Horse Nation by Negative Creep
Index
Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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‘One night long ago – none can say how far back, for this was before your grandfather’s father’s father walked the earth – a hunter of the People awoke from his slumber to the sound of pitiful whimpering coming from just outside his yurt. It was a cold winter’s eve, one of those frightful nights when the wind moans and wails with fell voices like those of the dead, and at first the young man thought this was what he had heard. Then it came again, louder than before, and the lad was sore afraid despite being a brave warrior who had faced many battles in his scant few years. These were the days of spirits and demons, you must understand, and the hunter feared there might be some vicious gazriin ezen waiting to devour his soul out there in the darkness. Still, he was a very stout-hearted fellow, and so mastering his terror he lifted the flap of the tent and stepped into the biting gale to see what he could see.’
’To the young man’s surprise it was not an evil spirit he found there stretched out in the grass but a fine black mare, obviously in great pain and distress. The hunter was a great lover of horses and knew more about them than any other man in the village, but not even he had the power to save this unfortunate creature from her suffering; with a heavy heart he took his dagger and mercifully slit her throat. Within minutes the mare’s eyes had glazed over with the calmness of death, her thrashing body becoming peacefully still.’
’It seemed a great shame to kill both mare and foal though, for the mother was a beautiful animal and it seemed very likely her offspring would be much the same. The hunter used his knife to once again cut the mare’s flesh, sawing through the muscles of her belly until at last he reached the womb and extracted a big healthy colt, kicking and biting through the birthing sack already. His rescuer thought this a good omen, for it showed spirit, and spirit above all other things was prized in a mount of the People.’
’In no time at all the hunter had dried the wobbling creature off as best he could with handfuls of dried grass and carried it back inside the yurt. He nursed it well with goat’s milk suckled off of his fingers, and in this fashion the colt was saved.’
’Many moons passed, and the foal grew large and strong. His coat was the colour of blue slate rocks on a mountainside, a rare shade among the herds of the People; the hunter felt the gods must have blessed him with a great gift on that cold night so long ago. Eventually the colt developed into a fine young stallion with a proud, arching crest and large bright eyes that glimmered like stars in the heavens, and the fame of his name spread far and wide through the scattered villages of his master’s tribe. Kerait – for that was what the steed was called – had no equal among the horses of the region in beauty or swiftness; when he stretched his legs out and ran even the south wind was left behind. He seemed to float above the ground, never deigning to touch earth with his hooves.’
'Horse and master were deeply bonded in a way that not even human family members often achieved. Raised by hand since colthood in the tent of the hunter, Kerait had gained an almost supernatural ability to understand his owner’s thoughts and emotions; some in the village said the two could read one another’s minds. They were a formidable duo in the many races held between tribes, and very soon the hunter became wealthy beyond measure thanks to the swiftness of his horse. Envious eyes began to regard rider and mount wherever they went, and as you know envy is many times worse than hate if planted in the wrong heart.'
’So it came to pass that, coming home late one night from a gathering, Kerait and his master were ambushed by bandits armed with crossbows and ropes. The hunter was pulled off Kerait’s back and beaten severely, while the horse himself was roped and dragged away, still fighting like a wolf to free himself from their tethers and come to his master’s aid. It was no use; the stallion was very quickly stolen into the night and the hunter left for dead. By sheer luck a shepherd returning to the village later than usual came across him lying there unconscious in the grass and dragged the unlucky fellow back to his yurt, to come to grief as he might.’
'When the hunter finally awoke he wept like a woman, sure that his friend and faithful companion was gone forever. For many days he lay in a stupor inside the tent, sadness and depression gnawing at his soul like a wolf at a dry bone. Six days passed in this fashion, and then on the seventh evening the hunter awoke to a low moaning outside the door of his tent, much as he had on a dark and stormy night three years before. He threw open the flap with great haste, and who should be lying there before him but Kerait!'
'It was a horrible sight. The stallion was caked with dried mud and blood, and from his flanks and barrel protruded arrows shafts so numerous and thick they seemed to grow from within like the spines of a cactus plant. How Kerait had escaped his captors and made his way back to his master’s door with such grievous wounds none could say, but somehow he had, and it was there in the arms of the hunter that Kerait’s life quietly slipped away. The great red nostrils widened once and then were still.'
