Read Online A Kingdom in a Horse by Maia Wojciechowska - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maia Wojciechowska
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mad she is at me.”
“I wish you would. With both of us making the same request, maybe she’ll give in.” He patted Gypsy’s neck. “I’m terribly happy for you. You got yourself a wonderful animal.”
“If you wish, Father, come and ride her. Any time at all. Every day if you can.”
“Thank you but I’m afraid I won’t be able to right now. There is the north wall of the church which has to be rebuilt if we intend to have it there for next winter. You know, I had a horse once, when I was only ten. At that age I hoped I wouldn’t grow another inch. I wanted very badly to be a jockey. But at eleven I shot up a couple of inches, and by the time I was fourteen I was already almost six feet tall. And instead of being a small jockey, God willed me to be a tall priest. But Gypsy is fast! She is incredibly fast. I do believe she’s been raced! She’s got a lot of quarter horse in her, and if she came from out West, I imagine she raced with the quarter horses.”
“How do the quarter horses race?” Sarah wanted to know. She really meant to ask what the difference was between a quarter horse and a thoroughbred, but she thought she would look it up in her encyclopedia.
“They race for only a quarter of a mile. That’s where their name comes from. They’re good and fast, but don’t have the stamina or the long legs the thoroughbreds have, and that’s why they can’t take longer stretches.”
Later that afternoon Sarah sat in her rocking chair reading the
Encyclopedia
while Gypsy ate her lettuce trimmings. Although Sarah had not ridden her horse that day, the third day, she felt tired and closed her eyes. As it was now her habit to do, she fell asleep and awoke past Gypsy’s and her dinnertime.
The moon was not full but it was light enough. Especially for Gypsy’s watch eye it was light enough. David pedaled hard the eight miles that separated him from Gypsy’s stable. The house was dark. The woman would be asleep. It was well after midnight. Gypsy greeted him with a low sound of anticipation. He found the oats and gave her a handful.
“If I hadn’t been so stubborn,” he whispered to her as she licked his hand clean, “you’d be my horse and not hers.”
He led Gypsy out of the box stall after putting on the bridle. He would not use the saddle. Saddles were for a working cowboy; they were useful for roping and for when one had to ride for hours. He led Gypsy, holding her, not riding her, on the grass beside the driveway. Halfway, when they were far enough away for the woman not to hear the hoof-beats, he jumped on her and held her to a walk until they reached the road. It would be safer to ride her there, along the grassy patch, where he knew there were no holes and no stones. It was a long time since he had ridden. Now the wind was chasing them and they were chasing the wind into the night. And it seemed more like flying—like being a bird—than ever before, with Gypsy beneath him, her strides even, her eagerness to run as great as his own.
He didn’t know when he began to cry or why. Maybe because he loved that horse and knew his father had really tried to make things up to him. But tears were blinding him. He wetted Gypsy’s neck with them as he walked her after their ride, his face buried in her short mane.
“It can’t be you now,” he whispered to her, “but I’ll have me a horse like you one day.”
He made sure that she was dry and cool before putting her back into the stall. He gave her some more hay and cleaned her bed for her and kissed her good night. On the way back he sang. For the first time since they’d moved to Vermont he was happy enough to sing.
Chapter Eight
The nearness of the horse ceased to frighten Sarah within a week, but more than three weeks passed before she got over her fear of riding. The day she saddled and rode Gypsy without the familiar tightening sensation in the pit of her stomach was the day she went to Burlington and bought a hackamore.
She had
“I wish you would. With both of us making the same request, maybe she’ll give in.” He patted Gypsy’s neck. “I’m terribly happy for you. You got yourself a wonderful animal.”
“If you wish, Father, come and ride her. Any time at all. Every day if you can.”
“Thank you but I’m afraid I won’t be able to right now. There is the north wall of the church which has to be rebuilt if we intend to have it there for next winter. You know, I had a horse once, when I was only ten. At that age I hoped I wouldn’t grow another inch. I wanted very badly to be a jockey. But at eleven I shot up a couple of inches, and by the time I was fourteen I was already almost six feet tall. And instead of being a small jockey, God willed me to be a tall priest. But Gypsy is fast! She is incredibly fast. I do believe she’s been raced! She’s got a lot of quarter horse in her, and if she came from out West, I imagine she raced with the quarter horses.”
“How do the quarter horses race?” Sarah wanted to know. She really meant to ask what the difference was between a quarter horse and a thoroughbred, but she thought she would look it up in her encyclopedia.
“They race for only a quarter of a mile. That’s where their name comes from. They’re good and fast, but don’t have the stamina or the long legs the thoroughbreds have, and that’s why they can’t take longer stretches.”
Later that afternoon Sarah sat in her rocking chair reading the
Encyclopedia
while Gypsy ate her lettuce trimmings. Although Sarah had not ridden her horse that day, the third day, she felt tired and closed her eyes. As it was now her habit to do, she fell asleep and awoke past Gypsy’s and her dinnertime.
The moon was not full but it was light enough. Especially for Gypsy’s watch eye it was light enough. David pedaled hard the eight miles that separated him from Gypsy’s stable. The house was dark. The woman would be asleep. It was well after midnight. Gypsy greeted him with a low sound of anticipation. He found the oats and gave her a handful.
“If I hadn’t been so stubborn,” he whispered to her as she licked his hand clean, “you’d be my horse and not hers.”
He led Gypsy out of the box stall after putting on the bridle. He would not use the saddle. Saddles were for a working cowboy; they were useful for roping and for when one had to ride for hours. He led Gypsy, holding her, not riding her, on the grass beside the driveway. Halfway, when they were far enough away for the woman not to hear the hoof-beats, he jumped on her and held her to a walk until they reached the road. It would be safer to ride her there, along the grassy patch, where he knew there were no holes and no stones. It was a long time since he had ridden. Now the wind was chasing them and they were chasing the wind into the night. And it seemed more like flying—like being a bird—than ever before, with Gypsy beneath him, her strides even, her eagerness to run as great as his own.
He didn’t know when he began to cry or why. Maybe because he loved that horse and knew his father had really tried to make things up to him. But tears were blinding him. He wetted Gypsy’s neck with them as he walked her after their ride, his face buried in her short mane.
“It can’t be you now,” he whispered to her, “but I’ll have me a horse like you one day.”
He made sure that she was dry and cool before putting her back into the stall. He gave her some more hay and cleaned her bed for her and kissed her good night. On the way back he sang. For the first time since they’d moved to Vermont he was happy enough to sing.
Chapter Eight
The nearness of the horse ceased to frighten Sarah within a week, but more than three weeks passed before she got over her fear of riding. The day she saddled and rode Gypsy without the familiar tightening sensation in the pit of her stomach was the day she went to Burlington and bought a hackamore.
She had
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