Not So New

The centaur could hear the tolling of the church bell from where he stood, watching from the edge of the forest. The bell spoke to him of the severing of his last link to the human world, of the passing of his last, best student, of the ending of the last reflection of his skill and knowledge and learning in this world. And of his own aging and the looming  end of his own very long life.

“Such a doleful toll,” murmured the centaur to himself as he gazed out over the little agricultural valley filled with farms and an ancient stone church. It was many years since he had last been here, but some tenuous connection had remained, and thus he knew an old friend and student of his had finally died. He couldn’t go to the funeral—the humans here would have gone up in flames.

He had left, decades ago, because times were changing, and he had no place here. But he had made his difficult way back this far in honor of old memories. His most promising human student, eager to learn what he could of the centaurs’ ancient healing lore. But then the apprentice wanted to get married, and his centaur teacher began to feel waves of homesickness for his otherworld home. So they separated. And the centaur lost contact with the human, until, so many years later, he felt the chilling tendrils of knowledge that his student had died. He didn’t know how long it had been in the human world. He hadn’t even known that any link had been maintained. But it had, and he came and now looked out over the valley.

He saw as the distant procession  left the church for the graveyard. That much was familiar. But so much else wasn’t. Some new buildings, of surpassing, clumsy ugliness. Strange things on the top of houses. Vehicles—he had left when such were starting to appear, but now they were very different—much faster and sleeker and more dangerous, he thought.

He settled his hoofs in the pine needle ground cover at the edge of the forest, ignoring the pain caused by his long, rough, journey, and watched through the afternoon. Twice, some dogs scented him and came racing to attack. He would fade back into the Between, and emerge in a different place, taking more care, until he forgot to shield his traces.

When it grew dark, there were weird flickering lights in the houses’ windows. Such a different world. He couldn’t believe that his student had been able to hold to any of the training he had been given. Lost, all lost in this world.

He almost turned to leave, go home to the other place, but some impulse made him head down the hill, instead. He was big but he could move, when he took care,  almost silently, scentlessly, and invisibly, so he ventured among the houses, taking one last look at a place that had once been so familiar to him but now was so different. He peered in some of the windows and found the flickering lights came from some sort of moving pictures. Not worth watching to his way of thinking.

At the end of the short main street, he came to the village’s pub, in the same building it had always been. A group of people were outside, saying goodbyes, he surmised, to a lean man of middle age. ”Unfortunately,” the man was saying, “I have a crucial operation first thing in the morning. Otherwise I’d never rush off from my great grandfather’s funeral.” He sighed. “A wonderful man. He was the one who steered me into medicine. And, indeed, taught me a great deal that med school never did. I’m in debt to him.” He grinned, then. “So are a lot of my patients. And my own students.”

There were more goodbyes and he swung himself into a gleaming vehicle. It started and roared away. As the little gathering watched him go, the centaur heard one murmur, “One of the best surgeons in the country, I’ve been told.”

The centaur stood for a minute looking after him, then, smiling, turned to go.