With a dry crack, the lightning struck the rock, was flung aside and buried itself in the green earth. The rock was hard; the lightning could scarcely chip a crumb or two from that grey stone. The green earth beneath the rock was the graveyard of all the lightning that cracked in that valley: all the lightning of spring and summer lay buried beneath the rock, and the oak nearby always shuddered in fright at every crack and, in its thoughts, in its own oak-like way, thanked the rock for drawing to itself all the lightning hurled into the valley, burying it underneath and saving the oak from being scorched.
A little earlier, when the lightning was circling above the valley and the hills, thinking of cracking but had not yet cracked, the foal’s mother called him with a gentle neigh. His mother knew that the lightning was about to crack and that the sound would frighten him, but the foal thought she was calling him to nurse. He listened to himself, moved his ears and began listening inwardly to see whether he wanted any milk. He did not much want milk; he wanted to sniff the grasses and flowers and get to know the grasses one by one—and just then the lightning cracked. The foal shied and ran towards his mother, but he was so frightened that he could not see her and was running the wrong way. His mother tried to go to him, but the rope around her neck held her back. And she neighed for him to come to her.
The foal was a month old, and this was the first lightning in his month-long life. He sheltered beneath his mother’s chest. From there, with his ears pricked, he listened for a little while to the rain drumming on the oak leaves, looked for a little while at the rock, the rosehip bush and the oak, blinked and forgot that the crack of lightning had frightened him. He thought he had come to his mother to nurse. Waving his curly little black tail, he went beneath her belly. The old mare moved a leg back and let her milk flow so that her foal could suck freely and drink his fill.
He was a star-dappled foal, covered, that is, in little stars like grains of frost. His legs were thin and long. His right hind leg was white below the hock. He looked as though he were dusted with frost, and his right hind leg with snow. His neck was thin and long. His head was small, with a round white mark on his forehead, like an aster. Deer, kids and lambs came to drink from the stream in that valley, and so did the mare, who had had many foals, but this foal was the most beautiful creature in the green field. His mane and tail were black. We did not know what his eyes were like, because he shied away and we could not get close to him. But let us say that his eyes were very beautiful, for horses have beautiful eyes, and everything around them is reflected there. Now the oak, the flowers, the rosehip bush, his chestnut mother and the whole green valley were reflected in the foal’s eyes.
He was a little foolish, but only because he was little. A raindrop rolled down between his legs, and he shied and ran away from his mother. She did not call him back: the rain had stopped, there would be no more cracking lightning, and now the sun was out.
The green field shone in the sun. Wet and full of light, the valley’s only oak shone too, and the rosehip bush shone, and the mare’s wet back, and the foal’s back, and the stream that began at the grey rock and flowed away through the green valley. The stream smelled of lightning, and the foal shied a little. The rosehip bush smelled of lightning too: he startled away a leap or two, stopped, looked at the bush and, with small, cautious steps, went back to sniff it again.
The mare knew all the scents and smells of that valley. She knew the scents of all the valleys and hills, but those of this valley she knew better, for she was often tethered here to graze. The smell of lightning was fleeting; now it would vanish in the sun along with the dew. The scent of thyme did not belong to this valley either: the wind had tossed it down from the hills. The mare grazed and smelled wet sheep’s wool. She thought that sheep were grazing on the other side of the hills, so there must be big sheepdogs there too.
Sheep were grazing on the other side of the hills; the wet grass in the valley was sweet, the stream water was sweet, the old mare thought; the sun was warm, and the foal was shying and growing in the valley’s warm kindness.
The mare raised her head: the oak stood quietly, the rock stood as though asleep, the foal was sniffing the rosehip bush. The sun was warm and the grass was sweet; she ought to graze. She lowered her head, tore off a mouthful or two, but something was troubling her, and she raised her head again.
Standing still in the green valley, her head raised, the old chestnut mare looked at the valley for a long time and listened to the silence for a long time. Everything was as before: the oak stood quietly, the rock dozed, the foal skipped about near the rosehip bush. It seemed she could graze, but the chestnut mare did not lower her muzzle to the ground. She tossed her head sharply up and waited with her ears pricked to catch all the valley’s hidden sounds. And she waited with her nostrils flared to catch its unfamiliar smells. Butterflies rustled, beetles sang, the stream murmured, and the foal, stretching his neck, followed a butterfly around the rosehip bush, but these were not the sounds the old chestnut mare wanted to hear, nor the sights she wanted to see. There was danger in the valley after all. No sound of it was in the air, no sign of it was visible in the valley, no smell of it was on the wind, yet the mare could not graze.
