Foal Quotes

Let me tell you about love, that silly word you believe is about whether you like somebody or whether somebody likes you or whether you can put up with somebody in order to get something or someplace you want or you believe it has to do with how your body responds to another body like robins or bison or maybe you believe love is how forces or nature or luck is benign to you in particular not maiming or killing you but if so doing it for your own good. Love is none of that. There is nothing in nature like it. Not in robins or bison or in the banging tails of your hunting dogs and not in blossoms or suckling foal. Love is divine only and difficult always. If you think it is easy you are a fool. If you think it is natural you are blind. It is a learned application without reason or motive except that it is God. You do not deserve love regardless of the suffering you have endured. You do not deserve love because somebody did you wrong. You do not deserve love just because you want it. You can only earn - by practice and careful contemplations - the right to express it and you have to learn how to accept it. Which is to say you have to earn God. You have to practice God. You have to think God-carefully. And if you are a good and diligent student you may secure the right to show love. Love is not a gift. It is a diploma. A diploma conferring certain privileges: the privilege of expressing love and the privilege of receiving it. How do you know you have graduated? You don't. What you do know is that you are human and therefore educable, and therefore capable of learning how to learn, and therefore interesting to God, who is interested only in Himself which is to say He is interested only in love. Do you understand me? God is not interested in you. He is interested in love and the bliss it brings to those who understand and share the interest. Couples that enter the sacrament of marriage and are not prepared to go the distance or are not willing to get right with the real love of God cannot thrive. They may cleave together like robins or gulls or anything else that mates for life. But if they eschew this mighty course, at the moment when all are judged for the disposition of their eternal lives, their cleaving won't mean a thing. God bless the pure and holy. Amen.

Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal.

I miss that time. The cities back then, just after the forests died, were full of wonders, and you'd stumble on them--these princes of the air on common rooftops--the rivers that burst through the city streets so they ran like canals--the rabbits in parking garages--the deer foaling, nestled in Dumpsters like a Nativity.

It was a sense of privilege and mute wonder, as though he’d witnessed one of those small, everyday miracles of spring. Like a licked-clean foal taking its first steps on wobbly legs. Or a new butterfly pushing scrunched, damp wings from a chrysalis.

My exit from the window is a little like a foal being born. It's a graceless and gangly drop, directly onto my mother's gerbera bed. I emerge quickly and pretend it didn't hurt.

As with Dutchy and Carmine on the train, this little cluster of women has become a kind of family to me. Like an abandoned foal that nestles against cows in the barnyard, maybe I just need to feel the warmth of belonging. And if I'm not going to find that with the Byrnes, I will find it, however partial and illusory, with the women in the sewing room.

The smile came out like a newborn foal – its legs buckled immediately.

He was tender with her. He wiped her eyelids with his handkerchief, not noticing how soiled it was. It was stained with ink, crumpled, stuck together. Her lids were large and tender and the handkerchief was stiff, not nearly soft enough. He moistened a corner in his mouth. He was painfully aware of the private softness of her skin, of how the eyes trembled beneath their coverings. He dried the tears with an affection, a particularity, that had never been exercised before. It was a demonstration of 'nature.' He was a birth-wet foal rising to his feet.

BRONZE UPON GOLD             　 DESTROY THE TYRANT　 EAST MEETS WEST                 　 AID THE WINGED　 LEGIONS ARE REDEEMED    　 UNDER GOLDEN HILLS　 LIGHT THE DEPTHS               　 GREAT STALLION’S FOAL　 ONE AGAINST MANY             　 HARKEN THE TRUMPETS　 NEVER SPIRIT DEFEATED     　 TURN RED TIDES　 ANCIENT WORDS SPOKEN   　 ENTER STRANGER’S HOME　 SHAKING OLD FOUNDATIONS　 REGAIN LOST GLORY　

Not babies perhaps. But I know about young things. Foals, puppies, calves, piglets. Even hunting cats. I know if you want them to trust you, you touch them when they are small. Gently, but firmly, so they believe in your strength, too. You don't shout at them, or make sudden moves that look threatening. You give them good feed and clean water, and keep them clean and give them shelter from the weather. You don't take out your temper on them, or confuse punishment with discipline.

She has had any number of foals. I yield to her judgement.

I watched bulls bred to cows, watched mares foal, I saw life come from the egg and the multiplicative wonders of mudholes and ponds, the jell and slime of life shimmering in gravid expectation. Everywhere I looked, life sprang from something not life, insects unfolded from sacs on the surface of still waters and were instantly on prowl for their dinner, everything that came into being knew at once what to do and did it, unastonished that it was what it was, unimpressed by where it was, the great earth heaving up bloodied newborns from every pore, every cell, bearing the variousness of itself from every conceivable substance which it contained in itself, sprouting life that flew or waved in the wind or blew from the mountains or stuck to the damp black underside of rocks, or swam or suckled or bellowed or silently separated in two.

What I love is one foot in front of another. South-south-west and down the contours. I go slipping between Black Ridge and White Horse Hill into a bowl of the moor where echoes can't get out listen a lark spinning around one note splitting and mending it and I find you in the reeds, a trickle coming out of a bark, a foal of a river

But now, as he paced up and down the ward, he remembered how the old folk used to die back home on the Kama—Russians, Tartars, Votyaks or whatever they were. They didn’t puff themselves up or fight against it or brag that they weren’t going to die—they took death calmly. They didn’t stall squaring things away, they prepared themselves quietly and in good time, deciding who should have the mare, who the foal, who the coat and who the boots.

The position could not have been made clearer, whatever had been said, not only to those directly involved but to Sasha, Nyusha and Bacchus; their painful embarrassment communicated itself even to the mare, the foal, the golden rays of the setting sun and the gnats buzzing and swarming around Helen's face and neck.

There was a child went forth every day, And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day, Or for many years or stretching cycles of years. The early lilacs became part of this child, And grass and white and red morning glories, and white and red clover, And the song of the phoebe-bird, And the Third-month lambs and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal and the cow's calf, And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-side, And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and the beautiful curious liquid, And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became part of him.

But my mother is a fish. Vernon seen it. He was there. "Jewel's mother is a horse," Darl said. "Then mine can be a fish, can't it, Darl? I said. Jewel is my brother. "Then mine will have to be a horse, too," I said. "Why? Darl said. "If pa is your pa, why does your ma have to be a horse just because Jewel's is?" "Why does it? I said. "Why does it, Darl?" Darl is my brother. "Then what is your ma, Darl?" I said. "I haven't got ere one," Darl said. "Because If I had one, it is was. And if it is was, it can't be is. Can't it?" "No," I said. "Then I am not," Darl said. "Am I?" "No," I said. I am. Darl is my brother. "But you are, Darl," I said. "I know it," Darl said. "That's why I am not is. Are is too many for one woman to foal.

the slaughter of foals is a terrible crime. . . . We do not touch the innocent.

