The end of summer already. How is it that Time seems to increase its pace with each passing year? Scarcely do I feel the gentle breath of Spring and then suddenly the fields are about to turn golden and cry out for their harvest. A sweet, fickle lover is Summer. Rushing in with smiles and open arms and intoxicating joys that enrapture the mind and the senses so that they forget that Time is still passing, passing, ever passing. Then he grows weary all at once and flees away to some far, southern clime, and we are left as bereft and breathless as a maiden after a dizzying tryst with some come-and-go boor. He was so mellow and so beautiful that you forgot entirely that he would not stay. You knew your heart would be broken in the end, but you threw yourself headlong into his embrace anyway, just so you would have the achingly lovely memories of those fleeting days together.
Do not get lost inside your head today, Brynleigh. Or you will write twenty pages of futile blathering and be none the better for it. Why did you sit down with your diary?
The young stallion that I discovered by the stream seems to have decided to adopt Bancross as home. At least in some part, and perhaps temporarily. The remnants of a halter are faint on his face, but clear to see. How old they might be? Months, perhaps. There are old marks of injury or battle on his body, though I do not see anything immediate or fresh, thank Béma. He is sturdily built, though he was a bit thin when I first noticed him. Not starving, but a horse unused to feeding himself with a wild herd.
He followed me willingly back to Bancross, keeping a distance behind me. I did not walk through the village directly, assuming that the unfamiliar people, animals, and perhaps the closed-in feeling of the streets might put him off. I walked round the wall to a quieter gate that lets in near the stables, where I could bring him to the wide-open yard without drawing him past anything that might be frightening. I did not attempt to tie him up, as he has an air of anxious confusion about him, and I sense that he is indeed, very much lost, and very much desiring to find his master. Such an air can lead a horse to bolt, to attempt to snap a tether or leap a fence, and I would not wish to injure his body nor his mind in that way. The gate is left open from dawn until twilight, and he was free to go if he wished.
He stayed in the field behind the stable, where he was not penned in, but he seemed affably curious about the other horses. I set a bucket of fresh water each morning by the fence, along with a goodly amount of hay. It did not take but a day or two for him to come close while I stood there, and I was able to lay a hand on his neck for the first time while he ate. There was much tension in his body, but he did not startle away from the touch.
Since then, he has become much more friendly, and will come at a trot when I appear outside. His posture grows more relaxed each day, though he often lifts his head and gazes past the village wall as if seeing or hearing something that only exists in his own world. I have seen him depart entirely at night, disappearing from the field and then returning before dawn. I cannot help but wonder if he seeks his master in the rolling hills under the moonlight, and then gives up the quest out of weariness and hunger each morning. My heart hurts to think of this.
I have asked about Bancross, and he is not recognized by any of the townspeople. I spoke also to Elfswith at my last visit to Snowbourn, and she said she knew of no one in the city who had lost a young stallion. The next reasonable step would be to take him to Edoras, if he will go willingly, and inquire there. Perhaps I will first go by myself, and offer a thorough description of him to the stablemasters there, to see if anyone has reported such a horse as missing. More importantly, to see if anyone knows who owned him, and what might have become of them. It would not be the first, nor the last, riderless horse to find its way home, silently bearing grim tidings of a fallen warrior.
However, an important note is that I did not see any marks of saddle or bridle use on him. Only the halter lines on his head. Of course, over time, such marks can fade, and perhaps he was taken out of ridership owing to some of those scars, and whatever caused them? Maybe he was kept haltered in a pen or stable and became restless to return to an old duty, and broke free? Ah, but these are not helpful assumptions. I must not guess at more than I know.
Jack has been unbearably nosy about the new arrival. He has tried to approach the young stallion several times, and not been received warmly. There has been no aggression, but the unknown horse will not allow Jack within close proximity, circling away and keeping a close eye on my darling horse, who seems to assume that everything and everyone is his friend. No doubt this poor wanderer misses the herd he had kept company with in the wild when I found him. I’ve told Jack in no uncertain terms that friends must be made, they are not delivered like a parcel from the postman.
Today marks a turning point in the tale of this poor creature, and an increase to the mystery of his past. Having been permitted to stroke his neck and side over the last few days, I brought out my curry comb to the field this morning, with the thought that I might tackle the burs and tangles that are all through his mane and tail. His hooves are also in need of attention, but that will require far more trust and intimacy of touch, and it will have to wait. I talked to him quietly, as I always do, and ran the teeth of the comb lightly over his neck while he ate his breakfast hay. His skin quivered, but he did not seem to mind it.
I began to work on the lowest portion of his mane, away from his head, with small, gentle touches. Just the tiniest little tugs at the knots and tangles. I was not in a hurry, and he seemed to enjoy the caution and respect with which I approached the task. I felt an immense satisfaction and joy at seeing each portion of his chestnut mane as it came loose and lay smoothly against his neck. I could only imagine what a handsome steed he must have been to whoever owned him in the past. I reassured him that I would never hurt him, that he was safe now, and his ears flopped about in that endearing way of a horse most relaxed.
Now we come to the mystery. I had not worked long on the mane when my fingers collided with something hard and foreign. No hair knot, no tangled bur or twig. It took several minutes of separating and parting the hairs very carefully for me to uncover a tiny portion of the object. It appeared to glint faintly, but I could not decipher it further, as it had been tangled or tied into the creature’s mane some untold time prior, and had been growing further and further beneath a mat that was impossible to undo. I worked at the mat for half an hour, and could feel the horse growing impatient with my touch focused on one spot for so long, no doubt tugging in a manner that became irritating over time. In the end, I was forced to return to the stable for a pair of scissors, and entirely cut the matting free in a large chunk.
And now, here I sit, with it beside me on my table, still in its hairy cocoon. I will tackle the task of ripping the hairs apart while trying not to destroy whatever it is that lies within. Will it be some kind of revelation that will enlighten me to this poor animal’s story? It pains me to have cut away so much of his handsome mane, but of course, it will grow and he will be none the wiser for it. And if this object tells me where I might find his master, for better or ill, then it will be worth doing.