'If the horse’s owner had been saddened before, he was inconsolable now. For a week he grieved as if for a lost relative and would not eat, sleep, or imbibe liquids. It would have gone hard with him, if not for a strange and wonderful dream he had some nights later.'
'In it Kerait appeared before him, once again healthy and whole. He spoke to his master with the tongue of a man, and somehow the hunter was unsurprised by this turn of events. The stallion always had been a clever beast; the most surprising thing about it was that he had not spoken earlier in his lifetime.'
”Kind master,” Kerait said, “do no fret, for I have a way for us to be together always. Take the hairs from my mane and tail and string your bow with them. In this way I will always be there to help you in your hunts and your battles, no matter what happens. Remember me when your bow-string sings!”
’When the hunter awoke he did exactly as Kerait had instructed, taking the hairs of the horse’s mane and tail and mixing them with chewed deer sinews until at last he held in his hands as sturdy and as fine a bowstring as any man of the plains could have hoped for. It was as strong as steel and soft as silk, and when the hunter nocked an arrow and let it fly the new string sent the projectile far beyond normal bow-range. The noise the arrows made slicing through the air sounded almost like the whistle of a stallion, and Kerait’s master smiled when he heard the sound, knowing his beloved pet was beside him in spirit.’
’And that is why from that day to this the People have always strung their bows with the hairs of their most beloved steeds. Horses are more precious than silver or gold, for they are a resource that will never run dry if taken care of, and a source of companionship and beauty to us always. Always treat your mount right, and surely he will serve you well in turn.’
The Shaman, storyteller and priest rolled into one, rose slowly from his seat and returned to the relative warmth of his yurt, joints popping loudly with each slow step. The crowd that had gathered to listen to the familiar old tale also dispersed and went their separate ways. Soon the only person left seated by the bonfire was a small boy with hair the colour of red canyon sandstone, staring deep into the flames with an intensity and seriousness unnerving in one so young. He remained there in cross-legged meditation until the moon rose on the horizon, chin planted firmly in the palm of one hand.
The seed had been planted.
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From that day forward Wander’s world was filled with flowing manes and the sound of beating hooves. This was not unusual in his tribe where horses were wealth and companionship and transportation all rolled into one, but the love of the breed was especially strong in the slightly-built lad. During the day he helped keep watch over the broodmare herds and at night he slept underneath the stars near the corrals as a sentry, always alert and vigilant lest rival tribes come and steal away their mounts in the dark. Wander’s entire being seemed wrapped up in horses.
The irony of this was Wander himself owned no mount of his own. Until they came of age boys of the People were not allowed to keep steeds; only those who had earned the right gained a four-legged companion to carry them in the world. There were some men in the village who were well into their middle ages that had not yet passed the test, and they used dogs to pull their loads and their families when the village moved seasonally. To be a ‘dog-rider’ was considered a great shame, so young men were always eager to get their rite of passage over and done with as soon as feasibly possible.
Wander had started his own quest some seven days before with the blessing of the village shaman, walking into the desert with nothing but the shirt on his back and the high-laced sandals on his feet. Food and drink were not allowed on a spiritual journey such as this, as it was a time of fasting and of introspection. He would continue to wander the land until either he had a vision or he fell dead from exhaustion; not for him the shame of returning to his peers unfulfilled.
For the seventh time in as many days he made a small camp under a lean-to of boulders, laying his blanket in a crook of sand at as comfortable an angle as he could manage. The sky above the canyon was a brilliant blue when he began; by the time the youth had finished gathering firewood, started a small blaze, and settled down in an exhausted heap on the woolen quilt he now called home there were small stars dotting the heavens, silver gems set in a turquoise sky. The first whippoorwills of the evening were beginning to call to one another as Wander fell into a fitful half-sleep, seven days of deprivation and exhaustion finally catching up to wreak vengeance on the young man’s body and mind.
He slept, and while he slept he dreamed.
