Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 4

An illustration from Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

The fourth in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the third extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

Night comes, and with it the peacefulness following a long, warm day. His mother has forgiven him, and already he forgets her anger towards him. What he cannot escape is the image of the horses and the men, of the golden bridles and silver saddles. 

Tell me about men, he asks his mother. You told me of the plants, of the animals, of the way the mountain breathes, of the way the desert lives. Now tell me about men. 

The full moon casts a milky light. Shadows dance, shadows laugh. I was not always wild, his mother says. I was not born like you, high up on the mountainside. My home at first, was in the dwellings of men. From the moment I took my first breath, the voice and touch of men was part of me. They gave me a name that was not the one my mother used. They called me the Lioness, for the colour of my coat, and because I came from a line of brave, courageous horses. The men fed me, the men petted me. One of them took special care of me. He was my Master. 

She gazes at the stars, at the millions and millions of stars above, and he watches her. The moonlight has turned her white legs silver, like the saddles of the men’s horses. He has white legs like her. Was it your Master who made you mistrust men? he asks. 

No, my Master loved me and I loved him too. He took special care of me, and with pride he watched me grow. He admired the way I moved, he praised my behaviour, he revered my beauty. He called me his Lioness. He told me I was the best of the horses he had bred. He stroked my forehead. He smoothed the tangles in my mane. I followed him where he went. Other horses had metal bits put in their mouths, but my Master let me go free. He whispered sweet words in my ears and I was always by his side. 

What happened then? Why did you leave your Master? he asks. 

Not all men are gentle and kind. Some burn with what they call envy and jealousy. What they do not have, they want to take. And I was taken from my Master. It was a night much like this one. A man I had never seen before came up to me. How could I have guessed he was not to be trusted? Men had always been good to me. It is only when I saw him carrying a rope that I knew he was bad. I tried to run away but it was too late: the rope was tied around my neck, cutting into my skin and flesh. I reared and tried to strike him with my front hooves. But he hit me on the head. Never before had I known such pain. Never before had I been hurt by a man. He dragged me away, and I did not resist anymore. I should have. If a man were to try to take me again, I would fight, fight until the life has been crushed out of him. Now I know better than I did before. 

She stamps her feet and pins her ears back, baring her teeth at an invisible enemy. He starts at the dry rustling of the bushes, half-expecting to see a man emerge from there. 

I was taken away, his mother sighs. I was taken away, stolen from my Master. The rope around my neck was tied to the saddle of another horse and we galloped into the darkness. It was a night much like this one. My neck was raw where the rope dug into my flesh. For the first time in my life, I knew the smell of my own blood. For the first time in my life, I realised that I should fear men. When we were far enough, far enough from my Master, far enough from the friends of my youth, we met other men. And I was exchanged for a handful of gold pieces. They glimmered under the moon. The other men came to take me. A metal bit was put in my mouth. I fought. I bled. I was beaten again and I learnt to stay quiet. I had to stay quiet, to save my strength. 

She sighs again, gazing at the stars, gazing at the round, full moon. Her eyes are filled with shadows. You must sleep now, my little one. You too must save your strength.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 3

One of the illustrations from Mr. Summerhaye's Horse

The third in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the second extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

One day, they wander further away from the mountainside, looking for water, looking for food. And for the first time he hears neighs which are not those of his mother: it is not her voice, calling his name, a sound imprinted deep into his soul. His mother listens, then answers. It is not the soft, tender voice she uses with him. 

There are others like us, then? he asks her. She looks for a long time towards the place whence the neighs have come. We must walk on, she tells him. 

He follows her, but he is curious. From time to time, he thinks he hears the neighs again, and pricks his ears, and turns his head towards the sound. Walk on, walk on, his mother insists, and she even breaks into a trot. 

At last they stop, in the shade offered by a twisted cedar tree. His mother sighs and closes her eyes. He nibbles a needle-covered branch, spits it out. A lizard runs under a rock. He gazes at it with interest, until a small bird catches his attention. Hello again, hello again, the bird chirps. Do you remember me? I came down from the snowy mountains, on a frosty, frosty morning. You are much bigger now, you are much healthier too. The vultures were disappointed then. 

What did the vultures want with me? he wonders. You wouldn’t know, the small bird chirps. He sighs, ruffling the feathers of his white, spotted throat. 

Neighs again, not so far away. His mother opens her eyes and lifts her head, listening. Then goes back to sleep. He wanders off, the small bird fluttering behind him. 

Where are you going? Where are you going? You should not leave your mother’s side. But he is puzzled by the neighs. He is puzzled and does not want to rest. He will not be gone for very long, he only wants to have a look. Still the bird follows him, chirping in alarm. 

He smells the horses, like his mother, but not his mother. Smells them, yet there is another scent mingled with theirs, one he has not encountered before. One that makes him suspicious, and he advances cautiously, noiselessly, hooves making only a dull thump on the dusty ground. 

