Third Week of Spring
Once upon a time, before the first centaur, unicorn or pegasus was born, and before the first humans made their first fire, a great and ancient oak stood alone at the top of a small hill. From there the old tree overlooked plains stretching into the horizon, it overlooked forests providing shelter from the elements, and it overlooked the lives of all the wild herds living in both.
The hill upon which the old oak stood was sacred to the horses. No herd claimed it within it's territory, for the hill and the oak was not to be owned by anyone. It was the Gathering Place for all the herds, a place where everyone could meet in peace and harmony, and so they did once every year, in the third week of spring, when the mares had given birth to their foals, but before most became pregnant with the foals of next year.
The herds would stay on the hill for a full week, no matter the weather. Storms were unheard of there, and the spring rain was always soft and pleasant, washing out the dirt from their coats. The sun was still not so hot that they would need shade every few minutes, and just at the foot of the hill ran not one, not two, but an entire three creeks full of the freshest and tastiest of water. In the third week of spring, under the ancient oak, life was good.
Even though countless herds were gathered under the ancient oak, there were never any fights. Fights were forbidden, and whoever started one would find him- or herself expelled from their herd, and forced from the oak's hill. Sure, colts and stallions would spar against each other, playfighting over imagined possessions, but no two stallions would go up against the other for possession of the other's mares. In this third week of spring, mares were completely free to choose if they wished for a different herd, for such choices made under the oak were to be respected by all.
By the end of the third week, the herds would be growing restless. Almost none but the newborn foals would sleep on the last night of the week, all knowing what would happen in the morning. And as had happened countless years before, when the sun rose over the hill in the eastern horizon, and cast it's light upon the plains below, a single figure appeared over the crest of the hill. Many of the herds wished to simply run towards it, but they all knew better; everyone was to stay beneath the oak.
This particular year an old roan stallion made his way down to the foot of the oak's hill, standing in wait there for the other to come. His herd was a small one, but although he was now too old to fight for it, he never had to, for his mares had all chosen him freely and willingly, and wanted for no other stallion. It was his age that allowed him to stand in wait, as it had the past two years, and as once it had his sire, when he was the oldest of all the herd stallions.
The wait beneath the oak was a long one. The figure in the horizon made no haste to approach, moving at a leisurely walk with the sun in tow, and though she was far, far away, even the youngest foal knew instinctively that she was a mare, long before even the white shine of her coat was truly visible.
Where she walked, flowers would bloom and the grass would grow tall and tasty. Each step of her hooves caused a new bed of colors to grow, but none who had ever tried to trace them to find where she came from had ever ended up anywhere other than the old oak after hours of walking.
Patiently the old roan stallion stood at the foot of the hill, watching the mare slowly make her way towards the gathered herds. Behind him stood all the herds, waiting with baited breath. Even the foals knew something big was happening, and rather than frolic and play, they stood glued to the flanks of their dams. Everyone watched the white mare draw closer, coming to join the herds under the ancient oak on this last day of the third week of spring.
Finally, hours after the sun had rose, she reached the herds. The old roan stallion took but three steps to meet her, greeting her traditionally with nostril against nostril, inhaling deeply the sweet fragrance of wildflowers lingering on her breath. "Once more you grace us with your presence, wonderful mare," he nickered, as he had the past two years, and as every elder stallion had in the years before. The mare simply bowed her head gently, ears perked and her eyes taking in the sight of the herds standing behind him. "I am here to give you my blessings," she replied, as she had every year she had come to the ancient oak's hill.
The old roan stallion hurred, running his muzzle down the curve of her neck before circling around behind her, where he found she'd already raised her for him. He wasted no time, mounting her quickly and hugging himself against her back as he bred her. He was old, but with age came experience, and he needed no second tries. In that particular moment he felt strong enough to take on every herd stallion on the hill, but instead of such fights he gave all that strength to the white mare. It was over far too soon for him, but as he slipped down from the mare's back again she turned to nuzzle him lovingly. "To you," she nickered, "I grant another year of virility, that you may keep your mares in foal with healthy colts and fillies for me to meet next year."
