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Authors: Lois Greiman
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reappeared. Murmuring a few sparse words to her driver, she returned to her vehicle and rumbled into the night.
That was it. Nothing more. They returned without incidence to Arborhill. O’Banyon stood for a time in the woods again, watching, listening, but there was naught else to see, naught but the moon shining on the dark metal rail of the fence and the world growing slowly older.
It was early afternoon when O’Banyon entered the livery some blocks from his townhouse. A lad was pitching hay from a nearby wagon onto the dirt floor. Another was cleaning harness. They glanced toward him in tandem.
“Can I help ye, good sir?” asked an old man as he hobbled from a stall. Hanging a leather bridle on a peg near the door, he tilted his head for an answer.
“Aye,” O’Banyon said. The stable was filled with the sweet smells of fodder and horse and a dozen other scents as old as time. “I’ll be needing me steed readied.”
“Certainly, sir, and which horse might that be?” “The good-sized sorrel with the flaxen mane.” “Certainly, sir. Bailey…” called the old man and turned toward the wagon, but the boy who had been there was gone. The gaffer scowled, his wrinkled face perplexed. “Southren,” he began, but when they turned in the opposite direction, they saw that the harness lay alone and the lad was just disappearing through the doorway, bare feet flying. “Boy!” the old man snapped. “Come hither.”
The lad reappeared more slowly, slinking sulkily toward them.
“Fetch the gentleman’s steed, lad, and be quick about it.”
The boy shuffled his feet. They were near as filthy as the floor upon which he stood. “I’m unsure which animal that might be, sir.”
The old man’s scowl deepened, etching grooves like valleys in his withered brow. “We’ve only one sorrel hereabouts this day.”
“Ahh…” The boy looked pained. “Sorrel, you say. Well…” He glanced in the direction his companion must have taken. “Master Edwards wanted his gelding brought ‘round soon. ‘Praps I should—”
“What the devil’s wrong with you, boy? Fetch—”
O’Banyon cleared his throat. “Southren, is it?” The boy flitted his gaze to him and away. His hair was as red as a sunrise. Freckles stood out in bold relief against his pale skin.
“Aye, my lord.”
O’Banyon nodded. “Tell me, lad, did she tear the flesh?”
The old man looked bemused.
The boy glanced toward his employer and back. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. But she near took my head off.”
“Bite ye, did she?”
“Kicked. Both hinds. She’s God awful fast for such a whale of a beast.”
“Aye.” O’Banyon sighed. “She is that. Fetch me a shank will ye, lad, I’ll see to her meself.”
The boy nodded gratefully and disappeared into a nearby room. He was back in an instant, bearing the leather strap like another might carry a serpent.
O’Banyon took it from him, then marched down the aisle toward the last stall. The Dutch doors were closed. He opened the top one and peered inside.
Luci stood with her tail toward the door. Bending her heavy-crested neck, she gazed at her would-be master through a forelock that reached the curling summit of her nostrils. O’Banyon had at first thought the long, golden foretop made her comely and coy. And perhaps at times it still did, but mostly she appeared malevolent and maybe demonic. Following their second fateful ride together, while waiting for his wounds to heal, he had named her Lucifer. But her shifting moods had assured him of her sex. Luci she remained.
“I hear ye be causing trouble again, lass,” he rumbled, testing the waters. ‘Twas best not to take too much for granted until he’d determined her current mood.
The animal switched her tail with slow disinterest and cocked a gigantic hip. Her hide glistened red-gold and healthy from the light through unshuttered window.
Down the aisle, the second lad had reappeared on timid feet. The three hostlers were
That was it. Nothing more. They returned without incidence to Arborhill. O’Banyon stood for a time in the woods again, watching, listening, but there was naught else to see, naught but the moon shining on the dark metal rail of the fence and the world growing slowly older.
It was early afternoon when O’Banyon entered the livery some blocks from his townhouse. A lad was pitching hay from a nearby wagon onto the dirt floor. Another was cleaning harness. They glanced toward him in tandem.
“Can I help ye, good sir?” asked an old man as he hobbled from a stall. Hanging a leather bridle on a peg near the door, he tilted his head for an answer.
“Aye,” O’Banyon said. The stable was filled with the sweet smells of fodder and horse and a dozen other scents as old as time. “I’ll be needing me steed readied.”
“Certainly, sir, and which horse might that be?” “The good-sized sorrel with the flaxen mane.” “Certainly, sir. Bailey…” called the old man and turned toward the wagon, but the boy who had been there was gone. The gaffer scowled, his wrinkled face perplexed. “Southren,” he began, but when they turned in the opposite direction, they saw that the harness lay alone and the lad was just disappearing through the doorway, bare feet flying. “Boy!” the old man snapped. “Come hither.”
The lad reappeared more slowly, slinking sulkily toward them.
“Fetch the gentleman’s steed, lad, and be quick about it.”
The boy shuffled his feet. They were near as filthy as the floor upon which he stood. “I’m unsure which animal that might be, sir.”
The old man’s scowl deepened, etching grooves like valleys in his withered brow. “We’ve only one sorrel hereabouts this day.”
“Ahh…” The boy looked pained. “Sorrel, you say. Well…” He glanced in the direction his companion must have taken. “Master Edwards wanted his gelding brought ‘round soon. ‘Praps I should—”
“What the devil’s wrong with you, boy? Fetch—”
O’Banyon cleared his throat. “Southren, is it?” The boy flitted his gaze to him and away. His hair was as red as a sunrise. Freckles stood out in bold relief against his pale skin.
“Aye, my lord.”
O’Banyon nodded. “Tell me, lad, did she tear the flesh?”
The old man looked bemused.
The boy glanced toward his employer and back. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. But she near took my head off.”
“Bite ye, did she?”
“Kicked. Both hinds. She’s God awful fast for such a whale of a beast.”
“Aye.” O’Banyon sighed. “She is that. Fetch me a shank will ye, lad, I’ll see to her meself.”
The boy nodded gratefully and disappeared into a nearby room. He was back in an instant, bearing the leather strap like another might carry a serpent.
O’Banyon took it from him, then marched down the aisle toward the last stall. The Dutch doors were closed. He opened the top one and peered inside.
Luci stood with her tail toward the door. Bending her heavy-crested neck, she gazed at her would-be master through a forelock that reached the curling summit of her nostrils. O’Banyon had at first thought the long, golden foretop made her comely and coy. And perhaps at times it still did, but mostly she appeared malevolent and maybe demonic. Following their second fateful ride together, while waiting for his wounds to heal, he had named her Lucifer. But her shifting moods had assured him of her sex. Luci she remained.
“I hear ye be causing trouble again, lass,” he rumbled, testing the waters. ‘Twas best not to take too much for granted until he’d determined her current mood.
The animal switched her tail with slow disinterest and cocked a gigantic hip. Her hide glistened red-gold and healthy from the light through unshuttered window.
Down the aisle, the second lad had reappeared on timid feet. The three hostlers were
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