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“Burton, you’re taking Thistle out with you?” My mother asked, approaching me as I tossed on my saddle, my feet squishing into the mud around the hitching post, which was merely just an old worn-out fence that any horse could easily break with a hard tug on the leadline. It was a chilled overcast day. The soft mud on the ground was mixed with wilted leaves and twigs. It was chilled enough that spindlier people… like myself would want to throw on a jacket, but those acclimated to cold would have no issue without one.
“Yeah, I’m taking her through the hills with Walt and Mark,” I told her, clipping on the dirty striped rope girth that had been discoloured from its original red and yellow to a tan and brown after years of dedicated use.
Thistle was a tried and true family horse, each member of my small family had her as their own at a point in their life and knew and loved her well. She eventually made her way to be my horse, right after being my mother’s dressage mare, right after being my father’s farm horse, and right after being a working horse on a shipping yard in Berlin. She had done it all, a bomb-proof and seen-it-all mare. Thistle was a massive Clydesdale mare, a rare import from Fenland, with her rich fluffy coat, extensive sabino markings, and her one bright blue eye; she was a sight for sore eyes. Albeit, a couple years before when she was doing dressage with my mother and her coat was kept short and neat with her black mane pulled regularly— she was absolutely stunning. Now that she was mine and I used her for hacking along the countryside with my mates, her coat was overgrown, her mane long and tangled, and the feathering on her massive hooves normally stained with mud and feces. She was living like a horse should in my eyes. That mare stayed beautiful no matter how much horse shit and twigs covered her feathers. My mum absolutely adored her- and so did I, but my mother’s love for horses exceeded mine exponentially.
“Oh little Thicket~ you’re gonna go out on a lil ride aren’t you gem,” My mother cooed, placing her hands on Thistle’s cheeks. She gave her a little peck on her pink nose. “Burty, sweet, are you ever going to shave this beard Thistle’s got going on? I don’t think it suits her very well.”
“I think it’s cute, fluffy horses are cute,” I told her, putting my hand on the mare’s high flank as I walked around Thistle’s bum to fix up the girth.
“Perhaps, but this must be getting in the way of her bridle,” My mum retorted, petting the mare’s large white blaze. I gave her a shrugged. My mum rolled her eyes at me with a small light-hearted scoff.
My mum and I didn’t bear any resemblance. My mum was a short lady with long, wavy, bright blonde hair and blue eyes. Contrary to my father and I, my mother had an angular and defined face accented by an even dusting of freckles on her cheeks. For a woman who was a good few years in her forties, she had been mistaken for a sibling more times than I like to admit. Mark and Walt liked to joke that I lost the genetic lottery with flying colours. I’d laugh at it; but I couldn’t deny I was a little bum-hurt about it. She sighed, “do what you want then,” My mum brushed Thistle's beard off and stepped away, adjusting the light wool jumper over her. “Ah- there’s Walt, I was just about to ask where the other two were!” She said, lifting a hand to gesture back to the stables. I lifted my head from the dusty old saddle to see Walt trudging along through mud with the old large pony who’d been around before Walt was even born— Spatz.
Spatz used to be my father’s horse. He was a mutt of a pony, mixed with various native German breeds leaving him as a bulky and sturdy built horse with the face and mane of a pony. Spatz had a dusty grey coat with a silver mane and little star on his forehead that his poofy forelock covered up. His thick mane and the way it naturally grew out crazy and messy mimicked that of how Walt’s did. That little gelding had been my father’s go-to horse when he would travel between towns and through the countryside when he was younger. He quit riding him when he reached the age where he said “Small horses are no longer fun, rather a pain to stay on,” and that big horses became a necessity. Having towered over both of my parents, Spatz was never a horse to be passed down to me. My father refused to sell his trusted steed and once Walt came around he wasted no time passing Spatz onto them. Thankfully, Walt was a perfect fit.
“Good afternoon, Walt,” My mum said, backing away further so Walt could tie up Spatz.