He sees them by the water and the trees, a group of horses. What are they wearing on their heads and on their backs? And what are those beings, standing next to them? 

These are men, these are men, the small bird chirps. And the horses belong to them, not to the mountain like you. That is why they have golden bridles and silver saddles. You should not stay there. 

The men are draped in flowing clothes, white as the snow on the summit of the mountains. Their voices stir something in him, an old, old memory, a memory that is not quite his. He stares at them, fascinated. Go back, go back, the small bird chirps. And his mother is beside him, ears pinned flat against her neck, teeth bared. What do you think you were doing? 

The bird flies away to settle on a branch above the horses and the men. The silver and the gold glisten in the sunlight. It was wrong of you to leave my side, his mother tells him, and pushes him back toward the mountainside. 

Why was it wrong? he asks. We greet the antelopes and the birds, the lizards and the snakes. Why do we not gallop with the horses who are like us? His mother pushes him on, ears back still, and her teeth bruise his neck. These horses belong to men, and men would capture you if they saw you. Men cannot be trusted. You must remain by my side if you want to be safe. And for the first time, the first time since that first night, he sees a strange new light in his mother’s eyes. He sees fear.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - blurb

I've showed you the front cover of Mr. Summerhaye's Horse, so here's the back cover, featuring the blurb.
The novella is now available for preorder as an ebook. You can find it here.

Mr. Summerhaye's Horse - extract 2

The second in a series of extracts from my soon to be published novella. This passage follows the first extract. Please note that this is from an unproofed version and that there might be typos. 

Then his world is the mountainside, as he follows his mother, as they trot on the rocky ground. Then his world is the desert, the dust, the heat. Stay by me, his mother tells him, I shall keep you safe. Step into my hoofprints, you must not wander away. Not that he wants to. Everything is strange and alien to him. As the hours pass, as they travel, as the sun follows its course, the world around him changes and moves. Smells assail him from every side, some attractive, some menacing. A gerbil scuttles under his feet and he stops. The shadow of the bird has not left them. He does not like it. 

Do not pay heed, his mother tells him, it is a vulture, and no danger as long as you stay by me. His mother is tall and strong. She holds her head high, her coat shines orange and gold and her legs are pure white. She walks on, tirelessly, as he begins to feel weary. The horizon shimmers and trembles as the heat intensifies. The mountains, and their purple blue shadows, threaten to crush him. 

At last they stop. The ground is cracked where they stand. In a hollow there is water. More flowers, more plants. His mother drinks the water while he nurses. His eyes are heavy, his legs reluctant to bear his weight. Rest, his mother tells him, rest and sleep, my little one, while I watch over you. You will always be safe with me. So he lies on the rocky ground and closes his eyes. Sleeps and slips back into the darkness, the darkness he first knew, the darkness he comes from. 

*

Then his world is the mountainside. His world is the desert and a burning sun. His world is the dancing shadows of birds and the dust on the yellowing plants his mother eats. His world is the afternoon haze on the horizon. As the hours pass, he accepts it, I am part of it. Not so alien, not so strange, as long as his mother remains, his mother’s warmth, his mother’s smell. 

He nurses, he sleeps. He wakes and stands up and follows his mother. The shadow of the bird disappears after a while. He grows more aware of the life, of the hundreds of tiny heartbeats all around him, under the rocks and the bushes. The eyes of a sand cat meet his and he starts, half in surprise, half in fear. His mother tosses her head, you are in no danger, walk on. 

He sees a group of animals, with four slender legs like his mother and him. He turns his head with interest, but his mother does not stop. They are not like us, my son, see their horns? They are gazelles, we are horses. These are the names men gave to us. He does not know what men are and his mother does not explain. The scent of the gazelles drifts his way. No, they do not smell like his mother. On the mountainside they run and jump, nimble and delicate. A soft wind blows. He would much like to join them and play. Walk on, his mother nudges him. 

The sky, so blue before, becomes yellow and pink, and the shadows on the stony ground lengthen. The haze melts away. For a moment, the air is clear, sharpened by vibrant colours and by a cool wind. 

The sky, so blue before, darkens, melting into the sombre mountains. What is happening now? He does not understand. The world is turning, changing, and he can only watch in wonderment and awe. At last, the stars, appearing one by one. It is the night, the night into which he was born. The sun will rise again, his mother tells him, until the night swallows the day. The moon shines above them, a thin crescent of light. The hum of insects, a soft lullaby. He presses is head against his mother’s flanks. Stay close to me, my little one.

Creating the cover of "Mr. Summerhaye's Horse"

The different stages in the creation of the painting I used as a cover for Mr. Summerhaye's Horse.
If all goes well, it should be published on the 2nd of June 2020, in about one month from now.