Mary Stewart by Airs Above The Ground

Author:Airs Above The Ground [Ground, Airs Above The]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Published: 2012-06-01T14:51:16+00:00

“I think we can find out fairly easily on our own,” said Timothy.

“No, we mustn’t. We can’t afford to go round asking all sorts of questions, for Lewis’s sake. I told you the Archie Goodwin stuff was out.”

“Not that. It’s much simpler. We can find out here and now. The real Lipizzans-the Riding School Lipizzans, that is-are all branded. I’ve always felt myself that it was rather a pity to disfigure a white horse with a brand, but they each carry three. There’s a big ‘L’ on the near side cheek, that’s for Lipizzan, obviously. If he’s bred at the National Stud, there’ll be a crown and a ‘P’ for Piber on the flank. And on the side they do some sort of hieroglyphic which gives the actual breeding, the sire’s line, and the dam.

I’m not at all sure that I could decipher that, but I think if we find he’s got all three brands we can be pretty sure we’re right.”

“Well,” I said, “what are we waiting for?”

The moonlight threw our shadows long and black across the turf as we walked over to the grazing horse.

He was out of the moonlight now, and in the shadows of the pines, his black patches showing very dark and hiding his real shape so that he looked not like a horse but like floating patches of some moving ectoplasm.

I said: “You may be right, dear heaven, you may be right. You notice what a lot of black there is on his near side? The cheek, the ribs, the flank-all the places where you said the brands would be?” The horse lifted his head as we reached him, and I took hold of the halter. “They’re horrible great ugly marks, too. .

. . You’d think it would go to his heart to …”

My voice trailed off. The horse had pushed his muzzle against my chest and Tim had run his hand gently but quickly down past the forelock, past the eye, and over the near cheek. I saw the boy’s fingers, pale in the moonlight, moving over the black skin. They felt, hesitated, then slowly traced out the shape of a big

“L.”

He said nothing. Nor did I. In silence as he dropped his hand I put mine on the horse’s cheek. The skin was damp where the dewy grass had brushed him. There, ever so

slightly ruffling the hair, I could feel the outline of the old brand. It was there, the “L” for Lipizzan. And so was the crowned “P” for Piber. And so was some complicated pattern on the ribs, where, faintly, could be traced something that might be an “N” and a “P.”

Neapolitano Petra blew gustily at the front of my dress, pulled his head away, and took another mouthful of the dew-wet clover.

Still in silence, Timothy and I turned and left him there, and made our way slowly down the path between the pines.

Here the moonlight didn’t penetrate and it was very dark. For a time we picked our way in silence.

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