Rain must fall--a fragment

    “Into every life a little rain must fall,” said a memory of her grandmother’s voice in her head.

     She looked up at the sky with her lip curled in disdain. “A little!” she muttered. Another rivulet trailed down her neck and ran unimpeded down her shirt. The cloth was so soggy that it could not absorb any more water. She had been wearing rain for three days straight. And might wear it for the rest of her life, which would be shortened considerably if the sky did not clear up soon.

     She shrugged against the wind driven drops. For the tenth time in five minutes, shoved lank hair out of her eyes, and nudged her miserable horse into picking up his feet.

“Not long now,” she lied to her horse. The gray pricked up his ears halfway and let out a sigh as he plodded through puddles and mud to his fetlocks.

This was no way to treat such a friend.

Sirocco’s gray sides were stained red by the mud that ran down the narrow path. There was no option but to walk to the side in this narrow pass. Long ago, some mad king had carved a deep slot through the mountain range to make easier travel for traders. He was just sane enough to know that easy travel went both ways, and had kept the pass narrow and well guarded. It was protected in the old days by a series of look-outs and sentry points on the edges of the overhanging cliffs, but now the old platforms just hung like broken teeth over a thin lipped mouth, not fit to chew anything.

If she only knew what she was looking for.

Twenty minutes later, they were through the cleft. The walls fell away and the rain-veiled landscape opened out far below. There was no cover between the top of the ridge and the valley floor. She heaved herself out of the saddle as smoothly as possible. They could rest for a moment, and then she would lead Sirocco down the mountain rather than ride. She reached under the flap of a too-thin saddle bag and pulled out a couple of carrots and the last of the apples.

“Sorry boy, looks like you’ll have to wait ‘til we get down for some grass.” As soon as Sirocco was done chewing they headed down the hill. Night began to fall as they slipped and skidded their way down the steep, muddy path. Lights began to shine, the closest things to stars she’d seen for days. Visions of warm fires and rich stew and bright spring-yellow butter on steaming bread began to overlay her vision.

She had no doubt that these things would be offered when she knocked on the first door. They would let her in. They would stable Sirocco. But they would not speak to her, marked as she was.