“Small, scraggly plants, are rosebushes. Their buds unfurl at dawn in glossy blooms of varying color, long as the season is permitting. You'll find that rose flowers are a common sight in summer, when the weather is hot, but they are a rarity in late November, which is humanity's word for autumn, which we discussed in the last lesson with sir Eros, when he talked of the great change trees go through at this time.
“What else do we know about roses? They are hardy, and most grow thick, red-tipped thorns along their stalks and stems, hidden by lush, serrated green leaves. We also know that their roots are tough, and capable of setting in rocky soil, assuming as it rains from time to time. Can anybody tell me what the most common color of rose flowers in our territory is?”
The stallion shifted one hoof as he proposed his question, dispelling small, dried clay pebbles across the cracked canyon side. A light, stifling breeze lisped between his ears, stirring a crumbled patch of reeds that settled along the loud, cascading river that weaved between plumb sections of brush before dumping over the ledge in an awe-striking white waterfall. Shadowing the stallion and his young pupils was a overhanging, colossal chunk of mountainside, guarding twisting vines and ghostly morning glory petals from the harsh sun which seemed to flood the whole earth from their exalted height. The canyon was a massive creation---a deep carving in the earth. It echoed with the roaring thunder of the waterfall, and the far-away, resonant screeches of wheeling curlews, and cackling ravens. It traveled far into the distance in both directions, leaving no end in sight; and it was so deep that the waterfall trickled in a thin pale ribbon until shadows swallowed it whole.
“Anybody?” the stallion prompted his students politely, creamy, thick-lashed eyes turning reflectively to each young horse. There was a quintet of adherent apprentices assembled.
A yearling colt with a coat of ivory eventually answered. His untrimmed, husky mountain warble fought and contended with the deluging waterfall to be heard as he said, “purple, sir.”
“That's right!” the equine teacher responded with stamina, “and the second most overt?”
“Red, sir.”
“Well done, Ghusis, your observations are most accurate. You've gone out scouting with the nomad party before, yes?”
The pale-furred colt bowed his head, “a few times, sir.”
“I can see no harm in it; do not be ashamed. Clearly your abscond has proved to be no violation on your studies. Perhaps you will take a friend with you next time, because two pairs of eyes are always better than one during research.”
“Thank you, sir.”
With grace the stallion nodded and continued pleasantly, “roses are very beautiful in their time of year, but can become bristling, incensing carnations during the wintertime as we rummage for graze. Watch out for their thorns, for a nasty prick in the nose could do well to ruin your day; and much worse, tear up your tongue if you should decide unwisely to taste the plant. What should do first if your tongue is cut by a thorn?”
“Remove the thorn if it is lodged in your tongue, sir,” a diminutive filly with a messy forelock of black hair piped up in a courteous manner, “and then find something to sooth the sting; maybe aloe, or honey?”
“What about in the wintertime, dear miss Iota?” the stallion blinked, a deep expression of absorbing attentiveness spread across his face, as if he wished for no greater pleasure than to hear the little female horse reply.
“Snow?” she said, with some refrain, but her teacher nodded slowly in agreement and neighed, “if it was really very bad, snow would do well to dull some of the pain and slow the bleeding by freezing the veins. It would also help clean the area.
“Snow and cold will, however, greatly imperil your tongue if it is exposed too long. You remember our lesson on frostbite? Yes? Good. Be very careful, and make sure to report any cut on your tongue---rain, snow, or sunshine---to an elder, so it can be quickly attended to if the wound becomes infected.”
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This was one of many lessons taught by Professor Vânător of the Fortuna Herd, which resides in the deep, untamed mountains of the east. A young scholar, Vânător looks over many pupils, and has enjoyed the art of teaching---and learning---all his life. As a mere colt, the chestnut stallion took kind attention to his baby brother Balaur, and taught him important things. Such as to always eat last, always listen before talking, and when you do talk---please talk low, talk slow, and don't talk too awful lot. These brotherly lessons continue even now, as the two stallions are recognized as leaders in a sort, and take charge of some students. Vânător, as the elder of the two siblings, bears more responsibility, which he handles amiably well, even as he spends a great lot of time with his best friend Ploaie, and out in the mountains doing research and making observations. For whoever said a horse (a fictional one, or not) is dumb, is dumb; for he is deeply embedded in the ocean of knowledge, and takes great care to ride any wave of information, fact or fictitious, that runs against his shore.
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