A Strange Metamorphosis

It was thunderous inside the thoroughbred’s mind.

The air brimmed with a storm and it pressed against his temples. It was just after midnight and the sky was heavy with rain. The forest was a tunnel of lush green - the leaves, the moss, the mildew, the thistles along the path and the wisteria slung across the branches. Just as the night was touched with hints of thunder, so too the forest was accented with hints of lilac.

It was August and the nymph noticed the deep purple buddleia had taken over flowering duties from the plum rhododendron. It now played host to a mass of butterflies who fluttered in the cool night. The horse snorted and shook his head as if they got up his nose.

They made their way slowly, the nymph leading him. The thoroughbred would have hurried her but his mind was sluggish with the storm.

They came across a small village. The forest mud melted into a little square of cobblestone, intertwined with moss and vines. Around it were neat little cottages, the green mass of the forest kept them almost hidden.

This will do, she thought.

Thank goodness, heaved the thoroughbred.

But there was no storm trapped in the midnight air, for what clouded the thoroughbred’s mind was her. She was the storm. After the place they had left that same night, she moved through the forest like a scream moves through the body, but not yet escaping the lips. She moved the same way that moisture builds in the air and clouds swarm in the skies.

The village was silent, all it’s occupants sound asleep. She felt her presence should have shook them all out of bed but some things do not reach the external and just rattle around on the inside.

At least the chestnut brown by her side felt it. She turned to him and stroked his nose, he chuffed in return. No more now, she promised him.

On one side of the square there was a line of cottages, but she could see the porch lights of more down the winding path and patches of vegetable gardens. On the other side, was a tavern with garden seating shrouded under heavy oaks and a small stable. The lanterns glowed softly and fireflies danced as the scent of roses carried on the breeze.

At each corner there was a stone carved bench and a rose bush. They were clusters of big, dusky pink roses nestled in dark leaves, whose petals dripped with rain like a leaky faucet. They bent the stem like a mother heavy with milk or a girl hitting puberty. The nymph felt if she touched them, they would immediately crumble into a pile of pink on the muddy ground.

She turned to lead the thoroughbred to the stables when the tavern door opened. A human man stepped out, placing empty barrels of fruit wine by the door.

His linen shirt was rolled up at the elbows and tight at the tops of his arms. The skin on his arms and face was tanned from the sun, rugged from work and oily from sweat. He had hazel curls which fell into muddied eyes, flickering like the fireflies in the lantern glow.

She had never seen a human man so gorgeous. He looked up at her and then stepped back inside.

The village was silent once more - no sound had been made apart from the opening and closing of the tavern door - but she suddenly noticed the quiet. There was a difference, a before and after that could not be measured in sound, it couldn’t be measured in anything, but she noticed it.

A deep ache began to spread throughout her body. It felt lonesome and it also felt… Good. It radiated from her chest but then it stung between her legs. She let it take over her, it was a strange metamorphosis.

The inside of the tavern was a cave of dark wood, lit only by candlelight. He cleared away the bar as the two elderly landlords slept upstairs but after he closed the door he crept to the window and lifted the heavy lace that was strung across it.

She had turned back to her horse, all her could see was her tumbling rose-coloured hair adorned with tiny flowers and two pointed ears peeping out. She wore a white dress which laced up at the front and sleeves which kept falling from her shoulders, her feet were bare. He watched her until she disappeared into the stables - he was enchanted but also filled with a strange dread.

The thoroughbred sensed the change.

When the world turns green, rain brings no sorrow, only nourishment and the forest was salivating at just the first few drops. The village was on the edge of it’s seat, biting down for the thunder that built in the clouds but to which there was never a release.

By Hannah Olivia

A student of English Literature at Kent University, she enjoys creating magical, descriptive worlds and hopes to one day to fill them with thrilling stories. 

Hannah welcomes your comments and ideas on where this story could go below...