Mares had the capability to slow birthing so that the foal would have the dark hours to find its feet and be ready to run from a predator by dawn.

strawberry roan, a black and brown skewbald and a motley assortment of buckskins and bays. At the rear of the herd was a grey mare and a chestnut skewbald with a white face, both of them with foals running at their feet.

I am not a THAT. I am a pegasus, direct descendant of Poseidon and foaled by the Gorgon Medusa during the moment in which Perseus decapitated her--which, by the way, was rude. YOU, on the other hand, are descended from dirt." "Monkeys, actually. And YOU were designed by a toy company.

The voivode with the hard-to-remember name, who must have heard something about the affairs and problems of Fourhorn, politely asked whether the mares were foaling well. Gerald answered yes, much better than the stallions. He wasn't sure if the joke had been well taken, but the voivode didn't ask any more questions.

Growing children are like foals. If they’re not given room to run, they’ll lash out in every direction.

Power of a stallion, and the innocence of a foal...

Art is born like a foal that can walk straight away,’ wrote John Berger, ‘the talent to make art accompanies the need for that art; they arrive together.

There was the pale white membrane of the foal sac and a foreleg appearing. Issie watched

By the sixteenth Cecilia, James and I had given birth to our relationship, and it wandered around the house like a sticky curious foal.

Ride forth upon me as Thou didst ride into Jerusalem mounted upon the humble little beast, a colt, the foal of an ass, and let me hear the children cry to Thee, "Hosanna in the highest.

Those afternoons in the library, breathing the stale sun-warmed dust of a thousand stories (accented by the collective mildew of a hundred years of rising damp), had been enchanted. Two decades ago now, and yet here, on the No. 168 bus towards Hampstead Heath, Peter was beset with an almost bodily sense of being back there. His lips twitched with the memory of being nine years old and lanky as a foal. His mood lifted as he remembered how large, how filled with possibilities, and yet, at once, how safe and navigable the world had seemed when he was shut within those four walls .

As he watched her, Colin was visited by the strangest feeling, unfurling warm and buttery inside him. It was a sense of privilege and mute wonder, as though he'd witnessed one of those small, everyday miracles of spring. Like a licked-clean foal taking its first steps on wobbly legs. Or a new butterfly pushing scrunched, damp wings from a chrysalis. Before his eyes, she'd transformed into a new creature. Still a bit awkward and uncertain, but undaunted. And well on her way to being beautiful. Colin scratched his neck. He wished there were someone nearby he could turn to and say, 'Would you look at that?

There are stacks of notebooks that speak of years of aborted efforts, deflated euphoria, a relentless pacing of the boards. We must write, engaging in a myriad of struggles, as if breaking in a willful foal. We must write, but not without consistent effort and a measure of sacrifice: to channel the future, to revisit childhood, and to rein in the follies and horrors of the imagination for a pulsating race of readers.

One of the mares had foaled in the desert and this frail form soon hung skewered on the paloverde pole over the raked coals while Delawares passed among themselves a gourd containing the curdled milk from its stomach

They were galloping...Bare level plain had taken the place of the scrub and they'd been cantering briskly, the foals prancing delightedly ahead, when suddenly the dog was a shoulder-shrugging streaking fleece, and as their mares almost imperceptibly fell into the long untrammelled undulating strides, Hugh felt the sense of change, the keen elemental pleasure one experienced too on board a ship which, leaving the choppy waters of the estuary, gives way to the pitch and swing of the open sea. A faint carillon of bells sounded in the distance, rising and falling, sinking back as if into the very substance of the day. Judas had forgotten; nay, Judas had been, somehow, redeemed.

All we know, Midnight. The best of all we know. For Chestry Valley and its master we loved. For Nana. For Sugarloaf and Brimstone Farm. For Pop and Mom and Tom. For the foals to come. For yesterday and for all tomorrows, we dance the best we know. For good-by.

It is man's intelligence that makes him so often behave more stupidly than the beasts. ... Man is impelled to invent theories to account for what happens in the world. Unfortunately, he is not quite intelligent enough, in most cases, to find correct explanations. So that when he acts on his theories, he behaves very often like a lunatic. Thus, no animal is clever enough, when there is a drought, to imagine that the rain is being withheld by evil spirits, or as punishment for its transgressions. Therefore you never see animals going through the absurd and often horrible fooleries of magic and religion. No horse, for example would kill one of its foals to make the wind change direction. Dogs do not ritually urinate in the hope of persuading heaven to do the same and send down rain. Asses do not bray a liturgy to cloudless skies. Nor do cats attempt, by abstinence from cat's meat, to wheedle the feline spirits into benevolence. Only man behaves with such gratuitous folly. It is the price he has to pay for being intelligent but not, as yet, intelligent enough.

She simply stared at me with such a loving expression on her face, I felt like I was her foal. Indah reached her head as far as she could around me, to press me to her. I melted. How could I live without this horse? I wrapped my arms around her neck and let my tears flow.

Tell me, why this strong young colt, foaled in some peaceful valley of Vermont, far removed from all beasts of prey— why is it that upon the sunniest day, if you but shake a fresh buffalo robe behind him, so that he cannot even see it, but only smells its wild animal muskiness—why will he start, snort, and with bursting eyes paw the ground in phrensies of affright? There is no remembrance in him of any gorings of wild creatures in his green northern home, so that the strange muskiness he smells cannot recall to him anything associated with the experience of former perils; for what knows he, this New England colt, of the black bisons of distant Oregon?

The Chorus Line: The Birth of Telemachus, An Idyll Nine months he sailed the wine-red seas of his mother's blood Out of the cave of dreaded Night, of sleep, Of troubling dreams he sailed In his frail dark boat, the boat of himself, Through the dangerous ocean of his vast mother he sailed From the distant cave where the threads of men's lives are spun, Then measured, and then cut short By the Three Fatal Sisters, intent on their gruesome handcrafts, And the lives of women also are twisted into the strand. And we, the twelve who were later to die by his hand At his father's relentless command, Sailed as well, in the dark frail boats of ourselves Through the turbulent seas of our swollen and sore-footed mothers Who were not royal queens, but a motley and piebald collection, Bought, traded, captured, kidnapped from serfs and strangers. After the nine-month voyage we came to shore, Beached at the same time as he was, struck by the hostile air, Infants when he was an infant, wailing just as he wailed, Helpless as he was helpless, but ten times more helpless as well, For his birth was longed-for and feasted, as our births were not. His mother presented a princeling. Our various mothers Spawned merely, lambed, farrowed, littered, Foaled, whelped and kittened, brooded, hatched out their clutch. We were animal young, to be disposed of at will, Sold, drowned in the well, traded, used, discarded when bloomless. He was fathered; we simply appeared, Like the crocus, the rose, the sparrows endangered in mud. Our lives were twisted in his life; we also were children When he was a child, We were his pets and his toythings, mock sisters, his tiny companions. We grew as he grew, laughed also, ran as he ran, Though sandier, hungrier, sun-speckled, most days meatless. He saw us as rightfully his, for whatever purpose He chose, to tend him and feed him, to wash him, amuse him, Rock him to sleep in the dangerous boats of ourselves. We did not know as we played with him there in the sand On the beach of our rocky goat-island, close by the harbour, That he was foredoomed to swell to our cold-eyed teenaged killer. If we had known that, would we have drowned him back then? Young children are ruthless and selfish: everyone wants to live. Twelve against one, he wouldn't have stood a chance. Would we? In only a minute, when nobody else was looking? Pushed his still-innocent child's head under the water With our own still-innocent childish nursemaid hands, And blamed it on waves. Would we have had it in us? Ask the Three Sisters, spinning their blood-red mazes, Tangling the lives of men and women together. Only they know how events might then have had altered. Only they know our hearts. From us you will get no answer.