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All around him was a fair green plain, rolling hills stretching to the very borders of his vision. There were no other living beings, save a tiny dot in the firmament that might or might not have been a hawk wheeling far above. He walked forward without ceasing, although for what reason he did this he could not be sure. All he knew was he must keep going, for there was an important task to be fulfilled somewhere up ahead. If he did not finish the task something dear to him would be lost forever; this was the driving force that spurred him onwards when he legs turned to lead and his feet to stone. Nothing else mattered but the goal.
The ground underneath his feet began to shake and fracture without warning. An enormous furred head with horns the size of oak trees suddenly broke forth seemingly from the earth itself, bowling him over with one great shake of its brow. In the time it took to blink a massive body had followed the head and was towering above him, like a monstrous bull that had grown larger than any bull had the right to. It pawed the earth slowly and then it charged, meaning to smash the life of the insignificant pink-skinned worm that lay before it in one fell swoop.
All seemed lost, until he glanced into the sky and saw the same speck from before growing steadily larger in his field of vision. It resolved itself into the shape of a speeding hawk, diving faster than the swiftest arrow towards him and the giant. When it was so close he could see the individual red stripes that marked the under-feathers of its fanned tail the bird screamed, swooped low, and … changed. There was no other way to put it; the hawk changed, its shape shifting and morphing until it was no longer a bird of prey but a great black stallion, hooves churning up a cloud of dust as it approached him.
It flashed past like a falling star and as it did so he leapt onto its back, clinging for dear life lest he fall back into the dirt from whence he had so narrowly been plucked. The feeling of speed and power was incredible; he laughed for the sheer joy of it all, clinging to the shaggy black mane that stung his face as it was whipped back in the wind. They were one. He and the horse were one.
And then he awoke.
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The first thing Wander did after waking up from his dream was kneel and pray thanks to the Gods for giving him the vision he had sought so diligently after. Then with slow, measured steps the boy walked to the river, and there he bathed himself carefully, for it would not do to return to the village in a filthy state.
After all, he was now a man, and a man had many responsibilities to look after.
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NowI go to seek my horses.
So here I stand,
and look about me.
So here I stand,
and look about me.
Now I go to seek my horses.
- Arapaho dance song
For seven days the two-legged had pursued him, and for seven days the black yearling had evaded his tormentor with almost supernatural grace and ease, never fearing it would catch up for a second. But stress and exhaustion were taking their toll, and even young colts full of vigour could not keep running forever. Endurance races, like all races, had to have a finish line to cross eventually.
The horse had never seen such a creature before. Unlike any other self-respecting animal it ran on its hind legs, ridiculous and seemingly useless forelegs dangling and flopping in the wind. It moved at a slow pace, making only half the time the colt did when he stretched out his limbs and ran. And to top things off it appeared to be almost completely hairless, large flaps of skin over its chest and back fluttering disconcertingly whenever a wayward breeze chanced to pass it by. What a silly beast!
And yet every time the yearling thought he had left it behind for good the thrice-blasted monkey appeared just over the horizon. It never stopped following his trail, slowly but steadily catching up as the days passed and the horse’s strength reserves began to waver. The plains were in the midst of a drought and grazing was scarce; this combined with the lack of water and ferocious heat of the day made things much tougher for the wild horse than they otherwise might have been. Even now his proud head was beginning to droop, prancing steps growing slower and slower as the sun crept to its zenith in a scorchingly blue summer sky.
He paused and looked back over his shoulder, large intelligent eyes scanning the faraway line where earth met sky for any sign of movement. For several minutes nothing stirred but heat waves shimmering hazily on the horizon. Then the mirage parted, and out of it moved a tiny black speck, indistinct and blurred by distance and the warm air’s distortion. A hot wind blew in from the west, bringing the hated smell to the watching yearling’s flared nostrils. The monster just wouldn’t give in!
It was all too much for the colt to take. He trotted towards the shapeless dot and whistled a challenge, long neck arched high, mane and tail fluttering in the breeze like unfurled banners of war. The young stallion’s posture and bearing spoke volumes more than words ever could have. Go away! It said. Can you not see that you are not wanted here?! Can you not see that you will never catch me? I am the descendant of a proud race, what are you but a hairless ape? Give up and leave me be!