Even as she spoke, the roan stallion's lead mare approached them, not in jealousy at having him breed another mare, but because she was the next to receive the white mare's blessings. This mare was a solid gold in color, but the week-old filly by her side took after her sire, her coat a deep roan. The white mare turned to them, then reached over the golden mare's back as if hugging a long lost friend or sister. "To you," she nickered, "I grant fertility, that you will not stand here next year without a foal by your side." The golden mare breathed a sigh of relief, hugging over the white's back as well. "Thank you," she whispered.
As they stood there in embrace, the roan filly cautiously moved around the other side of the white mare, sniffing her curiously as if wondering whether she knew her or not. It only took her a few seconds to decide that she must, and with newfound confidence she bumped her muzzle up between the mare's hindlegs, finding the nearest teat with her lips and beginning to suckle as if it was her own dam. The white mare simply smiled, turning her head from the filly's dam to nuzzle gently at the foal's hip. "To you," she said, "I grant long life and good health, that we will meet here again next year."
The filly didn't suckle long, only a few mouthfuls of the white mare's milk enough to sate her hunger, and she dutifully went with her mother as she made room for another mare, this time not one of their herd; she was the first-born filly of the year before, a long-legged brown and white beauty, and she went to the white mare uncertain of what would happen. She was weaned, of course, so didn't think she'd get to drink from her as she had the year before, but she didn't feel ready to have her own foal either, as the adult mare had been granted.
"Fear not," the white mare spoke softly, as if reading the young mare's mind. "Nothing is given to you that you do not wish for." She reached to touch, and the young mare felt peace fall upon her. "To you," the white mare nickered, "I grant freedom from worries for the next year. Too young to be a dam, you will not conceive a foal this year." The two-colored mare looked surprised for a short moment, then happy and relieved when she realized what gift she had received from the white one.
Before the young mare was fully done thanking the white, a red colt approached. He was the firstborn colt of the year before, and by coincidence also the son of the elder stallion, though not by the same dam as the little filly. He was excited, having heard from the youngest bachelor stallions what the mare's gift to the colts was. The white mare just laughed, shaking her head. "Someone has been talking again," she said, but it was a surprise to no one - the colts somehow always knew what was in store for them.
As his sire before him he nuzzled his way down the mare's neck and back, hurring and rubbing against her, and as his sire before him he found her waiting for him with her tail raised, but unlike his father the colt had no experience at all with mares, and it took him several attempts before he finally found himself clinging around her rump, breeding her with the passion and intensity of a young stallion. As he did the mare turned her head to look at him, a smile clear in her eyes. "To you," she nickered, just as he gave his all to her, "I grant the knowledge of what good stallions have, and bad ones don't. Choose your life wisely."
He dismounted seconds later, standing on wobbly legs with his head spinning from the experience. The white mare giggled, nuzzling him softly before moving on towards the gathered herds. "The last of the first have been given their blessings," she called. "But the rest of you shall not go without." And so the day went on into the night, the white mare passing out her blessings to everyone; virility for the stallions, fertility for the mares, good health for the foals, freedom for the fillies not yet mares, and stallionhood for the colts not yet stallions.
As was practically part of the tradition, many of the colts tried sneaking in a second try, but the white mare always caught them in their attempts, laughing and telling them they'd have to wait until next year. She knew exactly who had and who had not yet been blessed, moving with determination through the crowd of horses, until by the light of the full moon she stood under the ancient oak, gazing out over the herds.
"Another year has come and gone, and my blessings have been passed to you all," she nickered, loudly enough for all to hear. "Go now to your territories, and return here in one year but one week, and I shall come meet you again." All the horses nickered and whinnied loving responses to her, then turned to do as she had ordered, leaving for their homes. The white mare stayed standing under the ancient oak until the last set of hooves had left the hill, then turned towards the west and continued her trek, flowers blooming wherever she stepped.