“Hi Mrs.Foxford,” Walt said, looking ahead at the fence as they lead Spatz along, both of their hocks coated in mud.
“How’s it going?” My mum asked, offering to take the lead rope to tie Spatz for them. Walt shrugged.
“It’s going,” They replied and cautiously handed her the light blue rope. “I stayed up too late last night. Now I’m a little tired,” Walt added, taking a quick glance over at Thistle.
“You stayed at Mark’s house right?” My mum asked, doing a quick break-away knot.
“Yeah, I slept on the pull-out again,” Walt answered, flicking their tail happily whilst keeping a fairly straight expression. My mother pursed her lips.
“We’ve got a guest-room at the main house y’know? The bed in there has to be better than that old pull out,” My mother offered with a small chuckle.
“No, I like Marquis’s house, my stuff’s there,” Walt shrugged. “I gotta go get my tack,” They said before trotting back to the stables.
“Walt’s an odd little guy,” My mum pointed out. I nodded, having finished tacking up Thistle. “Now, where’s the other one?”
“Probably tacking up Robin in his stall, you know how Robin acts when he knows we’re going out,” I answered, grabbing the reins from under Thistle’s bearded chin and moving her to the mounting block. I may have been a tall guy but I wasn’t quite fit enough to get up on my own.
Robin was Marquis’s horse, no one else dared touch him as that stallion was something else. Robin was a former war horse, originally bred to be a general’s horse, however was laid off for being far too “opinionated.” The stallion had extensive field training and could trek through any terrain and could care less about loud bangs and horses running into him. Robin was a beautifully bred horse with amazing conformation and a pedigree to die for. Marquis liked to boast that Robin was related to the likes of Marengo. (I doubted they kept track of pedigrees that long though..) He was a tall, fit, rose grey stallion. The reds, browns, and blacks, in his base coat contrasting drastically with his white dapples. However, he really was an asshole. The only elfen he got along with was Marquis. Mark was lucky he got his hands on Robin before they would send him to the butchers, his perks of being forced into the military. I liked to think Robin knew if Mark didn’t purchase him he would be a goner, it made for a nice story. It would also make for a nice explanation as to why the headstrong stallion only liked Mark.
“Of course,” My mum started. “In that case, I’ll leave you three to it! Be back in time for dinner please, it’s starting to get dark earlier I don’t want anyone getting lost,” She told me.
“Yes ma’am,” I said with a confident nod before putting my paw into the rusted stirrup.
“Wait! Mrs.Foxforrrrd I need help taking up!” Walt shouted, running back out, tack piled onto their scrawny frame, stumbling and hopping through mud. Walt was usually pretty independent, but for whatever reason they were fine with my mum helping them out with things. My mum quite liked Walt and Mark, but she fancied Walt more for whatever reason.
“No need to run Walter, you’re going to trip and get yourself covered in mud.”
“Just Walt,”
“Sorry, I always forget,” She replied with a sigh, taking the saddle and saddle pads from them. Walt was quiet, watching Spatz as my mum got him tacked up. Spatz stayed still and quiet for her, his little grey ears slacked to the side. “Are you going to behave yourself, Walt?” She asked, doing up the leather girth. Walt nodded.
“Yeah, I’m following those two,” Walt said, pointing at me. I swung myself onto Thistle and steered her around the mounting block. “I’m a good boy,” Walt said, a little smirk sneaking onto his thin, bearded face.
“That is such a lie!” I shouted with a snicker, getting myself adjusted to Thistle’s broad barrel again. Walt giggled, scrunching up their nose as they smiled— it was more like a happy baring of teeth.
“Don’t get yourselves in too much trouble please..” My mum rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna drive Marquis insane leading you two around,” She laughed while she went to put on the eggbutt snaffle bridle on Spatz.
“Mark drives me insane sometimes,” Walt snickered.
