We were indeed so single-minded in our enjoyment of the pleasures of the occasion that it wasn’t until the horse walked out onto the terrace that we were forced to recall what we had managed to place at the back of our minds.
It was Andras who caught up the one remaining rein, and only half of it at that. The horse was so weary that it was possibly as happy to stand still. My first thought was that it was a Cirgassian, though nowhere near as exhausted as Courier had been on his arrival at Mallafret. The fiddlers stopped, bows scraping dissonantly, the flute piping awkwardly into silence and the accordion ending on a dissonance from lack of air. We all turned and stared.
This horse could not be the answer to my prayers, for dried blood and lather coated the creature. Its saddle was askew and the dark stain smeared on the seat could only be dried blood. No stirrups remained, nor a saber scab-bard nor saddlebags.
Both Tray and Keffine approached the horse carefully, for the animal was in distress, its sides heaving. Tray caught a bun from the nearest plate, which he held out to the animal. It sniffed, extending its neck, snatched the bun, and devoured it. At a gesture from Tray, Andras and Achill immediately filled their hands with bread to bring to Keffine and him. In that sudden silence, we were all aware that the thunder we had attributed to the weather had not been caused by that phenomenon, and fear spread as rapidly as if it had the night of the first bombardment we had suffered.
Because we were at the back of the house, on the greensward, with music enthusiastically played, the noise to the east had been muffled. Hand on my crystal, which was neither hot nor cold but as warm as my skin, I turned to Mother. She had her hand spread over the three at her neck and gave the littlest shake of her head.
“We had best investigate,” Lord Hyland said and glanced hopefully at the horse.
“He’s wounded, Lord Hyland,” Tray said, pointing out the clotted blood down his near side, discoloring the white fetlock.
“The saddle’s wet, Tray,” Keffine said, “and with water. He’s been swimming.” As the horse continued to munch the food offered him, Keffine carefully loosed the girth of the off-center saddle and removed it from the horse’s back. The badly placed saddle had rubbed raw patches.
Achill had the presence of mind to find a basin and fill it with water, which the horse sucked eagerly.
“Milord.” One of the farmers came up to Lord Hyland with a big sturdy mule. “It’s not at all what I’d offered in better times . . .”
“Ooh, not in those britches, milord,” Lady Hyland exclaimed, appalled to see such splendor ruined in a saddle.
“Keffine, see what else there is to ride,” Lord Hyland said and, disregarding his wife’s continued reproaches, mounted the mule.
“I’ll come, too,” Tracell said, and encouraging the horse to follow, beckoned for his brothers to accompany him.
* * * *
Donkeys were gathered from the paddocks in which they had been tethered. Mother and other ladies brought out the muskets, long rifles and such other weapons as might be useful, handing them around to the quickly assembled reconnoitering force. Then Tray trotted out from the stable yard on his pony, feet stuck out in his fine shoes so as not to be dragged on the ground. He had discarded his elegant coat and vest and somehow found a more practical pair of ancient trousers, which he had secured with a stirrup leather about his slim waist. Keffine, down to shirtsleeves and an equally disreputable pair of breeches, bestrode a donkey not much larger than Tray’s venerable pony.
So variously mounted, the men sallied forth. Lord Hyland, on the much larger mule, led the way, equipped with the saber and pistols my mother had supplied.
Those who could not find four legs to use — no one attempted any of the goats — used their own two to follow Lord Hyland, leaving the rest of us in the midst of the party splendor.
I took such comfort as I could from the fact that my lovely crystal remained merely warm. I saw Mother’s fingers alternating between her three and moved to her side. Once the men had gone, we women and children seemed directionless, all joy in our festivities abandoned.
“Well, we certainly cannot allow the roasts to burn,” Mother said, taking charge again. “Mistress Cooper, will you not tend one, and Mistress Chandler, the other. Tirza love, gather up the aprons our chefs discarded. I for one do not care to ruin my finery. Livvy, Catron and Tess can see to the spits with whoever is willing to help turn them. We cannot waste good food, and doubtless the men will be hungry when they return.”
“Shouldn’t we change, Mother?” I asked.
My mother smiled. “No,” she said slowly. “We must allow you as much of your birthday as possible.”
“I’ve had my birthday, Mother,” I said, for the first time contesting her.
That caused everyone to stop and stare at me and, for one moment, I could have sunk in the ground with dismay at my impudence.
“Thunders gone,” Mistress Cooper announced into the silence that lengthened as we all listened as hard as we could.
“It could have been thunder,” Mistress Chandler offered.
“That horse was wounded,” Lady Hyland said sternly, “With saber cuts. And he had swum the river. Clearly he escaped from some sort of a battle.”
“The men will send a messenger as soon as may be to reassure us. And do they all or only some return, there will be edible food to sustain them. So please to turn that ox before it becomes charcoal, Mistress Chandler.” My mother spun one finger to remind the woman of her duty.
That was when three more horses were seen, gazing as if they had seen nary a blade of green grass for weeks. Two had no saddles and only torn remnants of bridles; the third was so badly scored on flank and withers that it was obvious the animal had followed its picket mates out of habit. They offered no resistance at all when we tried to lure them into the stable yard, where Siggie and those lads too young to be allowed to accompany the scouting party were able to attend them.
