My Wish
Happy Birthday! My wish, another year. They don’t come true if you tell. I say it anyway. I'd rather die than you not know.
Leaky Valves
Newly divorced. Wanted – one undamaged heart.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Sunday, January 02, 2011
New Year's Day Foxhunt Report
For those who hunt the below will make sense, for those who don't, think of it as a peek into what I do when not writing. It may read a bit awkwardly as some names have been removed to protect privacy.
Foggy, in the mid-forties at 10 am, 35 couple, English, American and Crossbred. While these are definitely MFH & huntsman, (name removed)'s hounds, he has allowed me to hunt them some in 2010. He also honored me with the privilege of hunting them on the first day of 2011. He whipped in and offered advice when needed. MFH, (name removed) lead the first flight, (name removed) the second. About 15 members in the field. We've had snow and bad footing for a week and I think many stayed home waiting for better conditions. They missed a good one.
We hunted from the White Oak fixture. Hacked across John Watson Rd and cast along the creek. Hounds fanned out and searched diligently through the heavy underbrush, but didn't strike until we arrived at MFH Roger Smith's new meadow which lies along the creek with heavy woods surrounding it. There the pack found in the Brier patch and roared to life for a bit, but couldn't hold it. I picked them up and we moved on to the soybean field as the above huntsman had said that would be the logical next move. It was so neat seeing the hounds floating across the land like ghosts in the mist. No game had been there recently and we moved slowly on, simply enjoying the sight, toward the vineyard. We traveled through a bit of forest and then out again along the creek trail. The hounds move above us on the hillside.
The pack struck gold in the pines below the vineyard, and were so loud I think one could have heard them a mile away. We galloped across the bottom and up one side of the pine woods. The hounds made two giant loops up to the top of the vineyard (great view for miles from the top) and back down to the creek and then the coyote feeling pressed, changed course and streaked back cross-country toward the way we'd come, across John Watson, through Roger's bottom fields (across the river from his barn), and toward the White Oak meet. The whole pack was on the line. (name removed), honorary whipper-in was on that side and stayed with them.
From there they traversed the river at a place we can't cross on horseback, and continued on. I assume, when they crossed the river, they lost the coyote and found the fox line. Our horses were puffing by now, having traveled to the top of the vineyard, down to the creek, back up and then the long ride down the road, through the bottoms on the other side and around to the meadows where the trailers were parked.
From this point, the field and I had to go back to a river crossing and around, which takes about 20 minutes on horseback, and missed the next part of the chase, though the hounds could be heard in the distance. MFH, (name removed), released the members of the field who felt they'd had enough fun for the day as we were so close to the trailers. Many took advantage of that, but a few hardy souls continued on with me.
(name removed), huntsman from Camargo was visiting and he zipped around in his truck to Ken Miller road by the low water bridge. There he spied a gray fox with hounds in pursuit. The gray was viewed 3 times. It was nice that the car followers and car whips, MJ and Jerry were there.
The rain began in earnest then, and we waved good-bye to our furry friend, gathered the pack, and called it a day. My thanks to well-trained hounds, whipper-ins who did a super job, (names removed). Also, thanks to wonderful MFH's for the thoughtful care and sharing of their land, and (name removed) for making my first day of 2011 something I'll cherish. This reads very short, but you can fill in the blanks. It was over two hours of hound music. Hard to beat that.
Happy Hunting in this New Year to all!
Deborah Bundy, Honorary whipper-in, Green Creek Hounds in North Carolina
Foggy, in the mid-forties at 10 am, 35 couple, English, American and Crossbred. While these are definitely MFH & huntsman, (name removed)'s hounds, he has allowed me to hunt them some in 2010. He also honored me with the privilege of hunting them on the first day of 2011. He whipped in and offered advice when needed. MFH, (name removed) lead the first flight, (name removed) the second. About 15 members in the field. We've had snow and bad footing for a week and I think many stayed home waiting for better conditions. They missed a good one.
