week in the mail for Lukas. In his Bible, Lukas also kept an enlarged picture of Harlequin, his own retired racehorse. My favourite horse was Rufus. I rode him whenever I could, though till ‘75 the horse would frequently be taken by Reyneke or one of the other Seniors before I could get to the stables. Rufus was probably a boerperd of sorts, yet almost as fast as King, who was part Arab, part thoroughbred. Rufiiss copper coat glimmered even in winter’s molt and his mane and tail were the colour of bleached thatch. At my request, Lukas instructed the stable boys to refrain from cutting Rufus s mane. The boys respected Lukas both as Mr Walshe’s right-hand man and because of his fluent Xhosa. While most of the stable boys spoke Zulu, Lukas said they were none the less able to understand the language of the Eastern Cape and they seemed to take delight from their animated conversations with Lukas, transactions from which I was excluded. Knowing that at one point I had spoken at least broken Zulu to Jonas and Boy, I regretted not having learnt their language properly. Zulu could have been put to effective use with the stable boys.
Lukas alone was allowed to ride King, the farm’s strongest most wilful creature. As happy as I was on Rufus, I did envy Lukas the honour brought by his physical strength and prowess as an experienced equestrian. I do equestrian sport. Something I delighted, unashamedly, in saying. Home for the holidays it could drive Lena up the walls.
The regular riders constituted a fairly small group. Much of the school up on the terrace belonged to a world whose dwellers seldom ventured down to the parts whence Mr Walshe oversaw the farm’s activities. Dominic, for one, had not come riding more than four or five times. The same with Mervyn. Of course Dominic had to take care of his fingers for piano, and Mervy had violin, but still I suspected that even without those commitments neither of them would take much pleasure down there. To me, on the other hand, riding was the reason for being in the Berg. That and the tours. Our fort. And the landscape. And Dominic. When I thought of it, I imagined guiltily that I would sacrifice Dominic, the tours and the forts, but not the horses. Everything about riding, the movement from the horse into my body, the speed and rhythm as the ground coursed by, seeing the world from the elevation of the saddle, the smell. The smell of horse on my hands mingled with leather and dubbin. Prep was a battle as I tried to concentrate on homework while inhaling the odour from between my fingers. After riding I had to be cautious, for the smell of horse, just like that of rain on the dry earth, let something loose in me. I wanted to go wild. Become boisterous, a word I’d learnt from Miss Roos.
We walked the horses down, past the Dragon’s Ridge holiday resort and over Sterkspruit’s concrete bridge. Lukas was saying that the mare Cassandra would foal within eight weeks. I could not wait. Steven Almeida and I had been there the previous year, watching together, when Cassandra conceived by King. For a moment again Steven was back with us, quiet and unspeaking. Again I wondered what had become of him. I leant forward and patted Rufus’s neck. Somewhere in the mountains heavy rains had fallen, for the river was swollen and the bridge covered with a foot of swift-flowing water. Thick silver jets spurting from the pipes beneath the concrete crashed into the downstream pool. Wading across, the horses were allowed a brief drink. Once over the bridge, the gradual ascent began. Mr Walshe allowed us to canter as we passed beneath V Forest and took the road’s steep curve up the hill onto the grassy plateau. From here the ground rose gradually for another three kilometres before itclimbed again into the next layer of foothills and the base of the wide escarpment. At a nod that were allowed a short gallop, King, with Rufus on his tail, streaked ahead. A good while before the cliffs Mr
Lukas alone was allowed to ride King, the farm’s strongest most wilful creature. As happy as I was on Rufus, I did envy Lukas the honour brought by his physical strength and prowess as an experienced equestrian. I do equestrian sport. Something I delighted, unashamedly, in saying. Home for the holidays it could drive Lena up the walls.
The regular riders constituted a fairly small group. Much of the school up on the terrace belonged to a world whose dwellers seldom ventured down to the parts whence Mr Walshe oversaw the farm’s activities. Dominic, for one, had not come riding more than four or five times. The same with Mervyn. Of course Dominic had to take care of his fingers for piano, and Mervy had violin, but still I suspected that even without those commitments neither of them would take much pleasure down there. To me, on the other hand, riding was the reason for being in the Berg. That and the tours. Our fort. And the landscape. And Dominic. When I thought of it, I imagined guiltily that I would sacrifice Dominic, the tours and the forts, but not the horses. Everything about riding, the movement from the horse into my body, the speed and rhythm as the ground coursed by, seeing the world from the elevation of the saddle, the smell. The smell of horse on my hands mingled with leather and dubbin. Prep was a battle as I tried to concentrate on homework while inhaling the odour from between my fingers. After riding I had to be cautious, for the smell of horse, just like that of rain on the dry earth, let something loose in me. I wanted to go wild. Become boisterous, a word I’d learnt from Miss Roos.
We walked the horses down, past the Dragon’s Ridge holiday resort and over Sterkspruit’s concrete bridge. Lukas was saying that the mare Cassandra would foal within eight weeks. I could not wait. Steven Almeida and I had been there the previous year, watching together, when Cassandra conceived by King. For a moment again Steven was back with us, quiet and unspeaking. Again I wondered what had become of him. I leant forward and patted Rufus’s neck. Somewhere in the mountains heavy rains had fallen, for the river was swollen and the bridge covered with a foot of swift-flowing water. Thick silver jets spurting from the pipes beneath the concrete crashed into the downstream pool. Wading across, the horses were allowed a brief drink. Once over the bridge, the gradual ascent began. Mr Walshe allowed us to canter as we passed beneath V Forest and took the road’s steep curve up the hill onto the grassy plateau. From here the ground rose gradually for another three kilometres before itclimbed again into the next layer of foothills and the base of the wide escarpment. At a nod that were allowed a short gallop, King, with Rufus on his tail, streaked ahead. A good while before the cliffs Mr
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