من السهل أن تدّعي القوة وأن تتماسك أمام الجميع، ولكن في الليل وفي العتمة حين تكون وحدك، تصبح المسألة أصعب

To look into the eye of a horse is to see a reflection of yourself that you might've forgotten. No grief was big enough not to be washed clean in your horse's eye.

[Julius Caesar] rode a remarkable horse, too, with feet that were almost human; for its hoofs were cloven in such a way as to look like toes. This horse was foaled on his own place, and since the soothsayers had declared that it foretold the rule of the world for its master, he reared it with the greatest care, and was the first to mount it, for it would endure no other rider. Afterwards, too, he dedicated a statue of it before the temple of Venus Genetrix.

One of my earliest memories was of a maze of pale green walls. The corridors never ended, no matter which way I turned. I was running, my feet bare, my paper-thin gown flapping around skinny foal-like legs, and the demons kept on coming. I’d run the maze before, because I always knew which way to turn to find the little clear plastic box. I’d run, and run. Lungs aching, throat burning, my feet slapping against the smooth floor, and the sound of scrabbling claws chased me down. I made it to the box, every time (I’d learned later, there were others who hadn’t) and once inside, I’d yank the clear door closed. The demons didn’t see the box. They saw only me, the wraith-like little half-blood girl. They would launch themselves—claws extended, jaws wide, eyes ablaze—and slam into my box, sending shudders rattling through my bones. They’d snap and snarl, hook their teeth into the box and gnaw at its edges, desperate to get to the feast huddling a few millimeters away. Flooding, the Institute had called it. At first I was afraid, and I learned how to run. Then I was angry, and I learned how to fight with my fists and my element. Then, I got even. I lured those demons into a corner and ambushed them, killing every last one. After countless visits to the maze, after weeks, years, I’d started liking it, and killing became as natural as breathing. It was what I was good at. What I was made for. What I lived for. © Copyright Pippa DaCosta 2016.

Prezenta lui e ca absenta. Absenta altora-i prezenta. Ma aflu la interferenta De forte-n clipa imanenta, Care, pulsand, ma propulseaza - Si asta-nseamna a trai. Nu pot sa trec de neagra-i raza In care e, parca n-ar fi. Vargata si intermitenta E respiratia-i - o tromba. Si inima-mi ce bate, lenta, Ii sufla-n foale cu o trompa. Iesind din carne-mi, trece-n gand, Din gand, in sange se-nfiltreaza. Si rau si bine. Lacrimand, Nu pot sa trec de neagra-i raza. Buchetu-acesta de vribratii Cui pot, in dar, a-l oferi? Intermitent in curbe spatii, O, cand nu e, daca ar fi!

Her. Her. Her. Future breezes implore me to stay. But I'm no future. I'm no past. Only ever contemporary of this path. I'll sacrifice everything for all her seasons give from losing. She, I sigh from The Mountain top. By her now. My only role. And for that freedom, spread my polar chill, reaching even the warmest times, a warning upon the back of every life that would by harming Hailey's play, ever wayward around this vegetative rush of orbit & twine, awaken among these cascading cliffs of bellicose ice me. And my Vengeance. At once. The Justice of my awful loss set free upon this crowded land. An old terror violent for the glee of ends. But to those who would tend her, harrowed by such Beauty & Fleeting Presence to do more, my cool cries will kiss their gentle foreheads and my tears will kiss their tender cheeks, and then if the Love of their Kindness, which only Kindness ever finds, spills my ear, for a while I might slip down and play amidst her canopies of gold. Solitude. Hailey's bare feet. And all her patience now assumes. Garland of Spring's Sacred Bloom. By you, ever sixteen, this World's preserved. By you, this World has everything left to lose. And I, your sentry of ice, shall allways protect what your Joy so dangerously resumes. I'll destroy no World so long it keeps turning with flurry & gush, petals & stems bending and lush, and allways our hushes returning anew. Everyone betrays the Dream but who cares for it? O Hailey no, I could never walk away from you. - Haloes! Haleskarth! Contraband! I can walk away from anything. Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it. Bald Eagles soar over me: —Reveille Rebel! I jump free this weel. On fire. Blaze a breeze. I'll devastate the World. \\ Samsara! Samarra! Grand! I can walk away from anything. Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it. Atlas Mountain Cedars gush over me: —Up Boogaloo! I leap free this spring. On fire. How my hair curls. I'll destroy the World. - Him. Him. Him. Future winds imploring me to stay. But I'm no tomorrow. I'm no yesterday. Only ever contemporary of this way. I will sacrifice everything for all his seasons miss of soaring. He, I sigh from The Mountain top. By him now. My only role. And for that freedom, spread my polar chill, reaching even the warmest climes, a warning upon the back of every life that would by harming Sam's play, ever wayward around this animal streak of orbit & wind, awaken among these cataracts of belligerent ice me. And my Justice. At once. The Vengeance of my awful loss set free upon this crowded land. An old terror violent for the delirium of ends. But to those who would protect him, frightened by such Beauty & Savage Presence to do more, my cool cries will kiss their tender foreheads and my tears will kiss their gentle cheeks, and then if the Kindness of their Love, which only Loving ever binds, spills my ear, for a while I might slip down and play among his foals so green. My barrenness. Sam's solitude. And all his patience now presumes. Luster of Spring's Sacred Brood. By you, ever sixteen, this World's reserved. By you, this World has everything left to lose. And I, your sentry of ice, shall allways protect what your Joy so terrifyingly elects. I'll destroy no World so long it keeps turning with scurry & blush, fledgling & charms beading with dews, and allways our rush returning renewed. Everyone betrays the Dream but who cares for it? O Sam no, I could never walk away from you.

