Short Stories
vol.6Mongolian Flight（1/4）
Occasionally I get a sudden sensation of the sky and mountains and grassy fields on my skin. It makes me feel proud and arrogant, as if I were observing something I had created. I can almost feel the breath of an ancient goddess watching me, recognizing my slight superiority over her, understanding that it was because of me that the sky and mountains and fields were in place.
People know, if they know anything at all, that they are a part of nature. It's what science teaches us. I believed it all, too. And yet?I think therefore I am?without me standing here, I was sure the scene I was looking over would not exist. In fact, it would all disappear as soon as I left. Somebody taught me that, too.
I drove off-road over the Mongolian plains for seven hours in a four-wheel drive. In the process, the mountains, fields, and sky ceased to be a part of me; no longer would they disappear when I left. Instead, they turned into an enormous, expressionless enemy.
Exhausted, I got out of the car. My shadow, squashed by the evening sun was long, like a rope, and it stretched around the world. The tip of my shadow spanned the globe and came up on the other side to shade the blue-white horse skull at my feet.
In this country, when an exceptional horse has died, the head is given up to the gods. The skull waits on this windswept holy ground for its next life to begin. They say it's a short cut to being reborn as a human.
The white bones of the horse has two round orbital cavities, a full set of teeth, and one sharp bone that protrudes from the front of the head.
The top of the skull lies with its nose pointing towards the sun, and it grows whiter as the sun sets. The quiet absorbs the whiteness. Even though it is nothing but bone, it slowly breathes.
Horses who are reborn as humans probably don't realize they used to be horses. Only the monks in Tibet know about the past. They can probably catch a glimpse of a horse in a person's facial expression.
You must have run well in a past life. And whinnied loudly. It's your eyes, definitely the eyes, and your eyelashes. They look very much like you.
Now that you mention it, the long eyelashes of a horse look like me when I'm angry.
The sun has almost set, and my shadow, the one that went around the world, has softened. I'm no longer an ancient goddess. Nor am I a human. Now I'm a horse galloping through the sky. My breasts are sleek as they thrust forward. The hair at the nape of my neck has grown down, down, until it's a mane. I feel like I could run almost anywhere. In what direction should I head?