HORSE DIARIES
#1 : Elska
#2: Bell’s Star
#3: Koda
#4: Maestoso Petra
#5: Golden Sun
To my mother,
Ruth Sanderson
—W.S.
For Whitney
—R.S.
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books in This Series
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1
The Salmon Falls, Oregon, 1790
2
Runaway
3
A Trade and a Promise
4
Training
5
Earth Medicine
6
Broken Trust
7
Stolen Breath
8
Vision Quest
9
Two Healers
Appendix
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Copyright
“Oh! if people knew what a comfort to horses a light hand is …”
—from Black Beauty, by Anna Sewell
The Salmon Falls, Oregon, 1790
A sound like thunder filled my ears, though the sky was bright and blue. The earth trembled under my hooves. I pressed close to the horses around me for comfort. Sweat ran down our dusty flanks, and our eyes were white-rimmed and wild.
The men drove us down into the roaring valley. They kept us packed tightly together so we couldn’t turn and bolt back the way we came. As we drew closer, I realized the sound was made by water. More water than I had ever seen in my life. It foamed like spit around an angry dog’s mouth, plunging down the rocks to the river below. I wanted to run from the sound, but I was afraid to leave the safety of the herd.
“Tawts, Golden Sun.” The familiar voice sounded small and far away among the whinnies of horses and the crash of the waterfall. I craned my neck and saw Little Turtle riding toward me on one of his father’s horses, a gray mare named Sparrow.
I paused while they threaded their way among the crush of horses to reach my side. Little Turtle leaned down to stroke my neck. He was nine winters old, and had cared for me since I was born last Latit’al, the season of new life.
Little Turtle’s father was a respected warrior who owned many horses. He had promised his son a foal to train, and Little Turtle chose me. Although the waterfall buzzed like a swarm of angry bees, I trusted that Little Turtle would not lead me toward harm. Trying to shake the sound of the roaring water from my ears, I lowered my head and followed Sparrow and Little Turtle into the valley.
As we drew closer, the wind blew cold spray from the waterfall into our faces. On the far side of the river, a vast, barren plain stretched away to hazy mountains on the horizon. Both sides of the riverbank were lined with tepees, and many strange people were setting up their tepees, tending to their horses, and cooking their dinners. Some dressed differently from my people, the Nimi’ipuu, and spoke different words. Sparrow once told me a story of how she met a stallion here who said his grandsire had come from a distant place called Spain, where the land was hardly visible for all the people and horses and lodges crowded upon it. The stallion’s grandsire had been put on a boat that sailed for months and months across a river that seemed to go on in all directions without end.
Sparrow was so excited when she told the story that I did not say anything, but I think the stallion was probably making it up. I could not imagine water bigger or more furious than the raging waterfall in front of me.
As the wind continued to blow, the oily scent of fish filled my nostrils. I didn’t like the way it smelled, but I knew that salmon was an important source of food to the Nimi’ipuu. I knew how vital it was to gather enough food before Haoq’oy, the cold season. I shivered as I remembered the long months of my first winter, huddled close to my dam as she foraged for dried grass and bark stripped from the trees.
Now dozens of men milled about on wooden platforms over the river. They filled their nets with shimmering red and silver salmon. When we reached an open place for his family to set up camp, Little Turtle put leather hobbles around my front legs to keep me from wandering off. Nearby, other families in Little Turtle’s tribe began to set up their homes.
Already strange men and women were wandering over to appraise the horses. Everyone knew the Nimi’ipuu had the best horses. My tribe called spotted horses like me Maamin. Not every Nimi’ipuu horse had spots, and the birth of a beautifully marked foal was a particular cause for excitement.
Among the unfamiliar people, I saw two who were unlike anyone I had ever seen. They had bushy red hair growing like lichen from their chins, and they wore hats made from raccoon skins with the tail hanging down the back. Their eyes were blue as robins’ eggs. One of them pointed at me.
“Look at the spots on that one,” he said. “I’ll bet he’s fast, too. They say a Palouse pony is worth ten ordinary ponies in a race.”
Their words were as much of a mystery as their strange appearance. The rhythm of their speech sounded different from Little Turtle’s. I perked up my ears as one of them offered me something on his hand. It was a flat red and white stick. I sniffed it curiously. It smelled sweet, and that was enough of an invitation for me! I crunched down on the stick. It tasted sweet as maple sap, with a tangy flavor like the wintergreen berries that grew in shady forests during the late gathering-time of Hoplal.
I wanted to keep the wonderful taste in my mouth forever, but soon it dissolved away to nothing. The strange men moved on with the others, and Little Turtle’s family paused now and then to greet old friends as they stretched buffalo hides across their tepee frame.
As they worked, I watched the strange horses scattered across the river valley. The Nimi’ipuu traded away many of their horses, and I hoped to see someone I knew. I scanned the herds for the familiar brown-and-white spotted coat of my dam. Little Turtle’s father had traded her to another tribe last Q’oyxt’sal, right after I was weaned. I was disappointed when I didn’t see her among the campsites.
