Bishops

This is an essay I wrote shortly after we made the move from the small barn up to a small stable up bogus basin road. Since my memories were much fresher and without marring holes as they are today I decided to place it on the blog and filling in the gaps of knowledge later on.
                                                   
Speeding up the road of Bogus Basin, the sky a pale backdrop to a landscape of tawny grass speckled with clumps of refreshing blue sage, painted upon mountains layering each other into the distance. My eyes locked on the treasure in the valley, peaking out into the burning sun. A horse barn with a roof of reflecting steel, framed with paddocks and long ranges of corrals. My day has just begun. The garage like-door to the barn opens with a roar, letting in sun to stir the dust and cast a golden tint upon the hay and tack. I smile whenever I hear the familiar shuffle of hooves and eager nickers of the horses within, ready for me to begin my labors. Hay is dropped in each stall followed by content munching. A specific order must be followed in feeding, because horses, comparable to people have a certain class in which each member is placed. First and foremost, the grand stallion, Navarre, the one and only stud, he is king and therefore must be treated as such with his demands met before the rest. Followed by Lacarro and Mark the bay and buskin beta horses, each feed within a stall and paddock. The fine ladies of the horse court are given meals as third in command, Penelope a mare of shire upbringing and a fierce attitude, and Twilight a delicate mare who is sensible in nature.
 Finally the knights of the round corrals, their commander Adam, first lady knight Elf, the second female Carita, and the young and spirited page Mateo. If this order of class is not followed, utter chaos is sure to rule. After the distributing of food, I fill in as a maid of this castle in the mountains and start cleaning the stalls of manure. With rake and bucket I swiftly remove the too sweet stench of fermented hay. The task is not entirely unpleasant, I can move about the horses freely giving idle strokes and treats. The prize of the job, seeing stalls of only pure white sand. I can never help but allow my chest to swell with pride. The rest of my work is the exchanging of dusty water mugs for fresh sparkling flasks, and sweeping out the main corridor of dust and wisps of hay. The tasks complete, I stand back and enjoy the labors of my work, relaxed horses and a barn with the refreshing scent of sweet hay.
The chores done, and my reward is given a chance to ride a creature of pure prowess and strength. I always grin, and run a stray hand through my ruffled hair, as the freedom to chose a mount tickles my smile. Mark is the usual choice, he is tall and lean, with a coat of brass and coal colored mane and tail. His face is longer than most and angular, with a cluster of white at his forehead that drips down to the soft tip of his nose. To me he appears scholarly in the face, but when he is sent into a canter, his athletic abilities shine with his copper coat. However, for some reason this time is different. My choice resigns to that of an old favorite, my companion from the beginning, Adam. He holds the disposition of someone old in nature yet young in spirit. His body well toned under deep browns highlighted by soft golden streaks. Adam’s mane reflects the coloration of his coat, and is long enough to hide the white star on his face, set between two deep auburn eyes. We understand each other well, and it takes only a breath before he is saddled and ready to ride. We climb back up the dirt road together, cutting off into a trail that shoots straight into the riding coral above. When riding we are as one, my body movements are corresponded by his own understanding of them. It is communication at its highest level. In the beginning, last fall when we first found ourselves surrounded by strings of fence encompassing the sand, we were latched to disharmony. My movements were confusing and muddled by nervousness, and in response Adam’s reactions were jerks of panic. Yet we learned, under the steady hand of my teacher and friend Gretchen, who is never seen without her worn "life is good" hat. After months of practice, riding became a thrilling and comfortable experience for Adam and me, a harmony between human and horse.
The tales and character of each horse at Gretchen’s barn are uniquely distinguished in depth and flavor. The distinct herd that lives within the sandy cove in Bogus, posses stories from each individual horse that are incomparable to any found within a book or novel. Straight from the horses mouth, so to speak. Every detail, every second of these horses lives is memorable, I could not possibly encompass them all. A select group of stories however I feel must be told. Adam, my gallant riding companion’s tale is a true tragedy with a sunny twist. As a colt Adam did not belong to Gretchen, he lived with his first owner a woman who had named him Thunder which matched his stormy coat but could not compare to his sweet almost cowardly character. He bloomed under Gretchen’s instruction, and with a bit of polishing became a beloved school horse. Gretchen’s salvation of horses did not end with Adam, her grand finale came in the form of a mare and her foal. Risa, Gretchen’s partner and fiery friend had been hinting all day that Navarre, the kingly stallion had a son that she and Gretchen had found. I could not repress the wave of longing to see one of Navarre’s colts, eagerly I asked what he looked like, Risa grinned and said, "Why should I tell you when you can see him for yourself tonight!" Gretchen had smiled thinly when she found out I knew of the arriving colt, when evening came I discovered why. In the far left paddock, while the sun drifted down over the dusk tinted mountains two horses stood slouched against each other, one a skinny mare with each individual rib protruding from her sides and patches of long hair clumped about her body. She held her head low, brittle mane and forelock falling like twigs around her neck and face. Tilo, was her name. Next to her was a colt, who like her was thin, but not to the degree of his mother, Ringo Star had long stick legs, and a foal’s soft feathery mane and tail, a layering of gold and black, like his fathers. Ringo hugged his mother’s side and soon dropped his head to suckle. I could not believe he was still nursing, Tilo should have been separated from him weeks, even months ago. Ringo was drinking the weight right off his mother. Gretchen affirmed that the colt should have been weaned months before. She also said that we would be keeping both Tilo and Ringo here at the barn and that I could help care for them. My first day in the paddock with the mare and foal was awkward. Ringo was constantly butting his head into his mother trying to move closer to me and be given the attention he so righteously deserved. I rolled my eyes several times and could not help but think, there is no doubt he is Nevarre’s son. The mare, Tilo I handled like glass, she seemed so fragile, ready to shatter at any moment. Gretchen instructed me to tie her halter to twine so if she jerked her head the twine would snap and she would be free. It took two months to finally brush the clumps of hair from Tilo’s body, and a few weeks after that to finally wean Ringo off her and send him to the sweeping corral of the knightly horses. Ringo, like all horses under Gretchen’s attention and love, bloomed. His natural wise nature, inherited from his mother made him an easy foal. He rarely tried to nip or shove, and was a joy to watch with his young curiosity. Gretchen and Risa changed Ringo’s name to Mateo, preferring him to have a name of his Spanish ancestry verses a Beatles band member. Over the months his young honey coat darkened into a lovely deep brown swirled with gold, and he began his knight training under Adam. I smile every time I see them shuffling through hay together, and the charming sight of Mateo trailing Adam like an idolizing puppy. Mateo also has a slight infatuation, with Carita, a mare just leaving filly years, he pesters her for attention daily which she stubbornly refuses. Tilo, I have renamed Twilight, and with the endearing name, she has my heart on a string. Her sensible nature and wild spirit combined, make her a dream horse. The first day I saw her race within the riding paddock, I was in love. She galloped with her head held high, mane billowing like obsidian feathers, and a tail held like a flag. Twilight runs with grace, every step precise like the stroke of wings. I can not wait until the day I can ride on her back and experience first hand the freedom she now feels.
Horses are my passion, they are like characters in a novel, I can never stop being enthralled by them and eagerly awaiting the next story they tell. The work feels worth while, the riding a thrill, and the tale each horse expresses through their character seals my love. The depth of the relationship that is possible between myself and these beautiful creatures destroys any whim of leaving. I will forever be under the spell cast by the magic of the animal of wind and earth, the horse.