“Walt, quit it plotting to ruin Marquis’s day and get your boots on,” My mum shooed them.
“Yeee-uhs ma’am,” Walt said. I raised an eyebrow at their attempt at English and snickered. The sporadic man trotted off, hopping here and there.
“Your friends are silly, Burty,” My mum said, putting the throat latch in it’s keeper.
“I’ll be sure to tell them,” I nodded, squeezing Thistle up to a quick trot through the sludge before going back to a walk in the direction of the back gate. I took a glance above the crowns of trees that were sparsely coated with shriveled reds and yellows to the overcast sky, hoping the weather would keep up. I was sick of rain at that point.
“I mean it in the most endearing way possible,” She assured me, leading the stocky pony from the rotted fence…
“Robin, why are we dancing now?” Mark asked aloud as his lean warhorse pranced in his trot onto the muddy and pebble ridden path that leads behind our property. The dappled grey tossed his head, flicked his short coarse tail, picking up his dirt covered hooves in a rhythmic yet tense cadence. I was following in the back of the pack, Spatz right in front of me watching the stallion fidget excitedly.
“Dancing for no apparent reason? That sounds like you Marquis,” I teased whilst Thistle slowly dragged her hooves through the mud.
“It does not!” Mark insisted.
“You were literally dancing around the house last night Mark,” Walt said. I saw a little cheeky grin show up on Mark’s scarred face.
“Hush,” He giggled, still fighting with Robin to get that horse moving up the road. Any time we’d go on a hack Robin would throw his annual pre-ride fit. He got over it, but it was nothing short of amusing to watch Mark argue with his lanky fidgetty stallion. It took him a good five minutes before he got the stallion moving forward in a somewhat sane manner. Robin was still picking his hooves up high and bouncing as he stepped in a weird trot/walk mix. “Robin love, why are you marching, we’re not in the military anymore you don’t have to do that,” Mark said with a smile, petting Robin’s neck, finally getting him to quit his antics. “Ah! There we go!” Mark said happily. With a little click of his mouth Robin moved forward in a smooth trot to let Walt and I create distance between Spat’s bum and Thistles muzzle which was greatly appreciated by both Thistle and I.
“Mark!” Walt shouted.
“Yes, Walt?” He asked bringing Robin back to a walk with a whistle.
“I hated when you were in the military,” Walt stated.
“It was not a fun time,” Mark sighed.
“Yeh.” That was the end of that conversation. I was a little confused when Walt and Mark had mini conversations like that, but let it slide as we continued through the rough terrain surrounding my family’s property. Robin was a fantastic navigator through the muddy filth, thickets, stray twigs, and rocks as we plodded along through the autumnal country trail.
The sky was still a dark overcast, yet through the clearings between warmly coloured leaves and branches we could look out from the hilltop tail onto the vast rolling countryside where the sun beamed through the slate clouds in large streaks from the heavens onto fields that were fallow for the upcoming winter. There were fields of brown and white-faced cows laying down in herds and farm houses and ponds scattered about. There was a light dusting of red leaves in the grass, which was still a bright green from late summer and storms, wherever trees congregated together. A cool breeze coarsed through the pathway, brushing up onto my face and brushing back hair and freeing leaves from their branches. Our horses’ ears swiveled and flinched as leaves floated passed them, yet they had grown used to it from previous experience. The nature of it all was enough to give a man a reason to get up in the morning. I took in a deep breath, taking in the sweet scent of impending rain and rotting wood. The scenery was the same scenery I’d been viewing for years yet I never got over it. Every time I’d go out it’d be just as beautiful.
