Chapter 11
Obed’s Code ~ continued from Chapter 11 | That Is Life
The next morning Obed tightened his saddle then made sure that both saddlebags were securely fastened with their leather straps as he did before each long ride. He spat twice and bent down to pick the earth up in his hands, something he learned from Boaz. He mounted his horse.
As he plunged ahead down the morning road something weighed on his shoulders and he turned to see the dusty road behind him. The cobbled narrows remained silent and calm as a breeze blew the bushes gently.
The wind picked up slightly and the fields whispered and moaned. The sun became hot and the day unfolded as it should with the wind at his back and the open road before him.
Balto would travel east to the Hindu Kush, Zarek would travel north and Hadad would ride back to the main post.
Obed’s flight was straight and true. He rode at speed as he felt a gathering of expectations and watched as the wild plains seemed to open up to let him pass into another space and time that others would want desperately to follow but could not.
The rust-colored hills blended into the valleys to be broken only by the dark green vegetation that fought for its survival while the brush blew over the rough trails.
Obed’s way was the way of the horse. His father’s family had lived in Damascus and Boaz had become one of the best horse trainers.
He always kept his father’s words with him: “Quickly gather your horses around you. If you meet an enemy and are alone then recite the horses’ training for your mission will not be questioned.”
He felt a presence.
“Is it Lamassu or Sedy?” he thought.
Rider had been blessed with his Simtu, his mission and destiny all wrapped up on the road that he traveled.
For him all that lay on the road had meaning: the stones, the bushes, the small animals and the birds all told a story of his fate. His religion was of the natural world. He had come by this through his outdoor life. Let the priests have their prayers, fasts and the reciting of hymns. He had his angels who offered him good things in life and demons who brought him misfortune.
A good ride was his salvation. Obed would not seek help from God directly; he knew it was not his place to seek contact through dreams or the spirit world rather he placed great emphasis on the natural world.
If the river or creeks gurgled in a certain way or the wind blew down the road at a certain time then all was right in his world. If the sun and moon favored his ride then he was safe from misfortune.
“Aye,” he thought as he rode. “The moon came earlier last night.”
He looked behind him on the road but again saw nothing.
Obed slipped back in time and was once again standing against the wooden fence while Boaz stood in the middle of the training ground holding the reins of a young war horse.
“Hey,” Boaz yelled as he put the horse through his paces: trotting, cantering and galloping. “You lead them, you don’t ride them,” he said.
The dust rose up in the noonday sky as the horse snorted and flared its nostrils.
Obed put his hand up to his face against the brilliant sun.
“Yes, Papa,” he said.
“Why do I say this?”
Boaz let loose the training line and looked at his boy.
“The bones and skeleton develop slowly, more slowly than the heart and lungs.”
”We will make a horseman out of you yet.”
Boaz ran around in a circle with his hands outspread.
“You see, I run without weight or fatigue.” He motioned to his son. “Come.”
They both ran in a little circle, Boaz holding onto the two- year-old Arabian, Bavryoon, his coat shining as they laughed. Like his ancestors the horse was bred for endurance with strong, slow-twitch fibers and a calm disposition.
“See, no strain, no injury, no lameness.” His father stopped. “Then long after do we ride him.”
“When?” Obed asked.
“In time,” Boaz said.
“When?”
“Seven months.” Obed said.
Bavryoon stood and watched the two then pawed at the ground with his hooves, bringing the dust up. He was 13.5 hands high and was only allowed to be part of the four-day horse trials after the many pleas of young Rider to his father. The other horses were three to five years old.
Early the next morning after Boaz had his sweet tea he went out to the stables and saw the men leading their new charges to the parade grounds.
He saw only five horses that he knew: Apsu, Anu, Arur, Tiamat and Kisawr, all fine young Arabians with good bloodlines. The rest were a bundle of energy that flowed from the stables and out into the morning.
“Hold,” one of the trainers said as the horse reared up on his hind legs.
“Are the chariots ready?” Boaz called out to the stable boy.
“Yes, Master,” he cried out through the line of horses that filed slowly up to the training ground.
“Make sure all is ready.”
The morning mist still covered the ground and the sun warmed the backs of the horses’ shiny, well-groomed coats. The army needed a steady supply of horses and many were brought from Damascus but few would pass the four-day trials. Most would become work horses and carry supplies to the front lines of war.
The smell of hay and dust rose up into the wind and the sound of old, worn chariots being pulled up the hill resounded off the high play.
“Watch!”
A stable boy jumped out of the way as the chariot in front of him came crashing back down the trail.
“Hey, stop.”
Two stable boys grabbed the front end of the old frame.
“These are useless,” one said.
“He uses them,” the other said.
The boys pushed the rickety old frame up the hill and into the corral.
Boaz felt the morning excitement in his blood and quickly picked up his pace and ran up the horse trail to the wooden fence and the training grounds. Obed and Bavryoon were waiting at the gate.
“Papa,” said the boy as he smiled and fed Bavryoom sugar from his pockets. “He is all ready.”
“Slowly, slowly,” Boaz smiled at his son.
He walked through the gate and into the training ground.
“The old and the new,” Boaz thought as he looked out over the grounds.
The dust rose as the horses one by one were let through the gates and lined up. Ten old chariots, old ghosts from wars long past, were standing in a line. The ancient ones had wheels without spokes and the new ones had spokes already broken in places. They all were beaten and broken like old warriors but still somehow managed to move forward at pace.
On the bones of decayed chariots, the master horse trainer would build an empire. His horses would travel farther, rest longer and calmly engage the enemy in battle time and time again. His was the way of the horse.
While the dust blew up and the horses pawed at the ground and pushed and shoved their way through the narrow wooden gate, Bavryoon quietly and calmly watched the chaotic procession.
Boaz noticed this but did not say a word. A lead trainer came up and nodded to the man. He was a tall, slender man who wore a long white robe and had a red and white keffiyeh on his head.
“Horse master, may we?”
Boaz smiled. “Yes, Dadu.”
Dadu turned and went about his duties, lining up horses that had been chosen the night before, helping the men with troubled horses and making sure that all was ready.
Continue reading… Chapter 11 | A War Horse
[…] Continue reading… Chapter 11 | The Way of the Horse […]