Each day of the week, Kalist indulges himself in a different, secret ritual. On Mondays, he wears cologne. On Tuesdays, he eats meat for lunch. On Wednesdays, he places a bet after work. On Thursdays, he smokes one cigarette (but claims he’s not a smoker). On Fridays, he treats himself to his favourite pastime: horse practice – he grew up with horses and likes to try and emulate their distinctive whinnies, snorts, neighs, snuffles, sighs, grunts, fluttering nostrils, the occasional aggressive outburst and the especially beautiful nicker of a mare to her foal. And, on Saturdays, lest we forget, Maxwell D. Kalist drinks wine from a chalice.

A few months back, Meredith and I took our sons to an evening of modern dance. It was an outdoor performance, in a horse paddock on a ranch in central Texas, and the dance involved nine young women and a very large horse. There was a great deal of spinning in the dirt. There was swift running, much kicking, many horse-like movements of the head and shoulders. It was strange and very beautiful. At one point, midway through the performance, Meredith leaned over to Timmy and asked if he understood what the dancing was all about. Timmy said no. Meredith said, “Well, right now, for instance, that dancer over there, she’s like a baby horse—a foal—trying to stand up for the first time. Can you see that?” Timmy nodded. He looked puzzled. “Well, yes,” he said, “but what about all the other shenanigans?

She had made no objection when he told her the baby was his, that she was his. He prayed to God she had no objections. He was in too deep to turn back now. Head over heels in love. Irrevocably so. She had brought joy into his life beyond his wildest dreams, a sweet, wondrous joy that made every breath he took seem worthwhile. Seeing the world through her eyes had given him a new appreciation of it. Newborn foals. Mice in the attic. Waltzing to silent melodies. Drinking tea that didn’t exist. She was both child and woman, wrapped up in one, a delightful blend, and he loved both. To lose her now ... Just the thought made Alex ache, so he pushed it from his mind. She belonged to him in the eyes of God and man. The child she carried was his. Nothing was ever going to change that. He wouldn’t allow it to, because to lose her, now that he had found her, would be to die inside.

When I heard the language of men uttered by my mare," continued Aravis, "I said to myself, the fear of death has disordered my reason and subjected me to delusions. And I became full of shame for none of my lineage ought to fear death more than the biting of a gnat. Therefore I addressed myself a second time to the stabbing, but Hwin came near to me and put her head in between me and the dagger and discoursed to me most excellent reasons and rebuked me as a mother rebukes her daughter. And now my wonder was so great that I forgot about killing myself and about Ahoshta and said, 'O my mare, how have you learned to speak like one of the daughters of men?' And Hwin told me what is known to all this company, that in Narnia there are beasts that talk, and how she herself was stolen from thence when she was a little foal. She told me also of the woods and waters of Narnia and the castles and the great ships, till I said, 'In the name of Tash and Azaroth and Zardeenah, Lady of the Night, I have a great wish to be in that country of Narnia,' 'O my mistress,' answered the mare, 'if you were in Narnia you would be happy, for in that land no maiden is forced to marry against her will.

The Duration Here they are are on the beach where the boy played for fifteen summers, before he grew too old for French cricket, shrimping and rock pools. Here is the place where he built his dam year after year. See, the stream still comes down just as it did, and spreads itself on the sand into a dozen channels. How he enlisted them: those splendid spades, those sunbonneted girls furiously shoring up the ramparts. Here they are on the beach, just as they were those fifteen summers. She has a rough towel ready for him. The boy was always last out of the water. She would rub him down hard, chafe him like a foal up on its legs for an hour and trembling, all angles. She would dry carefully between his toes. Here they are on the beach, the two of them sitting on the same square of mackintosh, the same tartan rug. Quality lasts. There are children in the water, and mothers patrolling the sea's edge, calling them back from the danger zone beyond the breakers. How her heart would stab when he went too far out. Once she flustered into the water, shouting until he swam back. He was ashamed of her then. Wouldn't speak, wouldn't look at her even. Her skirt was sopped. She had to wring out the hem. She wonders if Father remembers. Later, when they've had their sandwiches she might speak of it. There are hours yet. Thousands, by her reckoning.

When they were children at Loeanneth they'd spent the summer in and out of the water, their skin turning brown beneath the sun, their hair bleaching almost white. Despite her weak chest, Clemmie had been the most outdoorsy of them all, with her long, skinny foal's legs and windblown nature. She should have been born later. She should have been born now. There were so many opportunities these days for girls like Clemmie. Alice saw them everywhere, spirited, independent, forthright, and focused. Mighty girls unbounded by society's expectations. They made her glad, those girls, with their nose rings and their short hair and their impatience with the world. Sometimes Alice felt she could almost glimpse her sister's spirit moving in them. Clemmie had refused to speak to anyone in the months after Theo disappeared. Once the police had done their interviews, she'd shut her mouth, tight as a clam, and behaved as if her ears had switched off too. She'd always been eccentric, but it seemed to Alice, looking back, that during the late summer of 1933 she became downright wild. She hardly returned home, prowling around the airfields, slicing at the reeds by the stream with a sharpened stick, creeping inside the house only to sleep, and not even that most nights. Camping out in the woods or by the stream. God only knew what she ate. Birds' eggs, probably. Clemmie had always had a gift for raiding nests.

So what will you do?” Joseph, Lord Kesmore, asked his brothers-by-marriage. Westhaven glanced around and noted Their Graces were absent, and the ladies were gathered near the hearth on the opposite side of the large, comfortable family parlor. “Do? I wasn’t aware we were required to do anything besides eat and drink in quantities sufficient to tide us over until summer of next year,” Westhaven said. The Marquess of Deene patted his flat tummy. “Hear, hear. And make toasts. One must make holiday toasts.” St. Just shifted where he lounged against the mantel. “Make babies, you mean. My sister looks like she’s expecting a foal, not a Windham grandchild, Deene.” Gentle ribbing ensued, which Westhaven knew was meant to alleviate the worry in Deene’s eyes. “The first baby is the worst,” Westhaven said. “His Grace confirms this. Thereafter, one has a sense of what to expect, and one’s lady is less anxious over the whole business.” “One’s lady?” Lord Valentine scoffed. “You fool nobody, Westhaven, but Kesmore raises an excellent point. Every time I peek into the studio in search of my baroness, all I see is that Harrison and Jenny are painting or arguing.” “Arguing is good,” Kesmore informed a glass that did not contain tea. “Louisa and I argue a great deal.” Respectful silence ensued before the Earl of Hazelton spoke up. “Maggie and I argue quite a bit as well. I daresay the consequences of one of our rousing donnybrooks will show up in midsummer.” Toasting followed, during which Lord Valentine admitted congratulations were also in order regarding his baroness, and St. Just allowed he suspected his countess was similarly blessed, but waiting until after Christmas to make her announcement. When