We hunted from the White Oak fixture. Hacked across John Watson Rd and cast along the creek. Hounds fanned out and searched diligently through the heavy underbrush, but didn't strike until we arrived at MFH Roger Smith's new meadow which lies along the creek with heavy woods surrounding it. There the pack found in the Brier patch and roared to life for a bit, but couldn't hold it. I picked them up and we moved on to the soybean field as the above huntsman had said that would be the logical next move. It was so neat seeing the hounds floating across the land like ghosts in the mist. No game had been there recently and we moved slowly on, simply enjoying the sight, toward the vineyard. We traveled through a bit of forest and then out again along the creek trail. The hounds move above us on the hillside.
The pack struck gold in the pines below the vineyard, and were so loud I think one could have heard them a mile away. We galloped across the bottom and up one side of the pine woods. The hounds made two giant loops up to the top of the vineyard (great view for miles from the top) and back down to the creek and then the coyote feeling pressed, changed course and streaked back cross-country toward the way we'd come, across John Watson, through Roger's bottom fields (across the river from his barn), and toward the White Oak meet. The whole pack was on the line. (name removed), honorary whipper-in was on that side and stayed with them.
From there they traversed the river at a place we can't cross on horseback, and continued on. I assume, when they crossed the river, they lost the coyote and found the fox line. Our horses were puffing by now, having traveled to the top of the vineyard, down to the creek, back up and then the long ride down the road, through the bottoms on the other side and around to the meadows where the trailers were parked.
From this point, the field and I had to go back to a river crossing and around, which takes about 20 minutes on horseback, and missed the next part of the chase, though the hounds could be heard in the distance. MFH, (name removed), released the members of the field who felt they'd had enough fun for the day as we were so close to the trailers. Many took advantage of that, but a few hardy souls continued on with me.
(name removed), huntsman from Camargo was visiting and he zipped around in his truck to Ken Miller road by the low water bridge. There he spied a gray fox with hounds in pursuit. The gray was viewed 3 times. It was nice that the car followers and car whips, MJ and Jerry were there.
The rain began in earnest then, and we waved good-bye to our furry friend, gathered the pack, and called it a day. My thanks to well-trained hounds, whipper-ins who did a super job, (names removed). Also, thanks to wonderful MFH's for the thoughtful care and sharing of their land, and (name removed) for making my first day of 2011 something I'll cherish. This reads very short, but you can fill in the blanks. It was over two hours of hound music. Hard to beat that.
Happy Hunting in this New Year to all!
Deborah Bundy, Honorary whipper-in, Green Creek Hounds in North Carolina
Monday, December 06, 2010
Green Creek Hounds December Hunt
Nice hunt in the nippy weather yesterday. Stayed in the woods most of the time out of the wind. Of course, near the end Tot couldn't resist and took the hounds in on foot in an area we can't take the horses. The rest of us sat out in the open where the wind was fierce. The pack hit on a red, screamed around for quite awhile, we were warmed by the awesome music and called it a day. I had a great time hunting the hounds, but we're all looking forward to when Tot is 100% again and is back on his horse. :)
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Honor Veterans -The Symbol
This is a piece I wrote some years ago to honor a veteran who never spoke about his service.
The Symbol
Every Veteran’s Day I hang the flag that draped my stepfather’s coffin, every year except for one. That year I did not look forward to the holiday as I had in the past. I did not hang the flag, for I had hung it on the front porch on September 11th of the preceding year and had yet to take it down.
That September 11th was a nightmare of a day, and my heart ached as I watched the flag unfurl in the breeze. The reason I hung the flag was sad. The reason I owned it was sad. They both dealt with death. The flag hung through a complete cycle of the seasons and throughout that year I would look out the window and see the flag twisted into a tight spiral. It seemed appropriate that Old Glory wound around upon itself since my feelings were also twisted tight within me.
There are no words for how I felt. It was as if my ability to express emotion was shattered in the explosions that shook our nation that September. I stared at the tangled flag and could not summon the energy needed to set it free. There was a void inside me. The internal essence of the United States of America, that treasured part of my identity, had been damaged and I was afraid. I grieved.
Then one day as I stared at the flag the wind changed and this special piece of cloth unfurled and snapped in the breeze as if irritated at having its independence stifled. In a wild, daring dance of red, white and blue it cavorted, made me grin in spite of my fear. I watched it and my heart relaxed, the pain eased. I smiled deep inside for the first time in months. You can’t kill a good idea, I realized.
