Philippa's Hope

         The fields of the wheat farm were stained with blood. Philippa thought of her young brother, weakened from lack of food, the sun beating down on him, dying in the field only a month ago. She didn't cry. She never cried anymore. She only hoped, she only despaired. It was hard to tell the difference.

         What kept the workers working on the farm wasn't slavery, technically. Slavery had been banned from the kingdom years ago. It was working to pay off a debt. Philippa smiled bitterly at the thought. Her tribe, wild and free, reputedly barbaric, had been attacked when she was just a child. She and her infant brother were "rescued" by their attackers and put to work on the farm in payment for the rescue.

         "It was a horse tribe, where I came from." Philippa whispered to the children in the barracks. "They bred horses and traded them. The finest horses. Strong and fast."

         Three little children stared up at her, wide-eyed, as she described where she came from. She described the treeless hills, the wild plains where their people were free. It was late at night, and she knew they all needed sleep. But Philippa needed to talk. She needed to believe there was hope.

         "The story goes," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "that we'll all be freed, every one of us. By a savior on a winged horse. We'll fly to freedom. To our true homes."

         One of the children, a boy who was frighteningly small for his age, piped up, awe in his voice, "Everyone knows that nobody has ever ridden a winged horse."

         "I know." responded Philippa. The hope in her heart began to fade again. That night, she felt despair.

         The morning came early, as always. The door to the servants' barracks banged open and an overseer with a spear in one hand and a whip in the other roared, "To work! To the fields!"

         Philippa had to go to one of the far fields that morning. It took two hours for her and the others just to reach it. The sun blazed, and the little group of workers panted, glancing up at the sun periodically, silently asking for mercy. An overseer on a horse cracked his whip, and they went to work, sickles in their hands, harvesting wheat.

         The day wore on slowly. The sun became more and more unbearable in its heated fury. The two overseers watching them drank water and shared as little as possible, enough to keep them working.

         Freedom. Hope. Despair. The words echoed in Philippa's mind as she worked. She paused to wipe her perspiring forehead. An overseer cracked his whip and hit the back of her legs.

         Philippa cried out and dropped to her knees. Her legs stung and she felt little streams of blood trickling out the new wounds and mingling with her sweat. She turned her head and gave the man a vicious glare.

         "Defy me, will you, ignorant child?" yelled the man. He slipped off his horse and stomped right up to her, putting his face right up to hers. "You and your brother. Defiant. Rebellious. I killed him, you do know that, right? I didn't give him water, because he did not respect me. Do you want to go the same way, little rat?"

         Philippa stared at him. Rage spread through her, and her breath became ragged.

         "Stand up, and get to work." the man said. He stood up and turned his back to her.

         She dived toward his back, swinging her sharp scythe and yelling incoherently. She never made it to him. The other overseer had been watching, waiting, and he tackled her to the ground before she had gone far. He punched her hard in the mouth then stood over her, sneering, basking in the power he had over another human being.

         "Stupid as you are, I think you know the penalty for attacking an overseer."

         The overseers whipped and beat her bloody, then left her to the sun, leading the others back to the barracks. Unable to stand, she lay, waiting for death to come. Things went out of focus, the world became fuzzy.

         And then, in the light of the setting sun, she saw a figure. She tried to open her eyes, to see clearly whatever it could be. It got closer, and then she heard the thumps of hooves landing on dirt. Her gaze finally focused. Before her, stood a white horse, larger than any horse she had ever seen. The horse looked down at her, and its eyes were a haunting blue. It whinnied and turned, and she saw the wings on its back, stretching out, long and strong and blindingly beautiful.

         Everything went out of focus again, but she felt the muzzle of the horse against her body. She stumbled to her feet, leaning against the horse for support. She felt herself, somehow, being lifted to the back of the winged horse. And then they soared.

         In her heart, Philippa felt hope.