Every time the cataclysmic concept has come to life, the 'beast' has been stoned, burned at the stake, beaten to a pulp, and buried with a vengeance; but the corpse simply won't stay dead. Each time, it raises the lid of its coffin and says in sepulchral tones: 'You will die before I.' The latest of the challengers is Prof. Frank C. Hibben, who in his book, 'The Lost Americans,' said: 'This was no ordinary extinction of a vague geological period which fizzled to an uncertain end. This death was catastrophic and all inclusive. [...] What caused the death of forty million animals. [...] The 'corpus delicti' in this mystery may be found almost anywhere. [...] Their bones lie bleaching in the sands of Florida and in the gravels of New Jersey. They weather out of the dry terraces of Texas and protrude from the sticky ooze of the tar pits off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles. [...] The bodies of the victims are everywhere. [...] We find literally thousands together [...] young and old, foal with dam, calf with cow. [...] The muck pits of Alaska are filled with evidence of universal death [...] a picture of quick extinction. [...] Any argument as to the cause [...] must apply to North America, Siberia, and Europe as well.' '[...] Mamooth and bison were torn and twisted as though by a cosmic hand in a godly rage.' '[...] In many places the Alaskan muck blanket is packed with animal bones and debris in trainload lots [...] mammoth, mastodon [...] bison, horses, wolves, bears, and lions. [...] A faunal population [...] in the middle of some cataclysmic catastrophe [...] was suddenly frozen [...] in a grim charade.' Fantastic winds; volcanic burning; inundation and burial in muck; preservation by deep-freeze. 'Any good solution to a consuming mystery must answer all of the facts,' challenges Hibben.

She slipped into the shadows and waited, like a she-wolf, for her quarry. Bay caught her breath when Owen Blackthorne stepped into the cool night air. He was close enough to touch. His shaggy black hair looked rumpled, as though he’d shoved both hands through it in agitation. When he started to move off the porch, Bay reached out and grasped his sleeve. A second later she was slammed back against the wall, a powerful male hand at her throat choking her. She could feel the heat of him, the solid maleness of him. And panicked. She clawed at Owen’s flesh with her nails and drove her knee upward toward his genitals. Her thrust her upraised knee aside, and the full weight of his over-six-foot frame shoved hard against her from shoulders to thighs. Bay froze, staring up at him in mute horror. Her body trembled in shock. She tried to speak, but there was no air to be had beneath the crushing pressure of his grip on her throat. “What the hell . . .?” He released her throat and grabbed her arms to yank her into the narrow stream of light from the kitchen doorway. She gasped a breath of air, coughed, then gasped another, pressing a shaky hand to her injured throat. She wrenched to free herself, but he let her go without a struggle and took a wary step back. She rubbed her arms where he’d held her, wishing she’d approached him more directly. “What are you doing out here, Mizz Creed?” His voice was clipped but controlled. The violence she’d felt in his touch was still there in his eyes, which glittered with hostility. “It’s Dr. Creed,” she rasped, glaring back at him. He lifted a black brow. “Well, Dr. Creed.” She opened her mouth to say I need your help. But the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing wrong with her voice. She just hated the thought of asking a Blackthorne for anything. “I haven’t got all night,” he said. “There’s an emergency at the barn—” “Ruby’s foal has already been delivered safely,” she said. “I made up that story because I wanted to speak privately with you.

spring’s foals were prancing in well-mowed fields as I drove past horse farms on Tates Creek

Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem! Behold, your king is coming to you; righteous and having salvation is he, humble and mounted on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey. I will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the war horse from Jerusalem; and the battle bow shall be cut off, and he shall speak peace to the nations; his rule shall be from sea to sea, and from the River to the ends of the earth. As for you also, because of the blood of my covenant with you, I will set your prisoners free from the waterless pit. Return to your stronghold, O prisoners of hope; today I declare that I will restore to you double. (Zech. 9:9–12)

See how the skulls we build Fill all the towers we build Crash down fury red Cracks in our hearts and heads See how the skulls we build Fill all the towers we till Crash down fury red Crash down fury red See how the skulls we build Fill all the towers we build Crash down fury red Cracks in our hearts and heads Your smile sticks a kiss That could stop it Your smile sticks a kiss That could stop it Your smile sticks a kiss Your smile sticks a kiss Your smile sticks a kiss That could stop it Your smile sticks a kiss Your smile sticks a kiss All could be well See how the skulls we build Fill all the towers we build Crash down fury red There's cracks in our hearts and heads A place where we can hide Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no See how the skulls we build Fill all the towers we build Crash down fury red There's cracks in our hearts and heads Your smile sticks a kiss That could stop it Your smile sticks a kiss That could stop it Your smile sticks a kiss Your smile sticks a kiss Your smile sticks a kiss That could stop it Your smile sticks a kiss Your smile sticks a kiss All could be well Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no Oh electric shocks, no

Red Socks Pugie In Context She said, these terminals once again Wasps' nests, these terminals once again These heart swells, these contexts in your head Oh hell no, these vessels Our heart swells up, these vessels Our heart swells up, which make us explode Oh hell no, these vessels Our heart swells up, which welcome These heart swells up, which make us explode Oh, what the hell, we should've said No, oh hell, we should've said No, heart swells, which make us explode She said these wasp's nests in your head These wasp's nests, these contexts in your head Once again... We could set it on fire for them We could set it on fire for them We could set it on fire for them We could set it on fire for them Oh hell no, these vessels Our heart swells up, which welcome These heart swells up, which make us explode Oh, what the hell, we set it on fire Oh hell, we set it on fire Heart swells, which make us explode Oh hell no, these vessels Our heart swells up, these vessels Our heart swells up, which make us explode Oh, what the hell We set it on fire We set it on fire We set it on fire

A lamb foaled in March makes the best pork when his horns have attained the length of an

Walking away on the springy legs of a foal he thought, How remarkable a thing a lie is. He wondered if it wasn't man's finest achievement, and after some consideration, he decided it was.