I knew all the families would hold games and horseback races later on, and I wished I were old enough to join in. But I was only a yearling, and Little Turtle knew better than to ride me before I was fully grown. He had learned a lot from his father, and I thought he understood horses better than many grown men.
Little Turtle’s gestures and tone of voice were clear, and he did not get angry if I didn’t understand something right away. I often forgot we spoke different languages, because Little Turtle seemed part horse.
When the evening’s work was done, Little Turtle came over to rub the sweat from my coat with a soft deerskin cloth. He leaned down and blew softly into my nose in greeting as he wiped away the dust that had crusted around my eyes and mouth. Then he picked up a sharp rock and scraped the dirt from my hooves.
Little Turtle’s friend Pale Moon came over as he worked. She was also nine winters old, and her family and Little Turtle’s were like kin.
“Golden Sun is looking well,” said Pale Moon as Little Turtle ran his fingers through my tail to pick out a few stray burrs.
“Thank you,” replied Little Turtle. “I can’t wait until he is old enough to ride! Can you imagine how wonderful it will be when we can gallop together across the prairie, racing the hawks?”
Pale Moon cast her eyes down and bit her lip. Though I did not understand most of the words they spoke, I wondered if they were talking about Foxtail. The bay mare had been Pale Moon’s horse since she was small, but she had died foaling this spring.
“I wish I had a horse who was as dear to me as Golden Sun is to you,” said Pale Moon. “Now I just ride whichever of my father’s horses I can catch most eas
ily. I do not feel the same connection to them that I felt to Foxtail.”
Little Turtle nodded sympathetically. “My father is letting me ride Sparrow until Golden Sun is grown, but I do not feel she is really my horse. Don’t worry, I am sure that in time you will find a horse who is as special to you as Foxtail was.”
Pale Moon smiled sadly, then went off to help her mother put her young sister to bed. The light began to fade from the sky. I was sure Little Turtle was tired from the day’s journey, but he stayed watching me as dusk gathered. Soon I could see only his slender silhouette in the darkness. I wondered if maybe he had fallen asleep on his feet like a horse.
Then Little Turtle reached out to run his fingers through my mane. He took his obsidian knife from his belt and cut away a golden lock of my hair. He tucked it into the turtle-shell pouch around his neck. The shell was almost the size of his fist, with leather sewn around the edges to turn it into a bag. Other members of the tribe wore these pouches also, although most were woven or made from leather. They called them medicine bags.
I had seen Little Turtle put other things in his medicine bag before. Several months earlier, he had met a Cayuse family in the camas fields. Little Turtle had traded the skin of a rabbit he caught for a beautiful glass bead that glinted with rainbow colors.
Another time when we were walking by the river, Little Turtle had found a very round white stone with a crack down the middle, like a hatching egg. He had put that in his turtle-shell bag, too. As Little Turtle tucked my lock of hair into his bag, I understood that it contained things that were special to him.
Little Turtle’s mother finally called him to bed, and he followed her into his family’s tepee. I was tired also, and I soon fell asleep despite the neighs of strange horses and the embers of many dying fires swirling on the breeze.
Runaway
The next morning, Little Turtle and his father, Sitting Bear, went out on one of the platforms at the edge of the river and hauled nets full of glistening salmon from the water. Little Turtle’s mother cleaned the salmon by cutting out their insides and stripping off the scales. She set them to dry on racks in the sun.
When evening came, the tribes feasted and played games together. Little Turtle led me over to watch the races. The winners took home many prizes: beaded jewelry, cedarwood bows, buffalo overcoats, even the horses of losing riders.
A man on a fiery pinto stallion was winning everything in sight. When a new rider came forward to challenge him, the man laughed and the stallion tossed his foaming head as if he were laughing, too. Although he was steaming and lathered from his many races, the stallion swept past every competitor until there were none left undefeated.
Then, to my surprise, the man jumped off his horse and came over to where Little Turtle and I were standing. “A fine-looking colt,” he said. He looked me up and down. “Sturdy legs, tough feet, a well-formed neck and head.”
Little Turtle nodded his thanks.
“His coat is striking,” the man continued. “Like snow dappled on golden earth. What do you want for him?”
Before Little Turtle could answer, Sitting Bear came over. He and his favorite stallion, Fire Tail, had just lost a race to the stranger. Sitting Bear was still breathing heavily from the race, and Fire Tail was lathered with sweat.
“What business do you have with my son, White Eagle?” Sitting Bear said. His tone was polite, but I could hear a trace of resentment beneath. He had just lost one of his good mares in the race. On the other side of the campsite, I could see White Eagle’s children fussing over the blue roan mare we had called Dream Seeker.
“I was wondering if that colt he’s holding is for trade,” White Eagle said.
“What are you offering?” said Sitting Bear.
Although I could not understand their words, I could tell from their gazes that they were discussing me. I pawed the ground lightly and arched my neck.
White Eagle brought forward some of the spoils he had won that day: a finely carved bow and arrow set, some woven sacks of food, and a deerskin shirt decorated with colorful glass beads, porcupine quills, and feathers.