But the speck continued to move towards him, either unfazed by the yearling’s battle cry or unaware of the gauntlet that had just been thrown down in its path. The horse snorted in annoyance and anger and whirled away in the opposite direction, dust and detritus flying from beneath his hooves like smoke from a grass fire. The pursuit continued.
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Wander crouched, examined the faint set of hoofprints in the dirt before him, and continued onwards, chewing a piece of dried jerky thoughtfully as he jogged after his prey. The young man was coated with dust and grime and countless layers of sweat, but despite all the hardships he was happy and surprisingly confident. Seven days before he had spotted the yearling trailing behind an established herd, hanging around the outer fringes of the group in the hopes of stealing away a young mare or two for his own romantic designs. The bay stallion in charge of the herd had not been happy about this flirtatious interloper and more than once Wander had seen him charge the colt with bared teeth and lightning hooves, trying his damndest to take a chunk out of the bold yearling if he possibly could.
The bay might as well have pursued the hawks that wheeled above. As fast as the older stud was his rival was quicker; Wander had seen many fast horses in his eighteen summers, but never one with fleetness to compare to this black shadow. It was as if the south wind had been condensed and given shape and substance, a swift gale with four flashing legs and hooves that never seemed to touch the ground. The boy had lost his heart in those moments, wanting the wild horse for his own more than anything else in the world. A good hunter needed a good horse and Wander was sure the one he followed had no equal either among the People or any other tribe of his land.
Packing only a water skin, a leather satchel containing some jerked venison, and a stout hempen rope the teen had begun his hunt, hoping to either run the prey down or corral him somewhere in the process. Wander’s people had many holding chutes and catch pens built into the surrounding canyons and gorges that bordered the plains; with any luck he would be able to direct the yearling into one of these when the beast was fatigued and unwary. This had been the plan, and so far it was going almost perfectly.
A gorge loomed in the distance, hoofprints and a cloud of rising dust on the horizon telling Wander all he needed to know about the whereabouts of the hunted. There was a small watering hole in that canyon and more importantly a mesquite pen; the young warrior offered up a swift prayer to the gods and ran onwards through the sweltering sun, sensing that the end of the race was near. The wind began to rise as clouds gathered ominously in the northwest.
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There was a storm brewing. The black colt could smell the electricity far above, sense the tension in the hot, muggy air. It would bring swift rain and blessed relief, but it the clouds were still growing, distant and far off, a black mass on the horizon. For the time being the sun remained unfettered and uncloaked, although a yellow haze was beginning to gather about it. The storm couldn’t be relied upon to provide water just yet, but the river most certainly could, and to the river is where the stallion was headed; even in drought-time its waters ran clear and cold through the shade of the canyon, an oasis of green and blue in the parched prairielands that surrounded it.
White lather had begun to spring up on the yearling’s flanks and withers, spotting the shining black coat with streaks of foam. His breath had become more and more laboured the farther he ran; overheating and exhaustion were beginning to take their toll. Images of the canyon’s green grass and rushing streams came into his head unbidden and the horse sped up, driven forward by thirst and hunger more surely than even a quirt would have done. Rest could be taken there and the pursuit continued afterwards, if the hairless two-legs dared to continue after him.
Soon he was dodging through red boulders as tall as himself, hooves clattering on stony ground as the noise of the river grew louder in his pricked ears. Rocks and boulders gave way to soft grass that grew in the shadow of the canyon walls. The colt gave a pleased (and seemingly relieved) whicker and slowed to a trot, making for a small pool that lay in one of the side-canyons amongst a stand of oak trees.
Thirst and weariness made him careless; otherwise he would have spotted the corral gate and never gone down the gorge no matter how great his thirst. As it was all the young stallion saw was fresh water and grazing, never noticing the wooden latch as he blundered past. His hooves clipped the trigger mechanism, and that was all it took for sturdy wooden bars to fall in place behind him.
He whirled in sudden panic at the noise they made, but it was far, far too late.