The old chestnut mare began to grow angry. She was angry because there was an enemy in the valley, but that enemy could not be sensed or heard or seen.
Standing in the green valley, the grey rock, the leafy oak, the old chestnut mare and the rosehip bush looked and listened to the silence. For the rock there was no danger in the green valley, because there would be no more lightning today. The oak looked, and all was well for the oak, because there would be no lightning and the sun was warm. All was well for the rosehip bush too, because the foal’s muzzle could not reach the few flowers at its top. But the old chestnut mare sweated with the strain of waiting.
The valley was betraying the mare: there was an enemy in the valley, but the valley would reveal neither its sound nor its smell. The old chestnut mare dared not go towards her foal: she was afraid the sound of her own footsteps would drown out the enemy’s hidden sounds. She dared not breathe: she was afraid the noise in her own lungs would drown out the enemy’s secret breathing. She did not blink: she was afraid that, in the blink of her eye, the enemy would leap from one place to another and she would fail to notice the leap.
So the rock, the oak, the rosehip bush and the mare stood motionless in the green valley. The rock dozed. The oak’s acorns swelled with sap inside their safe armour, and all was well for the oak. The rosehip bush had opened its flower cups to the sun and was drinking sunlight, while the old chestnut mare trembled with anger. Never, not once, had the valley betrayed her like this. Perhaps the smell of lightning was keeping her nostrils from catching the smell of the enemy, who was nearby, somewhere close and giving off a smell, but whose smell was hidden beneath the scorched smell of lightning.
The foal looked at something, then looked at his mother. He looked at the same thing again, then at his mother. His mother could not see that thing; it was not visible from where she stood. The foal looked at it, then turned his head towards his mother. She stood with her head raised, and her eyes were burning.
The foal stretched his neck, reached out his little muzzle and went towards that thing, and at that moment his mother caught the loathsome smell of a wolf. She neighed, sprang towards her foal and saw the wolf lift from the ground in a long, fluid leap.
On the other side of the hills, the mare’s short, nervous whinny was heard. There, beside the sheep, the big sheepdogs grew alert for a second, waited a little for other sounds and relaxed.
The chestnut mare sprang towards her foal, hurled herself towards the wolf and the foal, but fell. She was an old mare and had fallen before, but never so unexpectedly. She fell and rose at once. Her own powerful rush and the rope had brought her down. The rope was choking her; the rope would not let her fly to her little one.
The foal was running far away from the rosehip bush. He wanted to reach his mother, tried to reach her in a wide circle, but each time the wolf cut off his path and drove him farther and farther away. And the rope was choking his mother. Then the foal leapt over the wolf towards his mother, but the wolf caught his hind leg from below, and he fell. The foal screamed and sprang up.
The foal’s piercing cry was heard on the other side of the hills, and the big sheepdogs grew alert, and among them the black-muzzled dog Topush grew alert.
The foal screamed and sprang up, and then his mother reared and strained towards the wolf and the foal with all her weight and all her fury; the rope snapped and lashed her legs. She raced forward with all her momentum, all her strength, all her fury and all her love. She was a very swift mare, but never in her life had she raced as though flying like this.
The dull thudding of her hooves was heard on the other side of the hills. Then no sound from the valley could be heard there, and the big sheepdogs and the little shepherd boy settled down.
The wolf let go of the foal and escaped being trampled. The mare charged, and the wolf ran back a little. The mare came at her again, and the wolf drew back a little farther. With her muzzle almost touching the ground, the mare came on, slowly, menacingly; the wolf flattened herself against the earth and was about to leap and hang from the mare’s nostrils, and the mare turned.
The mare turned, and the wolf leapt and stood facing her. With her foal beneath her chest, the mare turned again, and the wolf circled with her. The wolf kept circling, and the mare kept turning. With two short leaps, the wolf came beneath the mare’s muzzle, but the mare again managed to turn and kick. With one long leap, the wolf came beneath her muzzle, and the mare did not quite manage to turn; the wolf scratched her nostrils, and the mare struck her with a forefoot. The wolf drew back but did not flee; she sat and looked at the mare, and the mare looked at the wolf. And the wolf understood that the mare would protect her foal to the end, and the mare understood that the wolf would not leave. The mare was sweating, but the wolf was tired too. The wolf sprang suddenly. After that, she kept leaping at the mare’s nostrils, and the mare kept turning and keeping her foal beneath her chest.
