She Rules

The moment I grasped the reins, a bitter sweetness lingered at the back of my throat, reminiscent of bitter almonds. That taste was strikingly like the innards of frozen mice I had gutted in the snowy fields last winter—both fishy and astringent, clinging stubbornly to the root of my tongue, refusing to be shaken off. The wind swept dust across my face, mingled with the acrid scent of horse sweat, choking me until my chest tightened. I could not help but bend over and cough; each convulsion tugged at my ribs with a faint, persistent ache—an old wound sustained during last month's battle with the enemy cavalry. Dust rose beneath the pounding hooves, tawny grit whirling upward before drifting languidly back to earth. This scene was identical to the journey home I had dreamed of countless times in my memory—the ancient locust tree by the village gate leaning askew, the hollow within sheltering the marbles I had buried in childhood; the mill's wooden wheel groaned with each turn, its axle still wound with the red string I had stealthily tied; even the scent of straw carried by the wind was indistinguishable from before. Yet this time, the shadow beneath the locust tree concealed the flash of blades, the cadence of the turning wheel was thick with murderous intent, and the faint, elusive sweetness in the air was indistinguishable from the poisoned wine of six years ago. But I knew I could advance no further. Six years ago, when I enlisted in place of Mason Lewis, it was also such a blustery spring day. Father, Charles Lewis, stood before the vermilion gate; his slate-gray robe billowed loudly in the wind, and the jade belt around his waist was cinched tightly, carving deep folds. He patted my shoulder and said, "The house still has me," his calloused palm brushing against my coarse cloth garment; that warmth was, paradoxically, colder than the ice and snow at the Border Pass. At the time, I wore Mason Lewis' old jacket, its collar worn bright, sleeves stained with grease; standing before him, I resembled a monkey who had stealthily donned adult clothes. Mother Ms. Shaw hid behind the door, revealing half her face; the Beaded Hairpin at her temple trembled softly with her sobs, yet she never dared to utter a single word of farewell. As he turned the horse's head, the reins bit into his palm, causing a sharp pain. The dark red warhorse gave a sharp neigh, its front hooves restlessly scraping the ground, sparks flying as its iron shoes struck the stones. I touched its sweat-dampened neck; this old horse, which had borne me through hailstorms of bullets and arrows, seemed to sense the danger looming ahead at the mansion. Its mane was still entwined with the withered grass brought back last year from Y Pass, a testament to our having escaped the enemy night raid — at that moment, we lay prone in the snow, and it remained utterly motionless, restraining even a sneeze until the sound of the enemy cavalry's hooves had faded into the distance. This time, I shall first go to the ruined temple in the southern part of the city.