“As infants we rode in the arms of the women who raised us. Our first lullabies were made out of women's voices and of horses, bone and hide and hair. The echo of a thousand hooves on the yellow earth, hot breath that melted the snow, manes that were our blankets, the wind that sang us to sleep as we galloped, flying over rocks and grasslands and streams. In every dream I'd ever had there was a black horse, the same one, every time. He was far away, past the grasslands, in the tall mountains we ...had to cross to reach our winter campground. He was so distant, yet I could see him clearly: storm cloud-colored, onyx-colored. In dreams I could not catch the black horse, no matter how I might try. Some mornings I woke from sleep, breathless, my legs aching as though I had run all the way to the sea. When I opened my eyes all I could see were the prophecy women, dressed in their dark robes, breathing softly, like horses, sleeping beneath their horsehide blankets. As the next leader in battle, I needed to learn every skill, from weaving to throwing an axe.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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