Sam’s smile was all innocent, his cornflower-blue eyes guileless as those of a newborn foal. “Nice night?” She scowled, narrowing her gaze. “You don’t fool me.” “I don’t know what you’re referring to.” His lips quirked as though he was trying not to laugh. She waved a hand over him. “Your choirboy act.” Now he chuckled outright. “Honey, I’m about as much a choirboy as you are a good girl.” Heat flooded her cheeks, and she distracted herself by taking a sip of coffee. When she was more composed, she said, “You and your sister are cut from the same cloth.” “I’m the more subtle of the two.” “More devious,” she muttered under her breath. “That’s another word.” Sam grinned. “And shameless.” “I’ve never seen the point in shame,” Sam said, and pointed to her. “You’ve got mud in your hair.” She

When we reached the street that branched off into the western section of the city, I expected Saadi to conintue north, but he did not. We dismounted and walked side by side, leading our horses, until my house came into view. “You should leave,” I said to him, hoping I didn’t sound rude. “Let me help you take King to your stable.” I hesitated, unsure of the idea, then motioned for him to follow me as I cut across the property to approach the barn from the rear. After putting King in his private stall at the back of the building, sectioned off from the mares, I lit a lantern and grabbed a bucket. While Saadi watched me from the open door of the building, I went to the well to fill it. “You should really go now,” I murmured upon my return, not wanting anyone to see us or the light. He nodded and hung the lantern on its hook, but he did not leave. Instead, he took the bucket from me, placing it in King’s stall, and I noticed he had tossed in some hay. Brushing off his hands, he approached me. “Tell your family I returned the horse to your care, that our stable master found him too unruly and disruptive to serve us other than to sire an occasional foal.” “Yes, I will,” I mumbled, grateful for the lie he had provided. I had been so focused on recovering the stallion that explaining his reappearance had not yet entered my mind. Then an image of Rava, standing outside the barn tapping the scroll against her palm, surfaced. What was to prevent her return? “And your sister? What will you tell her?” He smirked. “You seem to think Rava is in charge of everything. Well, she’s not in charge of our stables. And our stable master will be content as long as we can still use the stallion for breeding. As for Rava, keep the horse out of sight and she’ll likely never know he’s back in your hands.” “But what if you’re wrong and she does find out?” “Then I’ll tell her that I have been currying a friendship with you. That you have unwittingly become an informant. That the return of the stallion, while retaining Cokyrian breeding rights, furthered that goal.” I gaped at him, for his words flowed so easily, I wondered if there was truth behind them. “And is that what this is really all about?” I studied his blue eyes, almost afraid of what they might reveal. But they were remarkably sincere when he addressed the question. “In a way, I suppose, for I am learning much from you.” He smiled and reached out to push my hair back from my face. “But it is not the sort of information that would be of interest to Rava.” His hand caressed my cheek, and he slowly leaned toward me until his lips met mine. I moved my mouth against his, following his lead, and a tingle went down my spine. With my knees threatening to buckle, I put my hands on his chest for balance, feeling his heart beating beneath my palms. Then he was gone. I stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to do, then traced my still-moist lips, the taste of him lingering. This was the first time I’d been kissed, and the experience, I could not deny, had been a good one. I no longer cared that Saadi was Cokyrian, for my feelings on the matter were clear. I’d kiss him again if given the chance.

Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout, O daughter of Jerusalem! Behold, your King is coming to you; He is just and having salvation, Lowly and riding on a donkey, A colt, the foal of a donkey." (Zechariah 9:9)

Morningleaf flicked her small, curved ears. “Yes, they can. Raincloud did it four hundred years ago.” “That’s a legend.” Echofrost lashed her tail at a fly crawling up her leg. “Legends aren’t real; they’re exaggerated. Everyone knows that.” “Can we just play?” asked Morningleaf. She flapped her wings and galloped across the grass. Echofrost followed. Star watched as the fillies flattened their necks and angled their wings as if they were really flying. He whinnied and joined them, catching and passing them easily. The nice thing about his long legs was that he was fast—faster than any of the foals in Sun Herd.

My Number" You don’t have my number, we don’t need each other now We don’t need the city, the creed or the culture now 'Cause I feel, I feel alive, I feel, I feel alive I feel the streets are all pulling me down So people of the city I don’t need your counsel now And I don’t need your good advice, you don’t have my lover’s touch You don’t have my number, we don’t need each other now The creed or the culture, we can move beyond it now Now the wolf is knocking at my door, bang-banging, ask for more Stand here, we stand tall, we could move beyond these walls I don’t need your counsel, I don't need these city streets I don’t need that good advice 'cause we can move beyond it now You don’t have my number, we don’t need each other now The creed or the culture, you don’t have my lover’s touch 'Cause I feel, I feel alive, I feel, I feel alive I feel the streets are all far from there Do you even hear me? Do you even know my name? Can you see the ocean now? You don’t have my lover’s touch You don’t have my number, you don’t have my number People, can you hear me? Are you even listening now? 'Cause you don’t have my number, we don’t need each other now You can't steal my thunder 'cause you don’t have my lover’s touch You don’t have my number and I don’t need no one else And I don’t need these city streets, the creed or the culture now

There you are,” a voice rang out, its familiar tone lifting his spirits. It was his best friend, Morningleaf. He looked up to see the chestnut filly soar down out of the fir trees, followed by the twin foals, Bumblewind and Echofrost.

We’ve been looking for you,” said Morningleaf. “Did you see Brackentail and Stripestorm?” Star asked them. “I saw them,” said Bumblewind. “They came running out of the woods like they were being chased by wolves.” “Did they say anything?” Bumblewind looked at his twin sister. She shrugged her wings. “Not to us. They joined up with the other foals to play.

Star swished his tail as if he could erase the day. “No. They talked about my mother.” Morningleaf narrowed her eyes. “Don’t listen to them. Your mother is a legend.” “I know,” Star whispered, nodding his head. Each century when the Hundred Year Star appeared, a black foal was born to one mare in Anok—and this century, that mare had been his dam, Lightfeather.

Bumblewind trotted to Star and wrapped his wing around his neck. “Anyway, if you keep practicing, you’ll fly one day, Star. I know it. Nightwing was born a dud too.” Morningleaf smacked him. “Don’t talk about Nightwing.” Star exhaled. Nightwing was a black foal that lived four hundred years ago.

The prophecy of the black foal decreed that the Hundred Year Star would transfer its supernatural fire to the colt at midnight on his first birthday. The star would then disappear for another hundred years, and the black foal would become the most powerful pegasus in Anok.

But black foals were not regular pegasi to begin with, the most obvious difference being their color. Black coats existed for land horses, but not for pegasi. And their long legs and oversize wings, malformations that caused life-threatening early births, also made them different from the others in their herd.

The foals who survived were duds, and most starved to death. But Nightwing had been an exception—his mother had survived. Since a mare from a different herd was chosen each century to bear the black foal, the herd that received the special colt was known in Anok as the guardian herd.

All the old stories pictured Nightwing as a polite and friendly foal right up until his first birthday, and then he’d turned on the herds, attacking them, setting their grasslands on fire, and driving them to the edge of extinction. Star’s guardian herd feared he would do the same. So the fact that Nightwing had also been born a dud didn’t comfort Star.

Fat fish and tiny minnows darted out of his path. Down here he could pretend he was a regular flying foal like his friends, a full member of Sun Herd with a proper herd name. He was Starlight the colt, not Star the black foal of Anok, and he could fly—until he ran out of breath.

