Long ago, before the rivers were named and the stars were counted, the People lived in harmony with the land. They listened to the wind, spoke with the trees, and danced with the fire. Among them was a horse unlike any other — not swift like the wind horses or strong like the burden horses, but quiet, watchful, and always alone.

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This horse was born under a blood moon, its coat the colour of storm clouds and its eyes deep pools of sadness. The Elders called it Wičháȟpi Tȟáŋka, the Great Star Horse, but the children whispered another name: Sorrow.

Sorrow did not run with the herd. It wandered the hills, appearing only when grief touched the People. When a warrior fell in battle, Sorrow would be seen standing at the edge of the village, head bowed. When a child was lost to the winter, Sorrow would walk the snow-covered plains, leaving no tracks. And when the buffalo disappeared, Sorrow stood atop the highest ridge, watching the horizon.

 

The People came to understand: Sorrow was not a curse, but a messenger. It carried the weight of their pain so they could carry on. It reminded them that grief was sacred — a sign of love, of memory, of connection to all that had been lost.

 

One winter, when the People were starving and the sky refused to snow, a young girl named Aŋpétu Wičhóni — Life of the Day — followed Sorrow into the forest. She was small, but her heart was strong. She asked the horse, “Why do you carry our pain?”

Sorrow turned to her, and for the first time, it spoke — not with words, but with a voice that filled the trees and stirred the earth:

“Because pain is a river, and rivers must flow. If it is dammed, it floods the heart. If it is free, it nourishes the soul.”

Aŋpétu Wičhóni returned to the village and told the Elders what she had heard. That night, the People gathered around the fire and wept together — not in despair, but in ceremony. They sang songs for the lost, painted their faces with ash, and let their tears fall to the earth.

 

In the morning, the snow came.

 

Sorrow was never seen again, but its spirit remained. The People carved its image into stone, painted it on hides, and told its story to every child. And when grief came again — as it always does — they remembered the Sorrow Horse, who taught them that mourning is not weakness, but a sacred act of remembering.