The spirit of America is meant to be free, not twisted and confined. We are a people who dance upon the winds of our dreams. So today I will take a long moment to thank my stepfather for the flag that lay across his coffin. Then I will go outside, hang his flag, place my hand over my heart and saluted the vision that symbolizes our country. I will twirl around, synchronize my movements with those of Old Glory and I will celebrate the ones who released me from fear. They gave so much for me. The least I can do is honor Veteran’s Day for them.
The Symbol
Every Veteran’s Day I hang the flag that draped my stepfather’s coffin, every year except for one. That year I did not look forward to the holiday as I had in the past. I did not hang the flag, for I had hung it on the front porch on September 11th of the preceding year and had yet to take it down.
That September 11th was a nightmare of a day, and my heart ached as I watched the flag unfurl in the breeze. The reason I hung the flag was sad. The reason I owned it was sad. They both dealt with death. The flag hung through a complete cycle of the seasons and throughout that year I would look out the window and see the flag twisted into a tight spiral. It seemed appropriate that Old Glory wound around upon itself since my feelings were also twisted tight within me.
There are no words for how I felt. It was as if my ability to express emotion was shattered in the explosions that shook our nation that September. I stared at the tangled flag and could not summon the energy needed to set it free. There was a void inside me. The internal essence of the United States of America, that treasured part of my identity, had been damaged and I was afraid. I grieved.
Then one day as I stared at the flag the wind changed and this special piece of cloth unfurled and snapped in the breeze as if irritated at having its independence stifled. In a wild, daring dance of red, white and blue it cavorted, made me grin in spite of my fear. I watched it and my heart relaxed, the pain eased. I smiled deep inside for the first time in months. You can’t kill a good idea, I realized.
The spirit of America is meant to be free, not twisted and confined. We are a people who dance upon the winds of our dreams. So today I will take a long moment to thank my stepfather for the flag that lay across his coffin. Then I will go outside, hang his flag, place my hand over my heart and saluted the vision that symbolizes our country. I will twirl around, synchronize my movements with those of Old Glory and I will celebrate the ones who released me from fear. They gave so much for me. The least I can do is honor Veteran’s Day for them.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
AT THE BIJOU: TOP FLITE ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33
AT THE BIJOU: TOP FLITE ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33
This tribute to her father is beautiful.
This tribute to her father is beautiful.
A Touch of Fall - Facebook (43) | Deborah Bundy
Facebook (43) | Deborah Bundy: "There's something about stepping outside as the sun is peeking over the hillside and feeling a nip in the air that makes a cup of hot tea, an old sweater, and a bit of writing seem like the perfect plan for the day."
Thursday, August 05, 2010
I have a friend
Who I haven't seen in quite awhile. He is one of those people who lights up a room, keeps a party going and hasn't missed a moment of living life to the fullest. While, I will never be able to experience things with the abandon he does, I have learned a valuable lesson from him. Live those childhood dreams, follow those adult wishes. Be happy. Thank you, Chip Anderson for fitting me in your life. I wish you were here so I could give you a hug.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
String-of-10 TWO Second Place Winner John (J.C.)Towler « Flash Fiction Chronicles
This is an interview of a friend of mine and one of his stories. I think you'll enjoy both.
String-of-10 TWO Second Place Winner John (J.C.)Towler « Flash Fiction Chronicles
String-of-10 TWO Second Place Winner John (J.C.)Towler « Flash Fiction Chronicles
Monday, April 12, 2010
Reading and Riding Lesson
I read a blog this morning called Simply Wait and continued the good feeling started yesterday when I went riding with friends.
It was a sunny day in Gowensville, South Carolina, where Mother Nature is in full dress. The three of us were on a hunter pace and I was the leader, being on the longest legged horse.
In the beginning my horse, Rustic, kept pulling me up out of the saddle as if to say, "Let's go, look, the world is waiting for us." I told him over and over, "No, slow down. We're being cautious, learning patience, watching for slick spots. I don't want to wipe out."
The trails twisted through woods filled with the soft green of spring, crossed wooden bridges over fresh rain filled water. We cantered across green pastures, and, yes it felt like I was living in a bible verse.
Still, I kept saying, "Slow down, behave, mark the time, do it right." Every ride can teach us something and I was determined this thoroughbred would learn to listen, that he couldn't always have his way.