Morningleaf took advantage of their uncertainty and pushed past them. “Just ignore them,” she said to Star, Echofrost, and Bumblewind. They followed her past the foals. Brackentail regained his breath and flapped into the sky. “You better watch yourself, Morningleaf,” he threatened from the safety of the heights. “Hanging around the black foal is making you sour.” Brackentail’s entire body quivered as he said the words, and then he and his friends flew away before Morningleaf could respond to them. “Don’t listen to

The four friends finished their journey home in silence. Eventually the sloping path led them out of the trees and revealed the lower plain. Four thousand Sun Herd pegasi grazed in the green valley, their glossy feathers shimmering as they fanned themselves. Compact foals darted between tufts of grass like hummingbirds, their agile wings short and bright. Captains drilled their platoons in the foothills to the west, and fragrant summer flowers dotted the grassland.

Then she’d died with him curled between her front legs. He’d been too young to understand the words she’d spoken, but he knew they resided in him all the same, engraved deep in his memory. Lightfeather was a legend to some Sun Herd pegasi and an unlucky orphan to others. She’d been born to Snow Herd in the far north, the illegitimate foal of Icewing. But the lead mare there had driven Lightfeather and her mother out when she was just a filly.

A Sun Herd patrol had found Lightfeather hiding in a tree a few days later. A bear had killed and eaten her mother, so she was alone. They’d brought her to Sun Herd’s territory, where Silvercloud took pity on her and adopted her. When the filly grew up and became pregnant with the black foal, many pegasi in Sun Herd wished Silvercloud had left Lightfeather to die in the woods. Lightfeather became an outsider, just like her colt was now. “I’m really hungry,” Bumblewind said again, groaning.

The words pulled Star from his reverie. “All right. Let’s go.” They continued their descent and separated when they reached the long grass in the field. “There’s Mother,” said Echofrost. She and her brother kicked off and flew to Crystalfeather to nurse. The chestnut mare welcomed her foals with an anxious whinny.

Star and Morningleaf trotted to Silvercloud’s side. She nuzzled them and then noticed Star’s wound. “Star, what happened to your shoulder?” “He fell,” said Morningleaf, covering the truth. Star was grateful for her quick response because Morningleaf knew he didn’t like Silvercloud to worry about him. But Silvercloud was lead mare of Sun Herd and responsible for the safety of all the foals.

When they’d drunk their fill, the two foals collapsed on a blanket of dandelions. As Star closed his eyes, dark thoughts entered his mind, and within minutes of falling asleep, a nightmare gripped him.

He was a newborn foal visiting the fresh grave of his mother when a black shadow suddenly blotted out the sun. Star raised his head and saw Thunderwing flying to Lightfeather’s grave with his captains in tow. Silvercloud, who was standing next to Star, inched closer as the stallions landed and folded their wings. Star noticed that even the daylight was tinged by the gold fire of the Hundred Year Star, and it was under this light that Star met the crimson-feathered over-stallion for the first time.

Stripestorm galloped into the sky, then swooped down, gliding toward Star with hooves coiled. Star ducked just in time. “Come and get us,” taunted Brackentail as the two flew circles over his head. Star glared at the colts, who flew just out of his reach. Brackentail harassed all the foals in Sun Herd, but Star was his favorite target—maybe because Star had no mother to protect him, or maybe because Star was a dud, a pegasus who couldn’t

What we want and what we get are usually two different things,” said the duke. “When you reach my age, you look back and realize that, perhaps, they were the same all the time. And what has happened, whether it be a boy cutting his finger on a knife, the birth of a foal, the blossoming of a flower on the plain of Scarpe, will all one day be seen as blindingly important, woven together with countless other threads into something that can’t be seen now, from where we stand, but can be seen from some other vantage point.

O God, be thou exalted over my possessions. Nothing of earth’s treasures shall seem dear unto me if only thou art glorified in my life. Be thou exalted over my friendships. I am determined that thou shalt be above all, though I must stand deserted and alone in the midst of the earth. Be thou exalted above my comforts. Though it mean the loss of bodily comforts and the carrying of heavy crosses, I shall keep my vow made this day before thee. Be thou exalted over my reputation. Make me ambitious to please thee even if as a result I must sink into obscurity and my name be forgotten as a dream. Rise, O Lord, into thy proper place of honor, above my ambitions, above my likes and dislikes, above my family, my health, and even my life itself. Let me decrease that thou mayest increase; let me sink that thou mayest rise above. Ride forth upon me as thou didst ride into Jerusalem mounted upon the humble little beast, a colt, the foal of an ass, and let me hear the children cry to thee, “Hosanna in the highest.” In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Oooh,’ gushed Coco. ‘Love your jacket. So cute. And such a nice cut.’ I looked again. It was just a jacket, even though it was red and black. Could a jacket have a nice cut? What did that even mean? For me, a jacket was a back, two sleeves and two flaps at the front. Oh, and a collar. Bam. Done. Easy. I had no idea how Coco could say one jacket was cuter than another. And ‘cuter’? Puppies are cute. Foals are cute. Baby bunnies are cute. Jackets are not cute. ‘Thanks,’ I heard Baylor say. ‘I love your shorts. Adorable.’ I coughed and rubbed my eyes again. Honestly.

Something flew past Addie’s ear as she bent over her bag. Jude’s green cup. It hit the wall, fell on to Addie’s bed. She reached for it, felt the weight of it in her hand. She could throw it right back at Sunni. She wouldn’t miss. ‘All right?’ Sunni poked her finger hard into Addie’s back.

The fire in the kitchen was a real one inside a huge, brick hearth. ‘Get it going a bit more, shall we, Addie?’ Ruth said, smiling again. She pointed to a wooden rocking chair by the hearth. ‘Sit here, when you’re done, love. Warm yourself. But pop those trainers off first, I would. They look soaked.’ She bent down and poked at the fire with some kind of stick. Small red flames licked up around the logs inside.

She put her briefcase on the table. Addie stared at it. She knew all about that briefcase, with its files full of secrets and lies. She looked away. She was freezing cold, even in Ruth’s warm kitchen. Her toes felt as if something was biting them. And she was thirsty. ‘Yes,’ she said to Ruth. ‘Hot chocolate. Please.