From the glint in Sitting Bear’s eye, I knew White Eagle had just made a good offer. Sitting Bear was a fair man, but he did not get attached to his horses. I still remembered the first lonely nights after my dam had been traded away.
Sitting Bear’s eyes seemed to reflect the shine of the glass beads. Little Turtle looked anxious. Was I about to be traded away from him for the price of some supplies and a pretty shirt?
Sitting Bear looked to White Eagle, to the offering, and then to his wide-eyed son. “That is a very generous offer for an unbroken colt,” he said finally. “But this is Little Turtle’s horse, and it is his decision whether to accept the trade.”
Little Turtle put a possessive hand on my neck. “Golden Sun is not for sale,” he said.
White Eagle nodded, looking disappointed, and gathered his things. I breathed a sigh of relief and lowered my head.
Sitting Bear glanced at his son. “That would have been a fine trade for a decorated warhorse, much less a weanling colt,” he said.
“Golden Sun is my friend,” Little Turtle replied. “I could not place a value on him.”
Sitting Bear showed little expression as he led his tired horse away to the river for a drink. I could not tell if he was pleased or angry. Little Turtle turned to me, his face showing relief also.
He began to work with me, as he often did in his spare moments, teaching me to accept touch and to respond to the cues of his voice and body. Little Turtle ran his hands across my face, my ears, my flanks, and my belly. His light touch sometimes felt like a fly landing on me, but I had learned not to stamp my hooves and twitch his hand from my skin.
Little Turtle squeezed my leg just above the knee, over the hard chestnut, to make me lift my hoof. I felt unbalanced with only three feet on the ground. I tried to pull my hoof away, but Little Turtle held it steady until I relaxed.
Little Turtle began trimming my hoof with his obsidian knife. It didn’t hurt, but I disliked the feeling of the knife scraping against the hard sole of my foot. Still, I knew I would be able to run more freely when my hooves were trimmed.
As we worked, Little Turtle’s friend Pale Moon came over to watch. Little Turtle took his training cloth from his belt. I knew that when he had the piece of soft leather in his hand, it was time for me to pay attention. He held the cloth loosely by his side and began to walk away with swinging strides, gazing off into the distance. He looked like he was going somewhere interesting, so I began to follow him.
Little Turtle stopped and turned to me. His shoulders squared and his eyes looked directly into mine. The training cloth was clenched in his closed fist. I stopped in my tracks.
“Tawts, Golden Sun,” said Little Turtle in a praising voice. He softened his body and allowed me to walk over to him. I stopped a few paces away, waiting for his next command.
Just then a group of children came over, carrying wooden sticks and a leather ball. They were inviting Little Turtle to join their game. Little Turtle ran to get Pale Moon, and they went off eagerly with the strange children, leaving me hobbled at the campsite. I stamped my hind legs irritably, annoyed at being left behind.
As I stood there feeling sorry for myself, a commotion across the river caught my eye. A slender spotted filly was running loose among the tents, the rein of her bridle trailing on the ground. Many people had abandoned their work to catch her, but she dodged quick as a swallow around their outstretched hands.
I tossed my head and bounced up and down on my hind legs, wishing I could run with her. But the hobbles held me fast. I could only watch as the filly dodged among the campfires and children’s toys scattered in the grass.
Then a harsh voice rang out across the valley. “Get back here, you cowardly horse!” A man in dirty buckskin leggings decorated with tattered crow feathers was striding toward her. The filly swerved and bolted in a panic toward the riverbank, away from
the sound.
As the man drew closer, the filly champed her teeth nervously and backed toward the water. She squealed and reared as she felt the cold spray behind her. The man was almost close enough to touch her now. I noticed that he held a braided quirt in one hand. The muscles in his arm bulged as though he was planning to use it.
The filly stepped back onto one of the wooden platforms over the river. The poles were sturdy, but they were not meant to hold a horse and they groaned under the weight. The filly shuddered, and the man stepped forward.
This was the end, then. There was no way she could avoid capture.
But I was wrong. As the man reached out a rough hand toward her bridle, the filly turned and plunged off the edge of the platform into the swirling water.
A Trade and a Promise
The filly was swept away like so much dandelion fluff on the current. I neighed shrilly as she disappeared under the water. But even if I had been free, there was nothing I could have done. How could the foolish filly not have known that jumping into the water meant likely death?
The man who had driven the filly into the river seemed not to know what to do. One hand still fingered the handle of his quirt. He finally shrugged and said something in a harsh, joking tone of voice. But no one laughed. Men and women glared at him from all sides.
Just then a cry arose from downriver. I spun around to look. To my amazement, the filly was scrambling ashore in the rocky shallows on my side of the river, about a quarter mile downstream. She must not have been injured badly, because she immediately bolted upstream, once again evading people’s attempts to catch her. Her eyes were glassy and wild, and she seemed too panicked to know where she was going.
As she drew closer, I realized she was headed straight for my camp. Little Turtle’s aunt and uncle had just arrived at the falls this morning and were setting up their tepee frame a short distance away. The filly crashed right through the poles and sent them flying. Blood and water streamed from her body as she raced toward where I stood.
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