Centaur's Wood

Early-morning sunlight slanted in faint shafts through the forest canopy as the Centaur carefully picked her way through the undergrowth, unshod hooves leaving a delicate trail in the fresh spring grass.

There was a Man in the forest, she had heard, from a meadow finch bringing breakfast to his young ones. It had been a long time since a Man had been in the woods, and she wished to see.

She found the place easily enough, from the chatter of the finch a small clearing surrounded by oaks, one giant large enough to shelter a traveler within the crannies of its bole.

Curled there was the Man, slumbering uneasily, young and flaxen-haired. He was garbed simply, and a lute was cradled in his arms. A bard, then.

This bard, this Man, looked harmless enough, and besides, when the Centaur ran, the wind could not catch her. So she deliberately stepped forward onto a thin branch lying before her, sending a snap to pierce the thin veil of bird chatter over the trees.

The Man jerked awake, shrinking back against the tree, and the Centaur saw that he was blind, for though he had been roused, his sealed eyelids did not open; the fringe of eyelashes lay closed on the soft face. "Who’s there?" he cried, swinging his sightless head back and forth in a futile search for the intruder. "Who’s there?" And he started up to his feet, one hand tightly gripping the lute behind him, the other outstretched, groping.

The Centaur stepped forward, her normally silent footfalls thudding deliberately on the turf in careful rhythm.

The Man relaxed, recognizing the sound. "A horse. Only a horse. Horse, why are you here, alone, in the woods?" he said, softly. He stretched his hand out further, only to meet that of the Centaur. He recoiled, and said in fear, "Who are you, rider?"

"No rider, Man." The Centaur spoke slowly, lowering her hand as she did. "Centaur."

The Man’s face tightened. "Centaur. You jest, rider. Can you not leave a blind man alone, to disturb his rest, and then taunt him with such lies as these? Think you that I, in my sightlessness, have not been derided with such mockeries as this before?"

"No jest, Man. No rider and no jest. I am Centaur. We still live, in woods like these, though no Man may believe it. As you are here, in this wood, so am I."

The Man shook his head. "Come closer, that I may see you, then."

The Centaur stepped closer, to meet the Man’s outstretched hand. She shuddered, once, under the unfamiliar sensation, then stood rock-still as the sensitive, string-calloused fingertips flew over her face, her shoulders, her flat, almost breastless chest, down to the line where woman and horse met. There the hand lingered, on the strange connection where smooth flesh met glossy hair. Finally, it slowly withdrew, and the Man let out a long breath. "Centaur, then, are you."

"Centaur," the Centaur agreed, smiling a little. "Now, Man, will you tell me why you are here?"

"I was traveling," he replied, a little shock still on his face.

"That much is evident."

"These woods lay in my path, but I lost it."

"Lost what?"

"The path."

"Oh." A strange conversation indeed, the Centaur mused to herself, and a strange Man, at that.

"So I took shelter in this clearing overnight."

"And then were awoken by me."

"Yes. And I should very much like to leave these woods as soon as possible, meaning no offense to you, Mistress… Centaur."

"None is taken, Man. I will lead you out, if that is your wish."

He bowed gracefully, and smiled.