The Striped Herd

“There it is, the striped herd”

The two men stared out across the plain.

“There it is, the striped herd.”

Creighton watched the mass of black and white flesh.

The guide examined him for a moment. “It’s glorious, no?”

Creighton didn’t hear him. He was still staring. He shifted on his horse, taking out his eyeglass.

“Amazing! I can’t see a single damned one.”

He couldn’t work out where any, one animal ended and another began.

“Such is the work of the striped one,” the other man said, grinning.

Creighton bounced slightly, “look, look.” Sensing a lack of excitement from the other man, Creighton turned to him. “Oh.” He passed him the eyeglass. “There is a grootslang attacking the herd from the south, can you see it?”

The huge, tusked snake stood poised to strike. While it hovered, Creighton held his hand out. There was a pause and the other man gave him back the telescope.

The herd began to run away. For a brief moment a beast broke from the herd and was visible, it was then that the grootslang struck. The snake’s mighty head lanced down, his tusk grazing the side of the striped one. The black and white horse raced off, to rejoin the herd, but..

“The grootslang attacked one, one that had left the herd, but now.. Now I can see it. Even in the herd.”

The red streak across the horse’s flank was clearly visible. But so was the rest of the horse. Creighton could track its head moving amongst the striped blur of the crowd. The horse seemed to be swimming only barely able to keep its head above the surface.

His guide watched him for a moment “In the herd, all are the same. There is no injury, no difference. While this one is hurt, it cannot join the herd. Such is the work of the striped one.”

“What about young ones? The Lord made all creatures to reproduce.”

“God only is wise. The sages say there is no difference in the herd. There is no young or old, no weak or strong. There is only the herd.”

The herd was moving away now, the single injured horse still visible. The grootslang trailed them, visible as a shifting in the grass.

“Do you ride them?” Creighton asked.

“The striped one is the prince of horses. He is fast and haughty. He does not easily tire. But he must be named.”

Creighton straightened and, pressing his arm into his leg, turned to the other man. “Named?”

“We paint him. We put a letter on his side. From that point on, he cannot join the herd. He is a herd of one, and we can ride him.”

The herd was far away now, a fuzzy blot in the distance, though Creighton thought he spied the occasional movement of the lone horse and its pursuer.

“Marvellous. They are truly a mighty work. Thank you…” The man on horseback shifted for a moment. Then smiling, Creighton asked, “What is your name?”

The other man looked up a him, “May I speak honestly, Mr Creighton?”

“Absolutely.”

“You do not need to learn my name. You need to forget yours.”

Cover photo by Stephane YAICH on Unsplash