An unending drizzle, which darkened the blue sky into melancholy swathes of gray, fell in incessant, light sweeps on the pasture, spurring a faint mist that thickened into a dreary fog to hide unsightly puddles and trails of muck from view. A west wind, tangled in distance tree branches, tossed up waves of autumn-changed leaves, some pale, others red, some bronzed and yellow. These leaves climbed slowly in the sky, to be whipped about in rough, rakish play by the wind and rain, later to be captured by mighty paws of fate, and perhaps locked in the clutches of distant neighborhood gutters.
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“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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Hm, well, I threw out the first duck egg this morning. After candling it a couple times, I've decided, something is really weird about that egg. Nothing inside it looked normal, so I tossed it. I'll admit, I'm a little disappointed that it turned out to be such a dud, but that happens. :) Perhaps the second one will be good.
I think the mallard egg might have been bad because of the hen's young age; though I'm sure it was not her first egg, it was probably one of few. I think that in a month, if we still catch a couple duck eggs laying around here and there, that it may be a better time to try and hatch some then!
The first three chicken eggs I added to the bator---the two white game-mixes, and the brown egg---are due to hatch in six days, which means they'll be going into lock-down on the 27th, and I'll have to take the automatic hand-turner out of the incubator, and every carefully hand-turn all the newer eggs added.
The eggs that are due to hatch soon look excellent; I candled one of the white ones last night, and you can very clearly see it moving, and that everything is in order! Hopefully the hatch will go well. I may be gone during those few days, because that is when my Cousin Sierra's sleepover is. If my Mom doesn't want to hand-turn the eggs, then I will have to stay. However, I should be able to go, because she's very nice and I don't think she minds too awful much. ;)
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I cleaned out the coops today; Dad was very nice, and went and bought some straw for me to use, because we have not been able to get anymore hay from our field lately. Actually, let me be more clear there, we have had the opportunity to get hay from our field, but the man whole bales it has done only round bales recently, which are no good to use because of their massive size. More of it would be wasted than used.
So anyway, it's my first time using straw (that I can remember), and the goats aren't too keen on it. Little buggers keep trying to eat it, bless them, but it's just not edible, and they can't change that and it irritates them, but the chickens seem to like it.
The chicken are getting healthier all the time; formerly I had been adding vitamins and electrolytes to their water, but have now run out of it, and am just giving them clean water now. They still seem to be getting better, so hopefully the enteritis will stay gone, and our birds will keep on the up-climb.
But you know, when it's not one thing it's the other, and it has recently come to my attention that we have egg-eaters. I hate it when chickens develop that bad habit, because it can be hard to break. It started a few days ago, when we were gone to the Lake for the day, (and therefore unable to collect the few eggs we may, or may not, had been getting,) and apparently it has really set in, because now everyday I go out there I find the sad remnants of a egg shell cracked in a various nest-box, sticky with yolk. I've been going out to check for eggs more and more often, but it's not a precise art, and so far haven't been able to either gather the egg, or catch the egg-eater, because the crime has been committed. I'm not sure which bird(s) is(are) eating getting the eggs, either, so will just have to keep checking!
The first of the incubated eggs (from our lot) are due to hatch on the 30th of this month, and are looking good so far. Everything checks out, and I hope the rest of their incubation goes smoothly.
The duck eggs, and the Marans eggs, aren't due until well into next month. I candled the first duck egg this morning, and something is forming in it, though I'm not so sure whatever it is is supposed to be shaped that way. I'm going to keep an eye on it, and candle it again within the next two days and check on things.
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Once, I saw a doe.
She was grazing in a distant field, some ways from my perch in a grove of dark, spiky pine trees; I had earlier climbed to the highest branch of the largest tree, and settled down in the deep fork between two sturdy branches. When I saw the doe approach, hesitant as their kind always are, from a trickling stream, I waited for her fawn to appear. Ere none came, and I knew she was alone.
She picked her way silently through the wildflowers, thistles, and tangled burrs of the overgrown grass field. She pushed her delicate, shaped muzzle down into the weeds, and dug ardently for the tastiest roots, and my presence was unobserved.
