Of Pitchforks and Dung Heaps (work thread)

[Anna Brodie]

TS: Cryxatum, Summer, Era XIV

Working as a groom at Willy's Livery and Tack had its good and bad points. The main joy of the job was working with the horses, caring for them and exercising them. That, coupled with the generosity of Willy in allowing her to bed down each darkening in the barn for free meant that Anna was more than satisfied with her lot in life for now. True, she could do with a bit more careful grooming herself and it was often the case that a fellow groom would point out the straw that was still stuck in her hair or the smudge of dirt on her face that she had missed when washing under the yard pump. But Anna didn't have the luxury of a looking glass to check her appearance. True, it also meant that she was available at all candlemarks of the darkening for any emergency which translated into a number of nights of disturbed sleep. But she didn't mind. It wasn't as though sleep brought her any joy. All in all, life could be a lot worse, she figured.

As for the bad points, well, they weren't so bad if put in perspective. After all, she thought as she headed towards a stall that needed attending to, horses can't muck out their own stables so someone had to do it for them. If only Goliath wasn't so generous with his natural bodily functions. She eyed the tall, heavy grey with a resigned sigh as Goliath looked out over the half door of his stall and wickered in recognition. Propping the pitchfork against the wall, Anna reached into the pocket of her tunic and fished out a rough carrot for the horse to munch. She smiled as the velvet touch of his muzzle tickled her hand and patted his neck affectionately. He was a warsteed, a strong beast of a horse and Anna hadn’t dared ride him herself, thinking he’d be far too strong for her skills as a rider. Yet he’d a good nature and she’d taken him for a number of walks on a lead rein.

“What have you got for me today, eh, Gol, you devil?” Anna muttered. They were the first words she’d spoken all morning, not being in the habit of social conversation with others. She was content to be silent and not invite small talk, preferring to only answer questions that were asked of her as and when they came. Patting the horse’s neck once more she opened the stall door and slipped inside, taking the halter that was hooked over one shoulder and after a little difficulty for he was a tall animal and even though she was a tall woman she still had to stretch, putting it over the horse’s head. Then with a lead rope tied to the halter, Anna led Goliath out of the stall and over to one of the fenced off fields. He followed amiably, shaking his head violently once en route but only to wake himself up. Once let loose into the corral, the warsteed slowly trotted off with a leisurely long and deliberate stride to join a few other horses which had already been taken out by other grooms.

Anna watched him go with admiration before turning back to attend to his stall. It was much as she’d expected. Several small mountains of manure dotted about the straw bedding and a stink of urine which soaked the under layer. With a wheel barrow stationed in the doorway, in she went with the pitchfork, first taking up the dark brown droppings and then starting the process of tossing what straw could be preserved to one side while removing what was sodden and to be disposed of into the wheel barrow. Sometimes the whole bedding had to be changed and it began to look that way on this particular brightening. Warsteeds were expensive horses to maintain and not just because of the amount of food they ate, Anna mused. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she worked on, throwing her energy into getting the unpleasant task done.

It took several trips with the wheel barrow to the manure heap where old straw and droppings was stored. After that, Anna filled a bucket of water from the pump and with an old broom began to wash the stall out, swilling the water about and then brushing it over the stone floor and out into the yard where it drained away. After that, she fetched some straw from the barn and began to scatter it about the stall, using the pitchfork to lift and spread the straw about evenly until a good bed was made. The water in Gol’s bucket was changed at the pump and fresh hay put in the high rack. All in all it took twice the amount of time to clean the warsteed’s stall, and when finally done, Anna closed the stall door, picked up the pitchfork and moved onto the next empty stall.

[Tolbin]

Except that the next stall wasn’t empty. Inside was Mischief, a young stallion, though small he was powerfully built and far too intelligent for his own good. Anna had overheard the stable master talking about this one. He was cunning and a bit of a thief. He had been known to get out of his stable on his own to go visit the mares, steal things out of the pockets of the stable hands, throw riders casually, ignore even a skilled riders directions, and when annoyed with his rider he had been known to take them through thorns, hedges, deep water and eventually brush them off by using a well selected tree… offtimes with poison ivy or mud beneath to add insult to injury. The only reason he wasn’t turned into glue was his sheer speed and jumping ability, and that he would perform without incident during critical matches. Though gelding might have settled him down, it was determined he was worth the trouble because the foals he sired would be worth a great deal of gold.

He was a beauty to look at, small, powerful, jet black save for his white socks and the white star on his nose. His dame and sire, though set to pasture now, had earned many ribbons in various equestrian tournaments. It was said that in their days that they were both amongst the best, and competed at the highest levels. Mischief was bred true, inheriting all the best of his parents, and some of the worst traits in any horse. Mischief eyed Anna as if he was already planning to do some... well mischief.