People of the Horse (book)

People of the Horse

by Stevan Ronsarde

My father was a wanderer. We never doubted his love for us, my mother and brothers and sister and I. When he was home, he was so utterly present -- dancing my mother around our cottage, baking his wonderful cinnamon bread, playing so joyously with us that he seemed almost a child himself. But we always knew he'd leave again. He just had to do it, it seemed. "The man must have some gypsy in his blood. I always wondered about that mother of his", my aunt used to mutter as she'd watch him preparing for yet another journey.

After weeks or months with us, immersed in the sweet routines of life at home, the day would come when he'd get what my mother called "the look." His eyes would go a little dreamy, and we'd hear him pacing restlessly through the cottage or wandering in the orchards at the crack of dawn. And we all knew he'd be gone soon, wandering some unfamiliar place, filling that need he had for...well, I'm not sure for what. So off he'd go. But he always came back to us, and he always brought gifts for us when he returned. He brought me some wondrous things -- a bamboo cage containing a live finch with feathers of such a bright green that it looked like a leaf in springtime, the carved incisor of some huge carnivore, a set of tiny sculpted ivory soldiers wearing the ice-blue and black uniforms of Queen Morganae's infamous guardsmen.

But the gift I most loved was a wooden horse. Small enough to balance on the palm of my hand, she was perfect in every detail. She was pure white, with some ineffable other hue -- not pale blue, but something like the thought of blue glimmering just under the white. She was the white of moonlight on water; the white of midwinter snowfall. She was the white of seafoam cresting the waves over the deepest part of the ocean; the white of the blazing-star flowers that bloom at twilight. She was fine-boned to the point of being almost fragile in appearance, though nothing about her seemed frail, if that makes any sense. She looked as though she could skip through the clouds themselves and never leave a trace of her passage in the sky. She had great black eyes, and her narrow hooves were black, too, and glossy. Her flowing mane and tail were of real horsehair, my father said. But it wasn't like any horsehair I'd ever seen. It was more like gossamer, or silk. Around her neck was a carefully painted garland of red-gold blossoms. Firewheel flowers, my father said they were called.

When he handed the little statue to me, smiling that smile of his that made me feel all wrapped up in his love, I gaped speechlessly at it, swept with feelings I had no words for -- though 'enchantment' might be near right. "Where did you...? What is...? She's beautiful!", I babbled.

"She comes from a nomadic clan of Elves, son -- Wind Elves. They call her the 'Sulde Taala.' I don't know exactly what that name means, but it's lovely, aye?" I nodded dumbly, wanting to know so much more but not knowing what to ask.

My father hugged me. "You and your brothers and sister go pick some of those good blackberries for our dessert tonight, and after supper I'll tell you about the Sulde Taala and the people of Horse Clan."

After bowls of my mother's thick venison stew, herb bread and butter, and the berries we'd picked earlier -- cloaked with sweet cream -- we gathered around my father. Gently stroking my mother's hair as she leaned against him, and cradling my drowsy little sister against his chest, he nodded toward the statue in my hand.

"The Sulde Taala. When they say the name, their voices go quiet. Sometimes they call her the horse of the huntress, other times the sun-horse, though they'd never explain what either name meant. But I get ahead of myself. I speak of the Wind Elves of Horse Clan (Zaldi Taipa in the Elven tongue). They make up the home clan of all Wind Elves, if indeed 'home' is even the right word for these wanderers."

"They are nomads -- herders who move with the seasons as they graze their flocks. They seem to be almost arrogant at first, though once you get to know them you begin to realize that what you're seeing isn't arrogance so much as a very different way of looking at the world. Having lived all their lives in the open air, they view those who live in villages and cities as weak, indecisive, and incomprehensible. To them, cities are unbearably crowded, and nothing but a blight on good pasture land. One of their worst insults is to call someone a 'Stonefoot': a derogatory term used to describe those who rely on building permanent structures to house themselves."

"Natural aristocrats, they are, who acknowledge no master and answer to no leader but one of their own. They call their chieftain the "Indar Taipen" -- Elven for "Strength of the Clan." His lady is a warrior and leader in her own right; they call her the "Carwu Taipen" or "Heart of the Clan." I've heard rumors that both Morganae and the Ferdahl struck bargains with them, telling them that they could roam wherever they pleased so long as they patrolled the western borders of Ilithi. I don't know if that's true or not. I just know they are fearsome warriors, and I got chills up my spine the first time I saw a group of their horse-archers thunder across the plains."

"They keep flocks of sheep and goats, shearing the sheep and making heavy felt from the wool -- felt for clothing and for their tents. Their goats have long, thick coats, and they comb out the undercoat to make fine cashmere. I've never seen cashmere like that before. It's light as a butterfly wing, but warm, and so soft. It's fit for a queen -- or for your mother", he said, smiling tenderly down at her.

"They're good to all of their beasts. It's hard to explain, but it's as though they believe there is some precious essence in each creature, no matter how humble. I noticed that even when they slaughtered a beast for food, they did it all thoughtful and respectful-like.

