boudika
—« you are not supposed to love icarus. ignore how pretty his wings look, how darling he is when he preens them. refuse to notice how gracefully he beats them to seek out the sky, how raw and wonderous. look for the salt, the clouds, the ships. love the beauty of them, instead. the story of icarus will end in only one way, and it will not be in your arms. »
F
rom appearances alone, they are opposites. The woman is the color of the sky reflected in a sword; silver-blue and, if not for the swollen nature of her pregnancy, she might have been whetted like a blade. Boudika eyes her sideways, not out of abashedness, but in the way of a wild thing. How often does a dog glance with wide eyes, sideways, before lashing out?But Boudika is not lashing out. Not when she can hardly remember how to speak. Where she is red, this other woman is silver-blue. Where she is striped only on her haunches, the other mare is striped at the legs and neck.
Even not staring at her directly, Boudika can feel the pressure of her presence. The water is cool down her parched throat; it soothes wounds that are not external but within.
You’re a long way from the sea, the stranger states.
“I am a long way from anything.” Boudika corrects. Her voice, even to herself, sounds grating; it scratches; sand blow up by the wind. She clears her throat, but knows the gesture will not bring back any sense of soft melody.
Her voice has always been too deep, she thinks. It comes from wasting half her life away on a lie as someone she could never be. The thought empties whatever is left of her: it exhausts her to the point that she steps forward into the oasis and lays down into the water. It laps up all around her; briefly, she submerges her head too.
Beneath the surface, there is no sound. There is no voice. There is nothing but pressure, the comforting sort, the embracing sort. When she rises her head above the surface, she shakes the water from her eyes and turns at last to appraise the woman fully, over her shoulder.
Boudika says, in that same misused voice, “You look like me.” She has lost the patience for meaningless interactions. It is the only reason she landed here and changed shape, when she had condemned herself to an osprey’s form since, since—
Well, since him.
It is clear from her tone that she does not mean in appearance. There is something underlying that, an essence of unease that suggests a more profound depth. With brutal, hostile honesty Boudika states aloud: “This is the first time I have been a woman in weeks.”
This is the first time I’ve felt like a woman since I was born.
And reborn, by sea.
And reborn, by storm.
And reborn, by love.
And reborn, by betrayal.
Boudika wishes she wasn’t.
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