
The Saddle
Stepping out of the Three Moors Hotel before dawn, she headed outside town, where the young apprentice said the Master lived. Her step was resolute; she was finally meeting the unequaled saddlemaker of the Atlas Mountains.
Troubled, she had traveled for days on an elusive search and had often questioned its wisdom.
” No more what-ifs,” she thought. ” As in my dreams, my path has led me to the desert, and now I must trust the way.” She pressed on.
The Master had agreed to see her and entrust her with his masterpiece. A saddle so delicate, so finely crafted, a leather so soft to the touch, adorned with gleaming gems the color of warm sand and night sky.
But most of all, the Master’s saddle would fit only the fairest and most valiant horse. A steed that would find the trail back to the temple, and the old Master knew where the animal was grazing.
So much depended on the success of her sacred journey. The people did not know, but the old Master understood.
Today, she would receive the saddle and pledge to return it, her duty faithfully met. The golden horse would take her to the buried site. She didn’t know how long it would take, but she knew that while riding, she must sing the words of the forgotten tongue, unfamiliar to her ears, that she had memorized.
The horse, the saddle, and her chant were the gifts required by the ancient stones to set the people free and heal their self-inflicted wounds.
So, she was summoned, her purpose clearer than ever, her intent sharper than she had ever known. About to meet her fate, with bread and water for a few days, she stopped an instant and asked for a blessing. Then hurried again. The old Master and the Akhal Teke mare were waiting.
Photo credit Nancy Rose
@fancynancy605

6 Comments
Valérie Nizon
Good morning, dear Françoise
First of all, Happy New Year!
You’ve written a beautiful text set in a world that is not very familiar to me but about which I look foward to reading more from you.
I have two questions:
Tell me, please,
are all men’s injuries self-inflicted?
did it take her weeks to learn the forgotten tongue, or weeks to learn the song in the forgotten tongue ?
you seem to know much about horses. Do you ride, or even own a horse? If so what kind, an Akhal Teke perhaps?
Thank you so much for sharing this with me.
Love from Baden,
Valérie xxx
Françoise Ducroz
My dear Valérie,
No, I do not think that all men’s injuries are self-inflicted, but they often are. The spectacle of America on January 20, 2025, illustrates the point.
As for our rider, it took her a long time to learn the chant she must sing on her quest. Like so many lost languages, their wisdom wasn’t readily accessible, and she had to apply herself. I admire the work of linguists.
Take care,
Françoise
barbara jay
Francoise, I love your stories that leave me in wonderment. I learned that the Akhal Teke mare and the Drei Mohren Hotel are real! What will our heroine find in the buried site? Will she set the people straight so they will be free? I want to read the next chapter! Keep writing.
XO
Barbara
PS the beautiful horse and its magnificent covering is the perfect image.
PPS you too are a linguist.
Françoise Ducroz
Thank you Barbara for liking The Saddle.
I am not sure what our rider will find at the buried place, but her chant will open something, people will wake up from their self-induced trance and healing will occur.
It has to be!!! How else can we face the next 4 years?
My new mantra: Take heart, speak up and carry on.
Francoise
maria termini
Thank you for this amazing dreamlike story – ready and so needed for this time.
Françoise Ducroz
Querida Maria, I am so glad you liked the saddle. As an aspiring writer, I admire your talent and creative generosity.
Life is our canvas and more than ever we need to write, dance, play music and sing. So let’s!
Stay informed, Speak up and Take heart.
Francoise