After an hour and twenty minutes we were near the end. My horse gave another half-hearted tug on the reins. This time I let him go. We galloped the last fifty yards. My ex-racer stretched out his stride and I widened my smile. It was the best part of the ride and over way too fast.
As I unsaddled and offered Rustic some water, it hit me, I was the one who learned something new. Rustic was relaxed now and I was energized. That had happened in the last fifty yards. Life is too short to hold back, follow your heart, end on a gallop.
It was a sunny day in Gowensville, South Carolina, where Mother Nature is in full dress. The three of us were on a hunter pace and I was the leader, being on the longest legged horse.
In the beginning my horse, Rustic, kept pulling me up out of the saddle as if to say, "Let's go, look, the world is waiting for us." I told him over and over, "No, slow down. We're being cautious, learning patience, watching for slick spots. I don't want to wipe out."
The trails twisted through woods filled with the soft green of spring, crossed wooden bridges over fresh rain filled water. We cantered across green pastures, and, yes it felt like I was living in a bible verse.
Still, I kept saying, "Slow down, behave, mark the time, do it right." Every ride can teach us something and I was determined this thoroughbred would learn to listen, that he couldn't always have his way.
After an hour and twenty minutes we were near the end. My horse gave another half-hearted tug on the reins. This time I let him go. We galloped the last fifty yards. My ex-racer stretched out his stride and I widened my smile. It was the best part of the ride and over way too fast.
As I unsaddled and offered Rustic some water, it hit me, I was the one who learned something new. Rustic was relaxed now and I was energized. That had happened in the last fifty yards. Life is too short to hold back, follow your heart, end on a gallop.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Life is
Going up a mountain, to see what the world looks like from the top, then coming back down and living.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Good times have no boundaries
Went foxhunting in the "Low Country" of South Carolina yesterday. Saw alligators, cranes, an armadillo, but no foxes! The hunt was on a rice plantation and we rode along the edge of a marsh, under towering oaks draped with Spanish moss. Airey Hall Plantation is beautiful and the hospitality was outstanding.
With riders in scarlet and black coats, horses shined to their brightest, and hounds weaving in and out of tall grass, it felt like stepping back in time. What kept hitting me were thoughts of the people who'd come before, the ones who lived in the big houses and the ones who worked in the fields, the different perspectives they would have of the sight.
Today was for equals. The hunt was led by two gentlemen, professional huntsmen, one a Master of the Green Creek Hounds. They are black men and I never really think of that, but here on this very Southern land, I did. It made me happy to know that everyone there enjoyed following the lead of these two men, in this most Southern area. I consider one of them a dear friend and he was where he deserved to be. Good fellowship and good times had no boundaries. Maybe, just maybe, Americans are realizing we are all created equal.
With riders in scarlet and black coats, horses shined to their brightest, and hounds weaving in and out of tall grass, it felt like stepping back in time. What kept hitting me were thoughts of the people who'd come before, the ones who lived in the big houses and the ones who worked in the fields, the different perspectives they would have of the sight.
Today was for equals. The hunt was led by two gentlemen, professional huntsmen, one a Master of the Green Creek Hounds. They are black men and I never really think of that, but here on this very Southern land, I did. It made me happy to know that everyone there enjoyed following the lead of these two men, in this most Southern area. I consider one of them a dear friend and he was where he deserved to be. Good fellowship and good times had no boundaries. Maybe, just maybe, Americans are realizing we are all created equal.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Mind at Sea
Went on a cruise last week with my daughter. As soon as the boat left the dock my mind set sail on a fantasy trip. What if, I thought, this boat were to be highjacked by pirates? Johnny Depp, perhaps, or his look alike leaping on board and taking me away to ... You can fill in the rest. :)
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Brevity 32: Elane Johnson
Absolutely, stunning piece. One sentence can say so much. Go read.
Brevity 32: Elane Johnson
Brevity 32: Elane Johnson
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Painting Murder
This was how it always started. The familiar scent of paint, wet paper, compliments and then a jarring plea for help. Micha Mason lay a wash of blue and gray paint across the top of a sheet of cold-pressed paper, moving the sable bristles in soft curves creating a storm filled sky. Cindy Lowen stood permanent as a fire hydrant, waiting for her answer. Mica frowned, apprehension rounded her shoulders, tightened her grip on the paintbrush. “Hire a real investigator,” she said as she rinsed her brush.