I glanced forward to see Walt’s eyes opened wide and focussed on the scenery around them, their ears like radars at the side of their head. Mark seemed all the more focussed on leading us along on our trek around the valley. We continued alongside a fence made of unevenly placed stone with vines traversing through the cracks of the old architecture. Mark and Robin lead us up to the steepest part of our track, passing mailboxes and old lamps. He gave out a small hollar to bring up Robin’s forehand and cantered the warhorse up the slippery incline. Mark leaned up with Robin and helped him push up the slope at a smooth canter, halting at the top to look back and monitor Walt and I with one hand on the reins and the other of Robin’s flank. Walt gave Spatz a small kick and gave him the reins to let the stocky gelding follow up with a bumpy canter. Walt lacked the leg strength Mark had and was left following Spatz with a weird slouch as he scampered up, kicking back dirt at Thistle, who couldn’t care less. She knew my mum was going to make me clean her once we got back. Once Walt and Spatz made it up to the leading pair I gave Thistle a good kick and she sluggishly trotted up the hill, as per usual. There was no way I was getting a mare as and old as her to canter up that. She was a fun ride up hill, I could feel her every move as I made it back up to the three and we continued on our way.
We carried on merrily, passing a youth camp that was rumoured to have been around since humans were still in power. I remembered I asked my father if I could join when I was little but he had yelled at me for asking for such a thing. I still had no clue what it was about. Marquis hated the place as much as my father did and I couldn’t gather why. Whilst on our journey, we took a quick frolic through the Pfeiffer's field as was routine… (bastards) but other than that we stayed on our usual trail, walking through a small stable yard of a family which Marquis was good friends with and went by quite regularly to work Robin in their arenas which were significantly nicer than the tiny dirt field we had as a sorry excuse for a riding ring.
We reached an open field just outside of Aldonadorf that was our usually turn around point where we’d switch to a shorter trail that lead back to a main road. However, the horses were acting as though something was off. It was one thing to see Robin holding his head high with his ears alert, he always heard commotion going on in town. It was another to see Spatz and Thistle just as worried. Mark seemed unphased. Yet looking forward at Walt they must have noticed something was wrong as well. They had their grey ears on alert with Spatz, their eyes scanning the field. I saw their ears twitch upon something and move. I furrowed my brow and attempted to mimic their ears’ position yet I was unable to pick up on what is was. Marquis didn’t seem to notice something, which made me feel at ease for only a second until I remembers he was quite literally half deaf and blind.
“Ay’ Mark! Something’s caught the horses’ - and Walt’s - attention,” I called up. Mark halted, we followed suit. The tall hirschelfen pursed his lips and looked around. He opened his mouth to say something only to be cut short as the sound of panicked yelling and galloping hooves amongst snapping and cracking branches became audible to the two of us. We all watched with ears tall.
Out of the thicket and underbrush perpendicular to us came barreling out a leaf-covered screaming man who was half-way off his horse, which he was definitely too big for, holding on for dear life as the flaxen tobiano bolted across the field in a panicked hurry. We all exchanged confused glances as we watched them tumble into the next stretch of trees. With a deeply perplexed look on his face, Marquis gathered up his reins and got ready to ask Robin to move up.
“I’ll be right back… I’m gonna go see if that guys okay,” He said before giving Robin a shout and speeding off. Just as they made it up to the hoof tracks in the grass and began to turn a flock of officers on horseback with various pointy-shooty things in tow came booming out where the tobiano came tumbling out. Mark shouted “FUCK,” as he quickly turned Robin the other direction. I was surprised to see the stallion not topple over but that was besides the point. Mark was now being chased by a group of enraged police through an unmarked trail. Walt and I just sat there awestruck.
“Hm. It was nice knowing Marquis,” Walt said in a joking manner. For whatever reason it made me laugh.
“You think he’s going to get arrested?” I asked, turning Thistle and getting her to walk on in their direction.
“Probably, wouldn’t be the first time,” Walt shrugged and began to trot after me. “Such a shame, R.I.P. Marquis ‘Bitchface’ Moulin. You will be missed, but then not missed because I’ll get a new one.” Walt’s stupid remark got a good laugh out of me.
“Godspeed Mark, say hi to Jesus for me,” I laughed.
“Bold of you to think any of us are going up there!”
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