DAMIAN’S HERD

The next morning Karigan awoke refreshed with no memory of her dreams but for a lingering sense of some question left unanswered. Since she couldn’t remember the question, it was going to stay unanswered. She shrugged it off, ready to begin the new day.

When she stepped out of bed and stretched, she was pleased to feel little achiness from her fall, even in her neck. Whatever herbs Lady brewed in her tea, they worked miracles. She discovered little bruising or swelling on her forehead as she gazed into the round mirror above her washstand. Maybe she hadn’t hit the eave as hard as she thought or maybe Lady’s tea possessed properties that went beyond simply alleviating pain. Maybe Lady herself possessed abilities in mending that went beyond the ordinary.

Cobwebs still clouded Karigan’s brain and she deemed it too early to speculate about Lady or her tea. She was just grateful to be spared the pain.

She washed and dressed, then went looking for people, but the house was quiet and empty. Across from her room was a large bedchamber that must belong to Lady and Damian. Down the short hall was a common living area with a fireplace. The furnishings were ingeniously made of stout branches and the cushions covered in soft hide. Deer antlers hung above the mantel. She had missed all this last night.

Adjoining the common room was the kitchen, where she found a note from Lady saying she should make herself at home and eat breakfast, then join them in the stable out back.

Karigan was tempted to skip breakfast and just go out, but her empty stomach made her think better of it. She found a kettle still warming over the banked coals in the large hearth and a jar of tea and a mug awaiting her on the table. She sniffed the crushed tea leaves, wondering if they held any special properties like last night’s brew, but though they smelled pungent and fresh, they seemed like an ordinary blend. Then she noticed the neatly written label: Breakfast Tea. She shrugged and spooned the tea leaves into her mug then poured hot water into it.

On the table was also a loaf of bread, crock of butter, and a second crock of blueberry preserves. If she looked further she would have found more, but she was embarrassed enough by having overslept that she made do with the tea and two helpings of bread slathered with butter and jam.

When she finished, she drew on her greatcoat and stepped outside. It was cold enough for her to see her breath on the air, and the weather dissipated any remnant cobwebs in her head. She strode off the front porch and rounded the house. What she had not been able to see in the dark the previous evening was a series of outbuildings and enclosures. Damian Frost’s place was a proper farm with gardens now dormant, chickens pecking the ground around their henhouse, a lean-to occupied by pigs, and a shed housing goats and a pair of cows. Beyond was a barn that Karigan assumed stabled the horses.

She set off for the barn, thinking that something was missing from the scene. The gardens, pens, and outbuildings were right, and there were a sled and wagon situated outside the barn, but something wasn’t in place. As she approached the barn, walking a well-worn path beaten by hooves and boots, she realized what it was. There was no paddock or fencing of any kind for holding horses.

Just as she began to doubt the barn served as the stable, Condor poked his head out a window and whinnied at her as if to hurry her up. Karigan did just that.

The large double doors were wide open and she stepped inside, wondering if she’d find some enchanted scene before her wrought by Damian Frost, the man who provided the Green Riders with their extraordinary horses, and by his wife who apparently possessed unknown healing skills. She found nothing out of the ordinary, however, unless one counted Fergal pitching manure out of a stall into a wheelbarrow.

The stable was airy and clean, with eight box stalls, all empty but for those occupied by Sunny and Condor. Sunny was contentedly pulling at hay from her hay rack, and Condor bobbed his head over his stall door and nickered. Karigan walked over to him and caressed his nose.

“Morning,” Fergal said.

“Morning. Where are the Frosts?”

“Here we be, lass.” Damian emerged from a doorway, carrying two Rider saddles, with matching bridles draped over each shoulder. Beside him walked a brindle wolfhound about the size of a pony. It padded to a pile of fresh straw, yawned, and heaved over, raising a cloud of dust. It dropped its head onto its front paws, settling in for a nap.

“That’s Ero,” Damian said. “Runt of the litter.”

Karigan decided Ero’s littermates must then be the size of horses.

Lady was a few steps behind Damian, bearing another bridle and a covered basket over her arm. “So glad to see you up and about,” she told Karigan.

“Uh, yes, thank you. Your tea—it worked wonders.”

Lady responded with a pleased smile.

“Come get your gear, my Riders,” Damian said. “Riding I’m going, riding with Riders!”

Karigan and Fergal collected their tack from him.

“I’ve brushed and curried your Condor, lass, and picked his hooves clean. No need to fuss, just saddle up.”

While Karigan did so, she wondered what Damian was going to ride, then began to listen to the debate developing between him and Lady.

“What about Abby?” Lady said.

“She’s resting. I rode her yesterday.”

“How about Uncle?”

“No, no, not today.”

“Sea Star?”

Damian grimaced and rubbed his back end as though remembering some unpleasant experience. “No, definitely not Sea Star.”

Karigan tightened Condor’s girth, watching the couple over his withers. Lady gazed up toward the rafters as if in deep thought. “Seymour, perhaps?”

“Too slow,” Damian said. “He’d never keep apace of Condor.”

“Jack?”

“Jericho has Jack today, and Gus has Rose.”

Karigan wondered where Damian hid all his horses.

“I know! Gracie!”