The woman shook her head. “Daddy has an investigator, some creature who comes and goes, or so I hear. I want you to find out why. It’s like Daddy doesn’t want me involved.” She wobbled back and forth, her plump little feet spilling from the sides of her expensive red Italian heels.
“What about your brother?”
“Not talking to him either.”
Mica shrugged and looked down at her work. “I think I’ll stay right here and you need to leave. I can’t concentrate.”
The shapes of leafless trees appeared under her rapidly moving brush in the drying blue color. They faded into the glaze of cerulean giving the illusion of being in the far distance. Then she added a touch of alizarin, and ultramarine generating a hint of mountains. She felt the coolness of the painted sky on her skin, caught a slight whiff of fallen leaves, then realized the coolness was coming from the drafty window, and the smell from rotten garbage wafting up from the alley bins five stories below. She jammed the window closed with a palette knife, and stirred a bowl of potpourri that rested on the sill.
Mica concentrated on her work, steeling herself against the burn of her friend’s worried eyes, and then her heart cracked with compassion. Resolve fell into the crevice created and she carelessly dribbled water, like falling rain, onto the painting in front of her.
“If your Dad really needs help.” Her mind reacted like a cut to turpentine as words emerged from her mouth. She slapped a hand across her lips, too late to stop the unleashed words.
“Please go. I trust you. I wouldn’t ask if Daddy wasn’t acting like a man with a mess of bad moonshine.”
Mica knew when Cindy lapsed into her mountain dialect she was worried. She looked at her artwork searching for an answer. Rivulets of water ran like tears down from the beautiful mist-shrouded mountains she’d created. She frowned, turned the ruined painting over on the table, then looked up and smiled gently at her friend. Someone was going to die.
“Maybe I better go,” she said as her mind switched from the creative right side to the analytical left
The woman shook her head. “Daddy has an investigator, some creature who comes and goes, or so I hear. I want you to find out why. It’s like Daddy doesn’t want me involved.” She wobbled back and forth, her plump little feet spilling from the sides of her expensive red Italian heels.
“What about your brother?”
“Not talking to him either.”
Mica shrugged and looked down at her work. “I think I’ll stay right here and you need to leave. I can’t concentrate.”
The shapes of leafless trees appeared under her rapidly moving brush in the drying blue color. They faded into the glaze of cerulean giving the illusion of being in the far distance. Then she added a touch of alizarin, and ultramarine generating a hint of mountains. She felt the coolness of the painted sky on her skin, caught a slight whiff of fallen leaves, then realized the coolness was coming from the drafty window, and the smell from rotten garbage wafting up from the alley bins five stories below. She jammed the window closed with a palette knife, and stirred a bowl of potpourri that rested on the sill.
Mica concentrated on her work, steeling herself against the burn of her friend’s worried eyes, and then her heart cracked with compassion. Resolve fell into the crevice created and she carelessly dribbled water, like falling rain, onto the painting in front of her.
“If your Dad really needs help.” Her mind reacted like a cut to turpentine as words emerged from her mouth. She slapped a hand across her lips, too late to stop the unleashed words.
“Please go. I trust you. I wouldn’t ask if Daddy wasn’t acting like a man with a mess of bad moonshine.”
Mica knew when Cindy lapsed into her mountain dialect she was worried. She looked at her artwork searching for an answer. Rivulets of water ran like tears down from the beautiful mist-shrouded mountains she’d created. She frowned, turned the ruined painting over on the table, then looked up and smiled gently at her friend. Someone was going to die.
“Maybe I better go,” she said as her mind switched from the creative right side to the analytical left
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Friday, February 05, 2010
Hunters in the Mist
Hunters in the Mist
Melissa Myer didn’t give much thought to the new foxhunting fixture, nor listen to the Master’s words of caution, the need to stay with the group. Today, her mind focused instead on her new mount, a young, bright chestnut horse. He floated above the ground when he moved. His gaits felt magical and she relished the promise of being transported into another realm when on his back. The group of fellow riders barely registered on her radar.
