The rider jams the spurs against the animal’s flanks, and immediately it lurches forward. The lead horse stamps its foot, whining, and he tosses his head, moisture dripping from his mouth and nose. I’m barely more than a girl-unarmed, terrified, and rooted to the spot. For an instant, everything stops, and they’re looking at me. It’s then I see the sea of horses erupt from amid tall, withered grass, spurred by white men in long blue coats, all brandishing rifles. In this dream, I hear a driving drum beat, and my hand sways and pats my leg as I walk farther from the teepees. Others stoke dying fires, preparing meals for children who have had little because, when winter comes, the game all but vanishes.Īs I walk, my breath escapes in steamy wisps and lingers, then dissipates. I see that some share my labor, scrounging at the edge of the camp, looking for anything to burn. On my way to gather wood for the fires, I see other girls in deer-skin dresses like mine, dresses with uneven hems that form an alternating pattern of fringed v’s. It’s not a home I’d recognize in waking, not considering the buffalo hides stretched taut over smooth wooden poles to form the lodges I walk among. I can still hear the mad gallop of horses amid a winter’s thrall on snow-blanketed plains. I’ve had the same dream for as long as I can remember. Tears stream down my face, and I grab a pillow to wipe them away. Right now, the screaming and the rocking are all that keep me from fleeing into the blue-black night.

Anathema by Maria Rachel Hooley