No Horseback Ride

Last time Heather got me on a horse journey it turned into a book (Vale of Shernai), and I will never top that adventure — in this life.

But I can tell a horse story (sort of) to help you’all saddle up.

papa

…………………………………………………

Ferrier Free

Jason was a ‘ferrier-free-on’ by trade and disposition; which means different things to ‘nine-to-fivers’, ranchers and widow ladies. His blood ran back, ‘tis said, to wandering peddlers, range drifters and vagabond minstrels – and he was of these and more; but you must also throw in parson, carpenter, hunter and poet. And through all this he was one with a horse, though would never own one – didn’t think anyone should – or did. When horses needed by shod, so there was he. When they needed breakin’, so there was he. I need not speak of foal droppin’, and broke-leg fixin’ and saving mustangs from cougar and man – but people knew. More important – so did horses.

He was not a ‘whisperer’ like in legend and book, but could just walk down a silent draw and a colt would follow. If he had need of a mount to hunt or help a friend in need, he would just hunker down on a desert rock and wait – whistlin’ to his-self, and soon a stallion would drift up – or so they say. I can’t say for certain – but I can tell you what I know from seeing – and living.

I was on the old Reston Ranch tutorin’ the kids for college exams. Willie wanted to go to Westpoint, which was tough for a ‘home-schooler’ in the 50’s; and Beckie had a chance for Stanford in a year. Of course, we all helped out with ranglin’ and round-up and fixin’ things up – just the way of a ranch; and Jason was there shoein’ horses and blacksmithing and odd jobs. He forged new hinges for the barn, and sand-cast a new gear for the windmill, and cooked a half steer in a giant pit, and taught young Phillip how to shoot left-hand – and then he sang songs by the evening fire and told horse stories. Actually, he told stories of all kind and purpose, but they always seemed to have a horse in there somewhere – just seemed right. Some of them might even true – can’t say.

“Ever meet a horse you couldn’t break?” pondered Willie.

“Many that weren’t ready – no reason to try.”

“What’s the fastest horse you ever rode? – Phillip this time.

“Probably that dead one I tied myself to when I went overRainbow
Falls – saved my life for sure from those rocks below – must have been doing about eighty when we hit.”

“What about that time you raced the medicine over to Smithville for that epidemic. Hear you did 130 miles non-stop in one night – course that’s silly.”

“Well, I can’t say I rode that far by right. I took three horses without saddles and kept slipping back and forth amongst ‘em – spent more time in the air than on horseback, so I maybe rode only fifty miles while the horse did more than a hundred.”

We were pretty silent after that. The coals were glowin’ low.

“Best way to ride a horse,” he whispered, “Is to not get astride at all, but to just walk along a bit of trail with an equine friend. You’ll see things different for certain because this amblin’ horse will shield you from some things and point out others you wouldn’t see. People who ride horses to get somewhere faster miss out on better things. Sometimes you just want to journey into your own heart and head, and a horse can’t get you there – unless you let ‘em. They listen real good, and don’t make judgments and always laugh at your jokes, and nuzzle close when yer prayin’.”

“Any friend can do that,” I ventured. “A wife, a son – that sheep dog over there. Why a horse?”

“Well, some journeys into lonely makes you kinda weary. It’s nice to have a friend that can carry you home. I’d never ride a horse into hell by choice, but can trust one to bring me back.”

“Where is home, then?”

“Your horse will know – always know. When your spirit is ready, that is. Takes a bit of faith, I recon — knowin’ that a horse has soul.”

Let’s go for a Sail – Soul Sister

Her longing tasted like black blood

Congealed from lack of attending;

The fears screamed by the wind

Tugged hard at cloak and hood;

The ground beneath shook

With the force of threatened truth-telling,

But her trapped tears refused to fall,

Like rain clouds that would not burst.

With stooped shoulders and a shawl slung around,

‘’Let’s go for a sail’’, said she.

‘’For the deep waters of the dark sea,

Will swallow it all, and then –

I shall be empty, open and free.’’

The Gutting Knife

The seething anger for the sleeping blob had hit a boiling point today. It was nothing he did, or for that matter did not do. simply he existed. worse still, I lived with him.

The sound emanating from his body could easily have been and entire forest being cut with a noisy gas powered chair saw. Occasionally it would sputter like an uneven piston engine when it hasn’t been tuned for a while. It would even stall, and I would hope, wish, every time that it would not start up again. Then there would be silence. Then I could sleep too.

I felt a salty tear roll down my cheek. I was not crying. I was quite sure I was not crying, but I also could not stop the tears coming. My hand as though it was not even my own reached under my pillow and pulled out the fish gutting knife. I had bought it today at the mall. One of the few times in my life I gave into an impulse. The knife had reached out to me and I had reached for it, with a credit card. Probably not a very swift move if I were to murder him.

Good God, why had I not thought of that. What point was there in murdering him if life were not going to be free. Free to move, free to travel, free to get a fucking night’s sleep without the forestry industry here sleeping and seating right beside me. That would be bloody pointless. No fucking way. If I killed him it was to set me free, not to set the world free. Slaughtering or murdering him would not be a selfless act, it would be a gift to myself.

The tear kept rolling as I put the knife back under my pillow. I put my feet into my soft terry slippers and shuffled into the kitchen where I sat watching television in the middle of the night, in the background hubby was felling those imagined trees. Tomorrow morning when he went off to work, I would sleep. One day I would have my nights back for sleeping.

aletta mes

~Journey to meet an ancestor Pt Two~

I stand and move beyond volition into the eyehole of the rock. Guide-less save for the glowing emanations of a realm far below. Before me stands a golden scale with center post that soars toward vaulted ceiling, and golden pans that wink with flickering’s of the hearth-fire. This knowledge is certain, I have reached the anti-room; the outer limits of Necropolis. As I take my place aside the hearth, a solitary figure emerges from shadows opposite, and lights upon an ebony throne. Scarce did his cloak disguise, and I recognize Anubis. “Oh, dog-god of the underworld!” the words escape my lips.

Peals of yapping laughter flow through his jowls, as the cloak slips farther to the floor revealing……Laddie, my Laddie, dog of my childhood. As tho’ time arrested I see us now, first, I am swimming with friends in the old dam. Then, Laddie arrives all panting and breathless, flying through the air, a great geyser of water as he lands among us. Determined, he grabs my hair and drags me kicking and screaming up the bank, knowing it was forbidden for us to be there, Next, I am dying with embarrassment for Laddie has once again broken loose and leapt the fences and run through the fields, and now sits tail wagging before me in my elementary classroom. Ah yes, Laddie introduced me to sex, when the irate woman across the street yanked me by the arm to see what followed his impregnation of her purebred show-dog. Five little Laddies came forth and I watched as she delivered each and ate the membranes, I remember later asking my parents if I too would have pups as Laddie once humped my leg. There was the day when I came home to confusion, and police, and an ambulance for the delivery man had pinned my mother up against the laundry-room wall, and Laddie broke even the heavy links of his chain and leapt again and again to slashed his neck so close to the jugular. He ate well that night amid hugs and tears and praise. And last I saw my father weep, this once and only then, while he dug and lowered Laddie’s body into the grave.

I raised my tear-stained face to his and saw the kind-loving in his eyes.

BBCM

The Farrier – Esmeralda Noble

At the Duwmamish stables horses are waiting, snorting, offering to take travellers for ‘night rides’.

If you want to join in the fun go to the stables and find the stable woman who cares for your horse. You will know her and the horse. The horse will take you anywhere you command.

 

Enjoy the exhilarating freedom of a Night Ride