Ruth smiled still more broadly. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Won’t be a mo.’ She moved a shiny copper pan from the bench on to the stove and began to stir it. Addie stared down at her feet. Snow slid from her shoes on to the tiled floor and quickly melted there. She glanced up. Had Ruth noticed? She hadn’t. She was deep in conversation with Penny, over by the stove. Addie pulled at her wet laces, took off her trainers. She held them up for a moment. Where was she supposed to put them? Nobody had said. She pushed them out of sight, under her chair, clutched her damp coat collar closer round her neck. She looked around. It was the kind of kitchen you see in films, or in magazines at the doctor’s surgery. Big tiles on the floor, big wooden furniture, big dark beams across the ceiling. There was an enormous fridge

covered in stickers, scribbled notes and photographs of children. Addie wondered who the children were and whether they all lived here, with Ruth and Sam. Whatever Penny and Ruth were planning, Addie’s photo was never going on that fridge. She strained to hear what Penny was saying to Ruth. Penny had her serious face on, which was worrying. Ruth was nodding. She glanced over at Addie, her eyes soft and watery. Like the police officer’s eyes, just before she made Addie let go of Mam’s hand. ‘Almost done, Addie,’ she said, smiling. She turned back to the stove, stirred her pan of milk, as if everything was normal. As if everything was fine. Ruth didn’t look like a foster carer. Not like Dawn anyway. Dawn, with her pink hair and high heels, her endless phone calls, her high-pitched

laugh. Dawn, who hardly spoke to Addie for the whole weekend she spent there in the summer. Dawn, who never smiled. Ruth’s face looked as if it was used to smiling. Her brown hair was scooped into a kind of nest on the top of her head. It bobbed from side to side as she moved around the kitchen, quick as bird. And she still had her boots on. Dawn would bust a gut. It was shoes off at the door in her house. Ruth would have rules, too, Addie thought – rules for children like her, who didn’t really belong in this house. She would tell Addie what they were when Penny had gone. Like Dawn did. Ruth reached over Addie’s shoulder; put a tray of drinks and a plate of thick, brown sandwiches on the table. ‘Help yourself, love,’ she said. ‘Just say if you want more.

If you told me that a baby unicorn would die if I don’t spread for this, I’d ask you where you want the foal buried! Just NO.

Drastic measures were called for, or one of them would soon be in strong hysterics. “Oh, fine, then,” he groused. “Get yourself killed and leave a man to grieve all over again when he’s hardly getting his bearings.” He sat back against the headboard and folded his arms behind his head. “Leave his only surviving child utterly bereft, cast adrift by a cousin too cavalier to accept the protection lying immediately to hand.” He raised his gaze toward the shadows flickering on the ceiling. “Go ahead and thwart my authority as head of the family, head of the household, and the local magistrate.” Gilly crawled across the mattress, which was roughly the dimensions of a foaling stall. “Leave me to drown in guilt and helpless rage,” he went on. “To waste my remaining years in fervent prayer for your immortal and entirely too stubborn and misguided soul. Strong drink will be necessary in quantity, I’m sure, and given the bodily ordeals I’ve been subjected—” “Hush.” She looped his arm across her shoulders and curled down against him. “I’ll stay here for now, but you must hush.

Oh, she says gravely, when a bell chimes or a phone rings, we simply take the opportunity to switch off and abandon all our plans and emotions - all our thoughts about other people and ourselves. Abandon all our human perceptions? I ask indignantly. In that case, what’s left for us? No, she says with a shake of the head, I only mean our conception of the world. I like the way she pronounces the word ‘conception’ in her Dutch accent, as if it were hot and she might burn her lips on it. I wish I could speak a foreign language as fluently as you do, I tell her. Please say ‘conception’ again. Explain it to me. What’s the difference between my perceptions and my conceptions? Resolutely, she makes for a cafe beneath some plane trees whose leaves are casting decorative shadows on the white tablecloths. She sits down and regards me sceptically, as if gauging whether I’m bright enough to merit an answer. Most of the time, she says, we form an opinion about things without really perceiving them. She points to an elderly woman waddling across the square laden down with plastic bags. For instance, she goes on, I look at that woman and I think, How bow-legged she is, and that skirt! A ghastly colour and far too short for her. No one should wear short skirts at that age. Are my own legs still good enough for short skirts? I used to have a blue skirt myself. Where is it, I wonder? I wish I was wearing that blue skirt myself. Where is it, I wonder? I wish I was wearing that blue skirt right now. But if I looked like that woman there... She props her head on her hands and regard me with a twinkle in her eye. I laugh. I haven’t really ‘perceived’ the woman, she says, I’ve merely pondered on skirts and legs and the ageing process. I’m a prisoner of my own ideas - my conceptions, in other words. See what I mean? I say yes, but I’d say yes to a whole host of things when she looks at me that way. A waitress of Franka’s age takes our order. She’s wearing a white crocheted sweater over her enormous breasts and a white apron tightly knotted around her prominent little tummy. Her platform-soled sandals, which are reminiscent of hoofs, give her a clumsy, foal-like appearance. Now it’s your turn, says Antje. French teenager, I say. Probably bullied into passing up an apprenticeship and working in her parents’ cafe. Dreams of being a beautician. No, Antje protests, that won’t do. You must say what’s really going through your head. I hesitate. Come on, do. I sigh. Please, she says. OK, but I take no responsibility for my thoughts. Deal! Sexy little mam’selle, I say. Great boobs, probably an easy lay, wouldn’t refuse a few francs for a new sweater. She’d be bound to feel good and holler Maintenant, viens! That song of Jane Birkin’s, haven’t heard it for years. I wonder what Jane Birkin’s doing these days. She used to be the woman of my dreams. Still, I’m sure that girl doesn’t like German men, and besides, I could easily be her father, I’ve got a daughter her age. I wonder what my daughter’s doing at this moment... I dry up. Phew, I say. Sorry, that was my head, not me. Antje nods contentedly. She leans back so her plaits dangle over the back of the chair. Nothing torments us worse than our heads, she says, closing her eyes. You’ve got to hand it to the Buddhists, they’ve got the knack of switching off. It’s simply wonderful.

A small china horse slid with them and fell to the floor. Addie pushed at the broken pieces with the toe of her trainer, hid them under Sunni’s bed. Served her right. She

She wandered around the house until morning. She needed her loud music and her drinks to get her through the dark space in between. She needed Addie.

Midwestern farmers bred the horses the city required—haphazardly at first, but with increasing expertise at selective improvement as the century advanced. By far the most popular workhorse in the United States was the Percheron, a breed that originated in the Perche region of France, about fifty miles southwest of Paris. Although it was long claimed that the Percheron breed was shaped in the Middle Ages when native Perche mares were bred with Arabian stallions brought back from the Crusades, no evidence other than oral tradition supports the claim. Some archeological evidence identifies the type as having Neolithic antecedents.8 All modern Percheron bloodlines trace to a warhorse named Jean Le Blanc, foaled in Le Perche in 1823 when Perche breeders were breeding a heavier horse for the American trade.

she is due to launch on STS-86 to the Mir as Mike Foale’s replacement,

My Thracian foal, why do you glare with disdain and then shun me absolutely as if I knew nothing of this art? I tell you I could bridle you with tight straps, seize the reins and gallop you around the posts of the pleasant course. But you prefer to graze on the calm meadow, or frisk and gambol gayly—having no manly rider to break you in.

God would be there with it, in every moment, sure as the North Star.