“Heavens, no. She’s absolutely bats.”

“Then who?” Lady demanded. “The dog?”

Ero lifted his massive head as if alarmed by the suggestion. Karigan giggled into Condor’s neck.

“How am I supposed to know what to sing?” Lady asked.

Sing? What did singing have to do with anything?

“Who do we have left?” Damian started counting on his fingers, muttering to himself. “I know, I’ll ride Cat.”

Lady shook her head. “My dear, you sold Cat two weeks ago to old Tom Binder.”

“Oh, I forgot. That leaves Fox.”

“Fox it is, then,” Lady said. “I shall sing him in.” Basket still hanging from her arm, she walked to the stable entrance and peered out. Glancing back at her husband, she said, “They are far off this morn.”

Damian shrugged.

Lady sighed, then loosed a deafening holler that nearly knocked Karigan off her feet. “FOX! Fox, Fox, Fox, FOX!”

That was singing?

But then Lady did sing, and in normal tones: “Come Foxy, come Fox, from your grazing and phlox. Your master seeks you and needs you to ride among the flocks. Come Foxy, come Fox!”

The song went on at some length with its nonsensical lyrics, but pleasant tones, and Karigan expected the song’s subject to trot into the stable at any moment. Lady’s song faded to an end. All watched and waited. Still nothing. Lady looked vexed.

Damian stepped up beside his wife and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re right, Lady, my lady and love. They’re far off.” He then stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled a note so shrill Karigan clenched her teeth and poor Ero whined.

When the whistle died, they waited again. This time Karigan heard hooves pounding the ground—many hooves.

Damian and Lady stepped away from the entrance and even Ero rose to his feet and lumbered to the safety of the tack room. A veritable herd of horses crowded into the stable. They were of all proportions and colors and markings. They milled about poking their noses into Condor’s stall, lipping at stray bits of straw, bumping into one another, their hooves scraping loudly on the cobble floor. In the crowded confines there were a few nips and kicks, but no serious altercations.

“Fox!” Damian yelled. A horse somewhere in the throng whinnied. “Fox, it’s you I’m wanting—the rest of you clear out. Get on with you, back to pasture!”

As if the horses understood his words exactly, they flowed out of the stable as quickly as they entered, but for a shaggy bay gelding who remained behind.

“That’s the trouble with whistling them in,” Lady said, “it’s not very specific. They were just too far off to hear my song.”

Karigan had never heard of singing a horse in and was sorry the demonstration had not worked. She did know a Rider or two who could summon their individual horses with a whistle, but an entire herd? She was impressed.

“Could you teach me to do that, sir?” Fergal asked, apparently impressed as well.

“Why sure, lad.” Damian stood beside the bay, scrutinizing him. He was a stocky specimen with a star between his eyes, and he was coated in dry mud. “It will have to be later though. My foxy Fox here needs curry and comb, and brush and pick before we ride. Gave himself a mud bath, he did, and us a delay.”

Karigan leaned against the stall door, Condor resting his chin on her shoulder as she watched Damian work on Fox. The gelding stood there unmoving without cross-tie or halter. He half closed his eyes in contentment as Damian stroked him with the currycomb. Damian must have trained his horses well to enjoy being groomed, for Karigan had known some in her life that were intolerant of it, or at least had sensitive areas that when touched, incited a kick or bite.

In the meantime, Fergal further surprised her that morning by grabbing a shovel to pick up piles of manure left behind by the horses.

“Damian is taking you out to the plains to look over the herds,” Lady told her.

“That…wasn’t them?” Karigan asked.

“That lot? That was our domestic stock. No, he’s going to take you to see where the wild ones run. That is, after all, the stock from which he picks Green Rider horses.”

“Wild horses,” Karigan murmured. “I didn’t know.”

“There are wild horses,” Lady said, her gaze distant, “and then there are wild horses.”

“True enough,” Damian said. Without a word or even a tap on the leg, Fox lifted a hoof for him to pick out. “I don’t choose just any horses for my Riders.”

In no time, Fox’s coat gleamed and his tail and mane were combed neat and unmatted. Damian slipped the bridle over his nose. It had no bit. “Fergal, lad,” he said, “give me a leg up if you would.”

Fergal did so and Damian sat upon Fox bareback. “Thank you, Fergal. Used to be able to vault right up, but I’m not as young as I once was, am I, Lady.”

“You are ancient,” she told him and they laughed as though this were a cherished joke. She brought him her basket and placed the handle over his wrist. He leaned down and they kissed. “Now don’t be too late in coming back, Master Frost. I’ll have supper waiting.”

“Oh ho, I shall not be late for that!” He turned to Karigan and Fergal and said, “Mount up my friends. It’s time we went riding.” He squeezed Fox’s sides and they plodded out of the stable. A whistle issued from without—this time a quick, sharp tone—and Ero the wolfhound emerged from the tack room and trotted outside to join his master.

Karigan led Condor out of his stall and as she prepared to mount, Lady said, “If you are lucky, you might even see the patron of your messenger horses.” Without explaining, she left the stable with a wave and an, “Enjoy your day!”

With that intriguing comment to gnaw on, Karigan placed her toe into the stirrup and swung up onto Condor’s back.