THE SADDLE

by Françoise Ducroz

Stepping out of the Three Moors Hotel before dawn, she headed outside town where the young apprentice said the Master lived. Her step was resolute; she was finally meeting the unequaled
saddlemaker of the Atlas mountains.

Troubled, she had traveled for days on an elusive search and had often questioned its wisdom.

” No more what-ifs,” she thought. ” As in my dreams, my steps have led me to the desert, and now I must trust the way.” She pressed on.

The Master had agreed to see her and entrust her with his masterpiece. A saddle so delicate, so finely crafted, a leather so soft to the touch, adorned with gleaming gems the color of warm sand and night sky. But most of all, the Master’s saddle would fit only the fairest and most valiant horse. A steed that would know the way back to the temple, and the old Master knew where the
animal was grazing.

So much depended on the success of her sacred journey. The people did not know, but the old Master understood.

Today, she would receive the saddle and pledge to return it, her duty faithfully met. The golden horse would take her to the buried site. She didn’t know how long it would take, but she knew
that while riding, she must sing the words of the forgotten tongue, so unfamiliar to her ears, that she had memorized.

The horse, the saddle, and her chant were the gifts required by the ancient stones to set the people free and heal their self-inflicted wounds.

So, she was ordered; her purpose clearer than ever, her intent sharper than she had ever known. About to meet her fate, with bread and water for a few days, she stopped an instant and asked for a blessing. Then hurried again. The old Master and the Akhal Teke mare were waiting.

326 words _ Short short story _ Françoise Ducroz