Unwilling to disturb her by climbing down from my roost, I watched her lazily as the sun reached its prime in the pale autumn sky. It had been an uneventful day, and I was in no hurry. As I watched the doe I admired her sleek coat; with smooth grace, it glistened under the sun's rays, flexing lean muscle and clean auburn fur with sensitive movement. Her long legs seemed sculpted of gold, and her eyes were of the purest, darkest liquid. Her white tail flagged once and a while as she dispelled flies from her unmarred hide, and sometimes she canted her ears back and forth to detect some faraway sound that I couldn't hear.
The peace was tranquil and it felt as if it could go on forever, but suddenly it was disturbed as a stray songbird erupted from the pasture with an urgent cry of alarm that ripped through the clear air in a piercing warble. The doe started (I'll be honest, it surprised me too), and fled back to the small brook, her diminutive hooves kicking up scraps of sod as she ran, lithe and beautiful even in her instinctive terror.
She ran for a good ways, then calmed and slowed to graze again. But I thought about how smooth, perfected, and nimble her gait had been. How fleet, how springy, how balletic, even. A natural racer. I admired her for that, as I have admired all her kind. I wondered about how nearly perfect they are, but cannot be in our eyes because their sensitivity, and wariness of humans keep them away. Perhaps rightly so.
I'm not sure what had startled the bird, but it was a tiny thing, with dark wings and a red breast. A blackbird. It landed among some nearby rushes before taking flight again, spiraling deep into the sky with the ease of one born from the air. It seemed unable to fight the wind, but instead tamed it, letting the thermos under its wings to bring it higher, or lower, at one simple tilt of its feathers. I liked these birds, too, and thought: what must it be like to fly? To be so free, so high, so exhilarated? I rather thought I'd like to know one day.
On my way home, I was joined by my dog. They are loyal companions, and I love mine. No other creature can be like them; they are compadres of the keenest sense. They are followers, and adherent friends to mankind. Dogs are wonderful animals of great intelligence and personality. A four-legged persona of yourself. They do say, after all, that many people look like their dogs.
By that evening, I was feeling much like a sapient as I turned over the comparisons I'd made while observing the doe, the bird, and my dog. They are so different, but all so special. One is wild, and agile, but fearful and distant. One is winged, free, and independent. Then there is the dog, who is a grand companion and loyal friend. I began to ponder this. What would be like, to have a friend that is all of these things? Wild, but intelligent and capable of being your closest companion? A free creature of adroitness and beauty, that is winged as an angel, and graceful as a fiery spirit? And it occurred to me, in a moment of quiet, that this must be why we have the horse.
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Two of the game-hens Fred gave me look like this. It was raining, so I didn't want to stay out too long trying to get a good picture in case I messed up the camera lens, but took a few quick snapshots anyway.
They're Aseel (Asil) hens, and have an interesting white and cream color this is somewhat "peachy".
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Christmas came early, and in the form of five little hens, and seven hatchling chicks!
Fred the Pigeon Man brought them by for me today in exchange for some bee frames that my Mom wasn't planning on making use of.
Fred is a very nice person, and has been kind enough to give us not only pigeons, but also guineas, and game chickens. He's also an avid bee-keeper like my Mom.
The chickens are lovely, though they are wild things! And rather hard to take decent pictures of, I might add. I did snap a few quick ones of the Momma and her babies, which are hulsey-crossed, and little angels.
Their mother is a stout game-hen of unknown heritage, though she looks a bit like an Aseel. Perhaps a little of that, or maybe some Cornish in her lines?
The babies look like little pumpkin hulseys, and are still so tiny! You can see that they haven't even gotten their feathers in yet. I was very close to taking one for myself, then reasoned that that would be mean to the Momma, especially since I'll have chickens (and maybe ducks) hatching soon anyway. :)
The four other hens have been released into the chicken lot, and already two have taken off and hid. I'm sure they'll how up later.
More pictures coming!
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Oops!
I accidentally added another duck egg to the incubator.
Slight of hand.
Don't know what came over me.
The devil made me do it.
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