The Wagon in the Road

A brown horse traveled down a misty lane.
Hooves clopped softly against the cobblestone and echoed back from the fog.
Although the wooden wagon behind tugged hard against the shoulders, the stallion did not shy from the task and pulled ahead into the thick and saturated air.

The road split into two ways: one to the right, and the other.
The progression halted and awaited orders.
A drag left decided the direction, and onwards went the wagon.

Night closed in, but the journey continued with encouragement of the reins, and the horse wearing thick, black blinders kept on.
A frigid breeze settled into the dark air, and soon another fork with three ways arrived.
Swiftly pulled right, the wagon wobbled down the road in stony silence.

The gray light of a barren day began to glow through the air, and a great mountain rose ahead.
The road now had many turnoffs, many courses which could be traversed.
But the reins did not move, so the wagon marched straight and true.

At the foot of the mountain, sheer cliff blocked all ways except for a narrow in the mountain.
The horse stopped, unsure whether to advance or await the driver.
The wait lasted for many hours, until the sun was almost set again, and the wind raged against.
A brisk tug forwards resumed the march, and into the passage the wagon traveled.

The air roared and whistled and shoved the bluffs wildly about the marcher's eyes.
A sharp crack reverberated loudly through the small canyon, and the horse stopped in fear.
A gentle word, a kind gesture, a slight assurance was all that was needed to proceed.

But there were none.
Unwilling to continue in the storm, the packhorse sat and waited for morninglight.

The dawn sky illuminated a collapse in the route ahead.
A dead end.
The wagonpuller whinnied loudly, still awaiting further charges.

A tug left.
The worker complied.
A jerk right.
Very well, and turned about.

A pull back.
The haulbearer attempted to glare, but blinders hid the person.

Ripping and rotating about, the mouth-leashed fought but stopped and sat down.
Frustrated, the head bent low and hooves began to pry the black leather loose.
But they were so tightly affixed that it pained.
A complaint for explanation was met with silence, and so the blinders were mishandled.

After many, many hours, the blinders fell to the rocky floor, coated in hair and dirt and blood.
The servant turned to finally examine the abusive master.
But the wagon in the road was empty, save for the ends of reins blowing in the wind.