"But the herds they prize above all are their horses. They treat those horses like members of their own families. When foals are born, they're named in a special ceremony very similar to the ceremony the clansfolk use for their own children. And every few years, they have a festival -- the 'Blessing of the Foals.' The horses are smart and fast; they seem to know from birth how to jump obstacles. And they're fearless in the hunt or in battle.

"The warriors themselves wear only the lightest leather armor. The horses wear no armor at all, because the warriors believe that their horses are purer of heart than any man or woman can be, and because of that they have a special connection to the gods. They say that connection manifests through the rays of the sun as a divine life- giver, conveying its blessing and protection upon their beasts in battle. To them, putting armor on the horses would be cowardly, and an insult to the gods. Before a battle, the elder amongst their shamans -- the Jan Taipen or 'Spirit of the Clan,' will act as the 'Horse-Singer' and call down the blessings of the sun upon the horses. I thought it all seemed very odd at first, until I saw them in battle. And I must say that whether it's the sun, or the way they train their beasts, or the maneuvers they use to be sure their horses are protected whenever possible -- whatever the reason, horses were rarely wounded. But those horses -- they move into battle without hesitation, and once I even saw some of them lie down right on the battlefield so their riders could be shielded behind them. Any horse killed in battle is grieved and given a warrior's burial."

"They breed their own horses, and capture wild ones to sell, though it's said if they hear you've mistreated one of the animals they sold you, they'll come and steal it back. They've bred horses for so long that they developed a distinctive type called the 'Akhaal,' and they'll sell them occasionally, though they're pricey. You can always identify an Akhaal horse, because they have a unique color pattern -- they are all solid colors with a white blanket over the hips, or with leopard spotting, or lacy spots like snowflakes. The color breeds true."

I glanced at the carving I held. No spots on her, just that glimmering white. My father saw, and nodded. "Aye", he said. "The Sulde Taala, she's not like any of the others." He paused, thinking. "I don't really know where she comes from. She's a horse, yes, but there's something else....", he shook his head. "I can't describe it, I've not the words. It's a feeling you get when you see her, like she knows things beyond our ken. The Horse Clan folk, well -- they don't worship her, exactly. But it's their belief that she carries messages from them to the gods, and from the gods back to them. So she's treated with great reverence. She's never saddled and never shod. She runs free, and always has her own meadow. Only a particular one of the Clan's shamans -- they call him the Horse-Singer -- only the Horse-Singer can touch her. But she's not wild, not in the way of an untamed horse.

"You'll be going about your business in the village, and she'll suddenly just...be there. Gazing at you with those great, dark eyes of hers. One night, I remember, I couldn't sleep. I was walking -- you know the way I walk the night sometimes..." here he flushed as my mother chuckled at him. "Well, I felt a presence, and -- there she was. Pacing along next to me like we were old companions, and her not making a sound. I couldn't even hear her hooves on the ground. She walked with me like that for some time, and then just...faded back into the night. When I went back to my tent, I was able to fall asleep right away. My dreams were filled with a sweet, wild singing, and I felt a deep peace like..." He stopped there, and I thought I saw tears glinting in his eyes. "I've not felt anything like it before or since, but it changed me somehow, opened some corner of my soul." He pulled my mother a little closer, rested his cheek against my little sister's curls, and went quiet for a time.

"But for all that, the Sulde Taala is a mortal being. A creature of the earth as much as you and me. For the Sulde Taala comes to the end of her days and dies, like all creatures must die eventually. I don't know what happens at that time, or how the Clan folk deal with it. I just know that at the center of every Horse Clan campsite is a stack of horse skulls, all beaded and inlaid as richly as any treasure I've ever seen. And the Clan folk told me that these were the skulls of former Sulde Taala."

I was burning with questions. "But, where does the new Sulde Taala come from? And how is she always white? And does the new one come just as the old one dies? And how..." My father held up a hand, grinning at me. "Slow down, my curious one. I can't answer those questions. I stayed with the people of Horse Clan for only a season. Though they are a generous people, usually glad to share their ways with outsiders, they were not willing to speak of that part of their lives. I think that, if I were to spend more time amongst them, perhaps they would come to trust me enough to explain. And I promise you that if ever I'm so lucky, I'll come home straightaway and answer those questions of yours. Now," he said, smiling at all of us, "it's late. Off to bed with the lot of you." So off to bed I went, to dream of a snow-white horse with dark, intelligent eyes and mysteries to share.

My father continued his travels, of course, though he never did encounter the Elves of Horse Clan again. He heard from a Trader that the Clan had taken to wandering ever more distant regions, disappearing for long periods of time into the mountains said to shelter the Dwarven homelands. Seems to me an odd place for Elves to visit, but then they were hardly ordinary sorts.

Now that I am a man, and able to travel on my own, I find myself wondering if I can locate these nomads -- these horse-archers; these Elves who wander with their herds, traveling with a white horse (if horse she is) that communicates with the gods. For now, I have only my father's story, and the wooden statue that sits here on my desk, still able to fill me with a sense of wonderment whenever my eye falls on its graceful little form.