A Second-Hand Coat

I dismounted at the road edge, where metalled track crumbled away into moorland, giving way to sedge and a rolling sea of cottongrass. Beyond was the heather, delicate purple, a perfect foil for the scarlet of Jesse’s coat as he bobbed in and out of view against a milky sky tinged with the grey of storm clouds. Care was needed with my footing now. I was not so sure as Jesse, who I knew would not make a mistake. A mistake. Memories welled up as I moved from clump to clump, feeling the squelch of the tufts compressing like soaked sponges … pikes at the door … then the scream … and later… in a cold and cloudless dusk… a single musket shot rings through the heather.
Vivid as they are, I push the memories back. The black water keeps its own counsel. Jesse is not likely to see his face reflected in the pool where the cattle and ponies drink. When I look up again he is gone and Orion stands lonely on the road behind me. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the noise. Jesse is seventeen now – all but lost to me – I could call his name out across the heather, but he will not come back. Maybe later, I will find him skulking under the thatch, his coat rolled up and set behind his head and his brow furrowed and tinged with the grey of storm clouds.