It was evening now, and their movements had slowed. The wolf circled slowly around the mare, almost dragging herself, almost crawling, and the mare turned slowly and painfully in place, sometimes stumbling and almost falling. Their eyes had dimmed, and they could barely see each other. Exhaustion had deafened them.
The little shepherd boy came up onto the hilltops and looked at the sunset. The sunset was red, and beneath it the valley’s only oak was beautiful… but what the boy saw was so ugly that he could not speak: the wolf was hanging from the chestnut mare’s nostrils, and the old chestnut mare could not trample her; the old chestnut mare was already, already sinking.
“Hey, boy, he-ey!” someone called from the opposite hills. “That wolf’s killing that horse, hey, boy, he-ey!… Where are the dogs, he-ey!…”
The little shepherd boy opened his mouth to scream but could make no sound. He only waved his arms. The big sheepdogs grew alert and looked. The dogs saw and sprang away… Topush, Bob, Sevo, Boghar, Chalak, Chambar. Black-muzzled Topush was a skilled dog: he would go up silently and seize his quarry; now too he ran silently in front. But Boghar was a young dog and still a little afraid of wolves, so he barked from a distance to make them run away and spare him a fight. Now Boghar ran barking. He was very swift; sometimes he overtook Topush, but he dared not break away from the pack and go alone. He stopped and waited for Topush, barking, ran beside him, but again raced ahead and again slowed down.
Just as the mare was about to sink to her knees, the wolf heard dogs barking far away, as though in a dream. She did not want to believe that the dogs were coming at her, barking: surely fate could not be so merciless that a whole day’s torment should come to nothing and she should return hungry and empty-handed to her three cubs.
When there was no strength left in her, when the pain in her nostrils was growing dull, when her eyes had gone completely dark and her ears completely deaf, the mother mare heard dogs barking far, far away and believed they were barking for her foal and for her: surely fate could not be so cruel that her foal should live for only a single June. The old mare knew that the dogs were near and their barking seemed distant because exhaustion had deafened her. She knew she could endure a little longer, just a little longer; she had to endure until the dogs arrived. But how hard it was to breathe, what a heavy burden this life had become!
The dogs’ barking burst inside the wolf’s very ears, yet she still could not believe that such painfully won success could end in such failure. Her cubs hungry at home, her teats empty… Teeth pierced her neck, pierced her ear, and the wolf let go of the mare’s nostrils. They had caught her paw. There was no strength to pull it free. The wolf wanted to sleep, to sleep. There was no strength to fight; she wanted to die, to rest. She flattened herself out and pressed her throat to the ground so the dogs could not seize it. The dogs tore at her back and neck, tugged at her ears, while she protected her throat and rested beneath the heap of dogs.
The wolf bit a paw, and one of the dogs leapt aside with a yelp. She stood up, and the dogs surrounded her and waited. Standing among them, the wolf looked at the dogs, and there were many of them, and it was hard, unbearably hard, impossible to break free and drag herself home where her cubs were waiting. Baring her fangs, she looked at the dogs, and the dogs looked at her; for a moment they looked at each other like that, and the wolf did not know what she would do, and the dogs did not know what they would do. And one of the dogs bristled, leapt and struck her with his chest, flinging her back. She barely managed to keep her feet and understood that the most dangerous one was that black-muzzled dog.
“Hey, boy, he-ey!… Who are you there, he-ey!… Get down and help those dogs, get down and help those dogs, let them kill it, he-ey!…” someone called from the opposite hills.
The mare could barely stay on her feet. Her head grew heavy and drooped. She felt her foal sucking and could barely find the strength to rejoice in it. Her head sank, her forelegs buckled too, and the foal was still sucking. The mare collapsed. Now the foal stood beside her, waiting for his mother to get up, but she did not get up. He nudged her belly with his little muzzle, but she did not stand or move. He lay down beside her belly, and his hind leg hurt terribly, and he began to suck. And his mother still gave milk, still gave milk in abundance, abundance, abundance, gave milk for the last time to her foal, who was an orphan now, the most beautiful foal she had ever had: star-dappled, with a curly black mane and tail, a white lower leg and an aster on his forehead, a little foolish, but foolish only because he was little.
