and muzzle where occurs a mystical mark in a shimmering solid gold color presents itself. Melrunnin decides which mark will best suit the chosen and displays it on his snout when manifesting to the child. The marks rumored to exist are:

Lightning Bolts
Crosses
Raindrops
Dragon's Head
Roses

Donovan stared blankly; it couldn't have been true. Fables and myths weren't real and they wouldn't appear to him, not terrible omens. He'd been a good son to his parents, helpful and pleasant. He had nothing to worry about and after dinner, retired to the den to indulge in the sweet sounds of the radio. It lulled him into a peaceful sleep.

The next day, when the sun was rising in the west, Donovan pulled on a pair of clean overalls, a shirt, his boots and cap and walked to fetch Shire Penny from the barn. He put a bridle and lead on her, but no saddle. He still enjoyed riding bareback and was not going to burden Shire Penny with the added weight of a saddle. He mounted, and they walked through the field slowly, surveying the land and carrying out Donovan's ulterior motive of seeing the horse again. He was sure that the horse could not be like the one in the myth, because he was positive he was mistaken the day before. The sun and its reflection can play tricks on one's eyes. The stone wall came into view and he kicked Shire Penny into a faster pace, racing to the edge of the property.

It was there, a breathtaking, pitch-black stallion, staring straight at him. Golden raindrops shimmered and shone, mesmerizing Donovan just as they had the day before. Shire Penny once again, became uneasy and stepped in place, eager to leave. Donovan stared.

"Melrunnin," he whispered, almost under his breath. The horse nodded its head and Donovan watched the scintillating raven mane blow gently with the motion.

Shire Penny had had enough, reared, whinnied and dashed for home. Donovan was caught off guard and leaning forward, was forced to wrap his arms around her neck to prevent falling, but kept looking at the mythological beast behind them. He pulled his gaze from the horse and faced forward, sitting up straight again. His thoughts reeled and were clouded by the vivid image he'd just witnessed. The loose handle he had on the rope worked to his disadvantage and he slid around, side to side on the horse. Eventually in one swift upset of balance, he fell from the back of the horse and landed with a thud in a heap on the grass. He was sure he'd hit his face on a dull rock or something of the sort and felt his left cheek begin to bruise. He was instantaneously snapped from his trance and shook his head to clear the fog. He sat up and propped himself with his hands, watching the tail end of Shire Penny disappear into the horizon.

"Shire Penny!" He called, then whistled for her. "Girl, come back!" he hollered, pulling his cap from the ground next to him and fitting it snugly to his head, controlling his red, unruly hair.

By the time Donovan O'Shaunessy stood from his seat in the middle of the field and finished searching for Shire Penny, he walked home dejectedly and the sun was setting behind him. Haphazardly, he approached the brick farmhouse, staggering at times from exhaustion and the feeling his feet were made of lead. Occasionally, he glanced at his grass stained pants and wringing the cap in his hands, mulled over the events of the day. He hoped Shire Penny had found her way home.

Upon his arrival in the kitchen, his plump mother pulled him in by the wrist and led him to a chair at the table, fussing over him.

"Where on God's green earth have you been, boy? I's worried sick when that horse o' yours came back wi'out you," She picked up his face by the chin and looked at his grinning, bruised face. "Now what happened to ye? There's dirt and all sorts o' nature on ye."

Donovan laughed and began to speak as she wiped his face with a dishrag, "I fell off and guessin' she ran back. Momma, that horse was back t'day-- in the field. It was the blackest, most beautiful stallion I've ever seen! Awful lot like the one from the tale o' Melrunnin."

He went on describing the creature as he'd seen it and watched the look of staunch amazement that plagued his mother's face.

"Donovan O'Shaunessy, I don't know what ye thought ye were seeing in that field, but ye didn't see any horse like that, boy, and I don' wanna hear any more story tales o' the like, y'hear?"

"Momma, what d'ye mean? I saw it! I saw that horse!"

"Saw what horse?" His father's voice entered. "What're ye talkin' about?"

"He says he saw a horse like from the tale o' Melrunnin," His mother quickly admitted. Donovan was confused; he didn't understand why it would make much of a difference because things like myths and fables were pretend.

Nevertheless, he questioned without leaving his father a minute to respond, "Why did it appear to me? What have I done?"

"Son," His mother cut in. "You haven't done anything except lead a happy, fulfilling life. D' ye understand now why it is no joke to talk o' such a creature?"

"Yes, Momma, I do! I read the story behind it last night," He looked at his father. "That's what I was readin'. But I did see it, I know I did…and he had raindrops…"

"Donovan!" His father snapped sharply. "Enough. We'll have no more talk o' those myths in this home. Go feed Shire Penny and head yourself off to bed."

Quietly, Donovan trudged out to the barn with a bucket of oats for the mare. He could not see that the sun had almost set in the west, because the darkest clouds he'd ever witnessed rolled in, swallowing the friendly sky. The stable was dank and dark, but comfortable in a way and he heard the nervous pacing of hooves in the far stall.

"I'm comin' girl, I’m comin'," He muttered and stood in front of her pen.

Donovan raised his eyes to nose-level with the horse, but he was not met with the chestnut nose of Shire Penny, but with the coal black nose and lustrous gold raindrops streaking down the muzzle. The horse glared at him with a glinting, sinister stare and seemed to laugh at him. He shrank back and dropped the bucket of oats to the floor. A blinding flash of lightning lit off and the horse let out an ear-splitting whinny and reared to his full height, thrashing his front legs wildly.

It began to rain.

©2001 Skweeker McCain

skweekermccain@hotmail.com

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