This was her first mistake.
They, about thirty horses and riders and twenty couple of hounds, started early from the trailers, and before Melissa had time to get her bearings, what with the new horse and all, she found herself in an old, “trees with roots big enough to hide Hobbits” unfamiliar forest. There was something slightly off center about the area. A spurt of fear ran up her spine like an adrenalin injection. She attributed it to the antics of her inexperienced thoroughbred and the fact that she’d stayed up way to late reading The Lord of The Rings for the umpteenth time. Her horse, Runaway Joe, three months off the track, danced.
As the hounds and the riders trotted deeper into the woods, Runaway Joe developed a sudden talent for spinning in circles.
Out of the corner of her eye Melissa watched the horse in front of her disappear around a bend and then her attention whipped back to the thousand pounds of whirling dervish beneath her.
The horse showed no signs of tiring of his new game and though Melissa was an excellent rider, his antics made her dizzy. The sound of the huntsman’s horn faded in the distance, hardly audible over the blowing and stomping of her mount. She began to worry.
Damn, it would be nice if someone had hung around. A new horse, all alone, in unfamiliar surroundings was asking for trouble. Buck up, she told herself and reached down deep in her muscles for some hidden strength. She needed to stop Joe’s pirouettes, before she threw up.
The horse snorted, slid sideways and then at the persistent urging of her quiet hands and calm voice, came to a trembling halt.
Once she had Joe standing still, though ready to bolt at any moment, Melissa let out and sucked in a deep breath. They moved around the bend. The road forked ahead of her and the hard packed earth gave no clue as to which path the hunt had taken. Last, in the long line of horses when they left the trailers this morning, so that Joe would not be tempted to kick a hound or another horse, she’d been doing the right thing. It was absolutely taboo for a hunt horse to kick, especially kick a hound, and she knew better than to put Joe up front. That thought did little to assuage her feelings of stupidity for not listening to the Master’s warning.
She had no idea where she was or where the rest of the field of hunters had gone. Used to riding up front with those who liked to race and chase, Melissa always had the hounds, huntsman, or at least the sound of the horn in her reach to show her the way, but not today. In front, the sound of pounding hooves and snorting of over-excited horses closing in tried the patience of even the most seasoned hunt horse. Joe had a hard enough time handling the slower paced group of non-jumpers, know as hilltoppers, and would probably have dumped her if she had pressed him to handle the first flight, those that jumped and moved at a sometimes eye-tearing pace.
Running a finger under the chin strap of her velvet-covered helmet, Melissa shook her head. Nothing to do now but pick a trail and hope it was the right one. She’d catch up soon enough. Joe moved forward with a gentle nudge of her calves against his heaving sides.
No runaway now, he took a hesitant step, flicked one pricked ear in her direction as if asking if this was what she wanted. She clucked softly and urged him to move on.
Soon, he picked up his normal long-strided walk, stretched out his neck and lowered his head. A deep rib-widening sigh lifted Melissa in the saddle and she grinned, felt the black woven straps of her helmet bridge the dimples in her cheeks. She echoed the sigh. It signaled to her Joe had decided that this wasn’t so bad after all and she wanted to assure him she agreed. At this pace it would be doubtful they would catch up to the hunt field, but the forest, quiet and enclosing like a deep green comforter, made for a pleasant trail ride.
The belief that most horses, if given their head, will find their way back to the barn or trailer, is well known among riders. Melissa decided to give it a try. Her Timex sports-watch told her she had at least twelve hours before darkness. That should be plenty of time for Runaway Joe to find their way out of here. She looped the reins, or as she told her students, let a horse have a little room between your hands and his mouth.
“Okay, Joe, you pick which way to go.” The horse took the left fork.
They crested a hill and a mountain, vague as a long ago dream, appeared in the far distance. Melissa spied movement in the distance. Hounds in shades of black, tan and white weaving a tapestry through a green canvas of old forest, and a stream of horses, steam rising from their backs, shrouding their riders in capes of gray. She squinted and then rode toward them.
This was her second mistake.
