birthing.:
“Spain . . . ummm, Spain. White horse. El Cid?”
:Very good.
“Thanks. Liberal arts education. Any others?”
:Girl in France. Thought she was talking to God. Rode a white horse.:
“The Maid of Orleans. Joan of Arc.”
:Yes. Her inspiration created the idea of the nation of France, set the stage for the rise of the modern state . . . and began the end of the idea that land and king were one.:
“Others?”
:General in your Civil War. Led the southern armies in the east, and whose graciousness in defeat set the tone for knitting the country back together once it was done. And his nemesis, because the rebel had to lose. Both were needed in their essential roles. That war made the country that followed possible, brutally hard for those at the time.”
“Lee and Grant . . . But neither of their horses were white. Traveler was a chestnut.”
:Was he? Are you sure? Interesting choice of names, isn’t it?:
“No. I’m not sure, now that I think on it. I’ll have to look it up.”
:Wikipedia has a good entry. Try that. And like our Chosen, we can go in mufti, when needful.:
“Good to know. Any others?”
:Hrmm . . . Okay. General in Greece, opened up the east and west. Great tragedy in his wake but made possible the rise of the west and the linking of the world, the Silk Road.:
“Alexander. But he wasn’t Greek, he was Macedonian.”
:Whatever.:
“So, just how many Companions in this world?”
:A few. For critical people at a nexus in time, where one person’s single choice will decide the fate of millions, for those few, we are a quiet voice, a nudge here, a suggestion there. We are Companions to our Chosen. We suggest, we recommend, we aid.:
“But, compared with here, Valdemar is lousy with them.”
The Companion drew himself closer to the fence. The voice in Dave’s mind lost its humorous edge and became all business.
:The Chosen are Chosen by Fate, David. We become their Companions to help them fulfill that fate. We’re an expensive line item, silver hooves and all, so we go where the need is most.:
“So, then you’re here to Choose someone?”
:Yes, David.:
He looked up and down the road. No one was in sight. He began to get an odd, warm feeling in the of his stomach.
:No, David. That role is not yours. There is always a bard, to record the history, to document the story of the Chosen for all ages. It will be your story, if you choose to write it.:
He felt a surge of bitter disappointment. In an instant, he’d seen, he’d read, the flash of sublime joy at being Chosen, and it was gone. “So, then. A job as a sidekick. Great.” He made no effort to hide the hurt. “What about the woman in Oklahoma?”
:This is beneath you, Dave. She can tell our story as fiction, but I will not be in this story, except as steed. My story is told elsewhere. This will be the Chosen’s story. The one who changes the future.:
The Companion glanced towards the golf bag. :Would you get my clubs? The woods are Calloways, but even good clubs can’t fix a tendency to slice. I have an appointment.:
The Companion turned toward the barn.
“The girl?”
:The girl who changes the world. Want to write the story?:
Dave thought about it for almost a minute.
“Sure.”