The wolf did manage to escape. Had she failed to escape, her cubs would have been orphaned and, utterly helpless, would have died; and the wolf managed to escape. It was not a flight but a retreat, step by step, leap by leap, a few leaps followed by a few more. After a few leaps, when the dogs caught up and were about to seize her, she turned, bristled and bared her fangs, and the dogs stopped, and she retreated another leap or two.
The huge black-muzzled sheepdog never did manage to seize the wolf’s throat, and the wolf never managed to bite and frighten him. But now he was not pursuing her, because a tuft of hair from her neck had got into his mouth. He had fallen behind and, gagging and sneezing, was clearing his mouth in disgust. The black-muzzled dog was not pursuing her, and the other dogs were not dangerous, because they were not skilled.
The dogs lost the wolf, then lost her trail too, but for a long time they circled, ran, milled about and howled in the green valley, where the rock had now darkened, the oak stood quietly, the rosehip bush had opened a few flower cups to gather dew, and the body of the old chestnut mare lay. The foal stood beside his mother and was a little uneasy, as though he already understood what had happened.
Beneath the sunset the whole valley was a luminous green, and around the old chestnut mare it was black, a very deep black. Her old chestnut body lay within that black circle. The black circle was where the mare and the wolf had fought; that blackness was the ground the mare had trampled. Looking at that black, trampled, churned-up, heavily trampled earth, you could understand how long the old mare had turned around and around on the spot, fighting the wolf.
That black circle stayed black for about three years; for about three years no grass grew there, and the white skeleton of our good old mare lay inside it. Then the green won: green shoots sprang up within the black circle, flowers bloomed between the bones, grasses rose and flourished, and now the green valley is green all over.
When you look down from the hilltops, the green valley is green all over, the oak stands majestically in it, the rock dozes and listens to the rustling of clouds, the rosehip bush holds its five flower cups in the sun, and a star-dappled horse grazes tethered in the green field: the right hind leg white below the hock, the legs long, the neck long, the mane and tail dark and sun-scorched, a white aster on the forehead. When the horse takes a step, the right hind leg gives a slight twitch, like a nervous tremor, because of the old scar.
The horse with an aster on its forehead raises its beautiful head, and in its eyes are reflected the rock, the oak, the flowering rosehip bush, the green valley and the white clouds in the blue sky.
“Is that the end?”
“That’s the end.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Let the mummy horse not die.”
“I can’t say the mother horse didn’t die, because the mother horse died. When the little shepherd boy ran down from the hilltops, the mother horse was dead, and the foal stood sadly beside her. When the shepherd who had called ‘Hey, boy, he-ey!’ came down from the opposite hills, the mother horse had already gone completely cold. The old shepherd and the little shepherd boy sat for a while beside the old chestnut mare and thought about how they would raise her foal.”
“And how did they raise him?”
“On another mare’s milk.”
“No, let his mother not die.”
“I can’t say his mother didn’t die, because all summer I fed that orphaned foal on other mares’ milk.”
“Shall I tell you what should happen?”
“Tell me.”
“Let the shepherd on the other side of the hills be up on the hilltops and notice the wolf sooner.”
“The shepherd was on the other side of the hills and noticed the wolf when he came up onto the hilltops.”
“Why did the horse die?”
“When they were sitting beside the old chestnut mare’s body, the old shepherd told the little shepherd boy that the mare’s heart had burst from fear for her foal, and from loathing and fury.”
“Did she loathe the wolf?”
“Yes, the wolf.”
“Let the dogs kill the wolf.”
“I can’t say the dogs killed the wolf, because our black-muzzled dog had swallowed wolf hair and nearly died himself.”
“Were you the little shepherd boy?”
“I was. The mare was our mare, and the foal was our mare’s foal.”
“Has the foal grown up now? Is he tethered in the green valley?”
“Yes, he’s grown up and is tethered in the green valley.”
“Does he remember his chestnut mummy?”
“Perhaps he remembers his chestnut mummy, because horses remember.”
“Then tell it again.”
“With a dry crack, the lightning struck the quartz rock, was flung aside and buried itself in the green earth. The grey rock was hard; the lightning could scarcely chip a crumb or two from that quartz rock. Only the oak was a little frightened, because lightning strikes and scorches oaks, and the long-legged, star-dappled little foal was very frightened; a foal is also called a colt… so frightened that he ran as though towards his mother, but could not see her and ran the wrong way. And the old chestnut mare told him where she was with a gentle neigh…”