Mother found some sort of a driving coat, wearing it back to front, to cover her red dress because the most badly injured animal would need to have the terrible gash along his flank stitched or he would die from blood loss. I found a similar garment — one of fathers I think — to protect my ball gown so I could sew up the gashes on the first animal, although Siggie had to use a twitch to keep him still enough for me to set the stitches. There were many willing helpers to wash and spread honey on the nicks and smaller cuts and generally see to the comfort of our four war refugees.
By the time we had finished those, just as Mother and I were about to doff the thick and confining garments, more horses stumbled in. . . . Cirgassians from their small pointed ears and conformation.
“My darling Tirza,” Mother said to me, bemused as we watched a veritable troop of wet and tired animals limping into the yard — for horses will smell the presence of other equines as well as food. “I know how close you are to your twin, but surely you should have realized that I was going to make sure of some sort of a birthday horse for him?”
“Yes, but I wanted to make certain sure, Mother.” My hand went to my crystal and I snatched it away, blowing on my fingers.
Mother, seeing that, reached for hers and, with equal alacrity, let them go.
“What is it, Mother?” I cried fearfully.
“Off with that garment,” and she was stripping hers, spreading her skirts out again from the confinement.
“My hair? Is it mussed?”
“No, but our hands —”
While we had washed before tending the animals, we had not yet removed the traces of our ministrations.
Leaning over the horse trough in the stable yard without touching her dress to its wet sides, Mother scrubbed her hands and arms as quickly as she could, gesturing for me to do so. We also heard shouting that added haste to our ablutions. She did pause long enough to be sure there was nothing under her fingernails, and I did the same. The cheers and shouts were jubilant, coming from the front of the Hall.
Mother p
icked up her skirts and ran, skipping around the droppings which no one had had time to sweep up from the usually spotless cobbles. I followed, also trying to straighten the edges of my overskirt that had been crushed down under the protective clothing I had worn. We also had to wend our way past even more horses that had run away from whatever battle they had ridden into.
We took the side gate out of the former rose garden that had supplied us with vegetables the past two years and down the pebbled side of Mallafret. Mother’s upraised arm stopped my helter-skelter progress, for the wide driveway was full of horses, mules, men and weeping women embracing haggard but happy soldiery. Lord Hyland sat his mule with great dignity and, seeing our arrival, pointed and shouted, “Here they are, milord!”
Out of the press a horse was urged forward, and Mother, uttering a cry of great joy, ran in that direction. I started to follow but halted, taking in what she evidently ignored or, in relief at the sight of his tall figure, did not see: bandages and a tunic that showed tears and holes. My eyes fixed on the left hand, reaching for her, and the bandage that looked far too narrow to be covering four fingers. An even older, dirtier wrapping covered the left side of his head, half hidden under a military cap set at a jaunty angle as if to hide as much of the bandage as possible. But even as she reached him, she touched first his left hand and then his forehead. Then allowed herself to be swung up in his arms and twirled around.
I could see her speaking to him and knew, without any sound, what she must be saying: “I must see what I can do about these.”
Then Father threw back his head, laughing. “Why else do you think I have returned to you?” he said with such a jubilant tone that I knew he had not been as badly injured as he appeared. He whirled her again and, though one cheek was pressed against hers, I could see him wince. Well, he was home and Mother would certainly see what she could do about healing him.
From the fragments of joyful welcome around me, I knew that the war was over, that the thunder we had heard had come from Prince Sundimin’s artillery, sending the Effestrians running for whatever safety they could find. Even their most recent allies, the plains’ Cirgassians whose brave horses had taken refuge at Mallafret Hall, were in full retreat . . . many of them no doubt reduced to walking.
Father had been ordered south along the Shupp to intercept whatever stragglers came ashore to terrorize our people or seek merciful sanctuary from that final rout. (Not many that attempted the river survived.) The Shupp might not have been an insurmountable obstacle for horses bred to cross the swift and dangerous mountain rivers of the Cirgassian homelands, but only the strongest of human swimmers could have breasted those treacherous currents and come ashore. We learned later that many of the Cirgassian horses that managed to stagger up our banks had been swept miles down from their point of entry on the final battleground.
Then Father strode towards me, and I nearly sobbed to see the twinkling in his eyes, the way they crinkled with his happiness, and the proud expression on his dirty tired face: pride of me, his daughter.
“I did mean to be here at your sixteenth, daughter dear, but that is surely tomorrow unless I have somehow lost a day in that fearsome battle we won.”
“We were informed that there would be another muster, my love,” Mother said, one arm about his waist, heedless of the mud, dust and other stains now rubbing against her beautiful gown, so glad was she to be holding him again, “so it seemed a sensible idea to celebrate the day before should Tray be required to answer his prince’s call.”
“So you decided on a costume ball?”
“Indeed, my dear lord,” Mother said, laughingly dismissing the past years of hardship and scarcities, “a costume ball was the very thing. And indeed the only festive apparel most of us had to our backs.” She gestured to the guests, mingling now with restored husbands, fathers and sons, ”And the early hour makes it unnecessary to use tapers, which we don’t have anyway.”