Melissa Myer didn’t give much thought to the new foxhunting fixture, nor listen to the Master’s words of caution, the need to stay with the group. Today, her mind focused instead on her new mount, a young, bright chestnut horse. He floated above the ground when he moved. His gaits felt magical and she relished the promise of being transported into another realm when on his back. The group of fellow riders barely registered on her radar.
This was her first mistake.
They, about thirty horses and riders and twenty couple of hounds, started early from the trailers, and before Melissa had time to get her bearings, what with the new horse and all, she found herself in an old, “trees with roots big enough to hide Hobbits” unfamiliar forest. There was something slightly off center about the area. A spurt of fear ran up her spine like an adrenalin injection. She attributed it to the antics of her inexperienced thoroughbred and the fact that she’d stayed up way to late reading The Lord of The Rings for the umpteenth time. Her horse, Runaway Joe, three months off the track, danced.
As the hounds and the riders trotted deeper into the woods, Runaway Joe developed a sudden talent for spinning in circles.
Out of the corner of her eye Melissa watched the horse in front of her disappear around a bend and then her attention whipped back to the thousand pounds of whirling dervish beneath her.
The horse showed no signs of tiring of his new game and though Melissa was an excellent rider, his antics made her dizzy. The sound of the huntsman’s horn faded in the distance, hardly audible over the blowing and stomping of her mount. She began to worry.
Damn, it would be nice if someone had hung around. A new horse, all alone, in unfamiliar surroundings was asking for trouble. Buck up, she told herself and reached down deep in her muscles for some hidden strength. She needed to stop Joe’s pirouettes, before she threw up.
The horse snorted, slid sideways and then at the persistent urging of her quiet hands and calm voice, came to a trembling halt.
Once she had Joe standing still, though ready to bolt at any moment, Melissa let out and sucked in a deep breath. They moved around the bend. The road forked ahead of her and the hard packed earth gave no clue as to which path the hunt had taken. Last, in the long line of horses when they left the trailers this morning, so that Joe would not be tempted to kick a hound or another horse, she’d been doing the right thing. It was absolutely taboo for a hunt horse to kick, especially kick a hound, and she knew better than to put Joe up front. That thought did little to assuage her feelings of stupidity for not listening to the Master’s warning.
She had no idea where she was or where the rest of the field of hunters had gone. Used to riding up front with those who liked to race and chase, Melissa always had the hounds, huntsman, or at least the sound of the horn in her reach to show her the way, but not today. In front, the sound of pounding hooves and snorting of over-excited horses closing in tried the patience of even the most seasoned hunt horse. Joe had a hard enough time handling the slower paced group of non-jumpers, know as hilltoppers, and would probably have dumped her if she had pressed him to handle the first flight, those that jumped and moved at a sometimes eye-tearing pace.
Running a finger under the chin strap of her velvet-covered helmet, Melissa shook her head. Nothing to do now but pick a trail and hope it was the right one. She’d catch up soon enough. Joe moved forward with a gentle nudge of her calves against his heaving sides.
No runaway now, he took a hesitant step, flicked one pricked ear in her direction as if asking if this was what she wanted. She clucked softly and urged him to move on.
Soon, he picked up his normal long-strided walk, stretched out his neck and lowered his head. A deep rib-widening sigh lifted Melissa in the saddle and she grinned, felt the black woven straps of her helmet bridge the dimples in her cheeks. She echoed the sigh. It signaled to her Joe had decided that this wasn’t so bad after all and she wanted to assure him she agreed. At this pace it would be doubtful they would catch up to the hunt field, but the forest, quiet and enclosing like a deep green comforter, made for a pleasant trail ride.
The belief that most horses, if given their head, will find their way back to the barn or trailer, is well known among riders. Melissa decided to give it a try. Her Timex sports-watch told her she had at least twelve hours before darkness. That should be plenty of time for Runaway Joe to find their way out of here. She looped the reins, or as she told her students, let a horse have a little room between your hands and his mouth.
“Okay, Joe, you pick which way to go.” The horse took the left fork.
They crested a hill and a mountain, vague as a long ago dream, appeared in the far distance. Melissa spied movement in the distance. Hounds in shades of black, tan and white weaving a tapestry through a green canvas of old forest, and a stream of horses, steam rising from their backs, shrouding their riders in capes of gray. She squinted and then rode toward them.
This was her second mistake.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)