“We could not have had a more glorious welcome home had we sent out invitations, my love. How marvelous it is to see elegant women in beautiful gowns!” Then he leaned forward to touch the crystal at my throat. “As I recall, it is the very one your baby hands reached for.” He kissed my forehead and then each cheek. “So where is my birthday son?” he now demanded, wheeling Mother around to search for Tracell in the throng. “What finery did he assume for this prenatal celebration? I have brought him something which I believed he greatly desired and which, indeed, I had promised to provide.”
He pointed then to where his war-horse stood, single-mindedly cropping grass. That was when we realized his equerry held the reins of two grazing horses and was being pulled first in one direction and then the other. The unsaddled animal was nearly as tall as Father’s and so dark a shade he gleamed bluely in the now fading evening light.
“Tracell is in a very elegant shade of green . . .” Mother began and then pointed down the avenue.
“Great heavens . . .” my father exclaimed, so stunned at the sight that he slapped his right hand to his forehead. For Tray, legs straight out before him, was galloping the pony across the lawn, the nimble little beast weaving his way among the assembled.
Father, roaring with laughter at the approaching vision, doubled up with mirth as Tray dropped his legs to the ground and let the pony run out from under him. “That will never do for the son of the General Lord Eircelly.”
“I was setting sentries along the Shupp, Father, before your sergeant arrived to take over their disposition and informed me of your return,” Tray said, standing just short of father, unsure whether to bow or salute. Father took the initiative and embraced his son — the two were nearly of a height so much had Tracell grown in the last two years. As men will, they were thumping each other on the back until both Mother and I saw that Tracell’s young strength had too much force for a man who was certainly not recovered from his wounds.
Tracell caught Mother’s gesture and stepped back from Father, a trifle embarrassed at how warm a greeting he had given a nation’s hero.
“Bring the Cirgassian over here, Barton,” my father called to his equerry. “My old fellow knows he’s home and will not wander.” So Barton, wrapping the charger’s reins safely around his neck, trotted over with the fine young animal. “One of my spoils, Tray, when we took an entire remount contingent by surprise. I knew he would suit you. Rising three and entire. I doubt his like will be matched anywhere.” Father beamed with pride as Tracell, his eyes gleaming with delight as he circled the proud horse who stood, head high, as if he knew he was being closely inspected. “Prince Sundimin himself approved my choice when he learned the reason for the gift.”
Just then Andras, Achill and two of their peers came charging through the stable gate.
“There’s ever so many more wandering in. Tray, that Siggie doesn’t know where to put them . . . Father!”
The Cirgassian plunged in alarm at their ecstatic race to Father, and the two boys all but climbed him in their efforts to kiss and hug him joyfully. They had, indeed, been so busy succoring the tired and injured strays that they had not realized what had happened at the front of the Hall.
“Well, let us just see what other jetsam has landed in our demesne,” my father said, setting the boys down again and letting himself be pulled towards the stable yard. He looked back to see that Tracell had calmed the excitable young horse and was leading him towards a quieter section of our crowded front lawn.
“My dear Talarrie,” my father exclaimed as he paused to behold the stable yard so full of horses there seemed little space for the grooms attempting to feed and water them, “could it be that you have overworked your crystals?”
“I asked only for one,” she said and pointedly did not glance in my direction, though I, too, had only asked for one. “But since we must replace horses for all our tenants and neighbors, perhaps that accounts for these numbers.”
“You have always been the most generous of —” He broke off, stiffening, his head unerringly turning
towards greensward where the delectable aromas of roasting meats quite overwhelmed the odors which can occur in any stable yard. “Is it at all possible that there might be something left of this early birthday feast?” he asked, his face wistfully hopeful.
She patted his hand and turned him in the right direction where I knew that our festivities would recommence with true joy and celebration.
“I’ll see what we can do!”
* * * *
As it was then, so it is now.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne McCaffrey was born on April 1st, 1926, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, at 1:30 p.m., in the hour of the Sheep, year of the Fire Tiger, sun sign Aries with Taurus rising and Leo mid-heaven (which seems to suggest an early interest in the stars).
Her first story was published by Sam Moskowitz in Science Fiction + Magazine and her first novel was published by Ballantine Books in 1967. That novel, Restoree, was written as a protest against the absurd and unrealistic portrayals of women in science fiction novels in the ’50s and early ’60s. It is, however, in the handling of broader themes and the worlds of her imagination, particularly the two series The Ship Who Sang and the fourteen novels about the Dragonriders of Pern that Ms. McCaffrey’s talents as a storyteller are best displayed.
Although she used to make appearances throughout the world as guest of honor at science fiction conventions, arthritis has now restricted such travel. She lives in a house of her own design, Dragonhold-Underhill (because she had to dig out a hill on her farm to build it) in Wicklow County, Ireland. It is not remotely like a castle, “on purpose,” she says to people who believe ‘hold’ is synonymous with ‘castle’ in Ireland.
If Wishes Were Horses Page 5