Рита Браун - Out Of Hounds

Grateful for the respite, rider and horse stopped to watch the hounds work. High, driven, frantic to pick up the scent, they cast themselves, pushing, pushing, pushing.

The wind, stronger now that they were in the open, moved, as it usually does in this part of the world, from west to east, most often from the northwest down.

Weevil studied the situation. Sister could have told him what to do but as this was his second year hunting the hounds she would not interfere. Nor would his two whippers-in, standing at a distance on the right and the left. If he wanted help he would have asked.

Weevil did not suffer from false pride.

He looked up, watched treetops swaying back in the woods. Taking a deep breath, he asked Kilowatt to walk thirty yards to his right and forward. The woods somewhat shifted the wind but not too much.

“Get ’em up,” he encouraged them.

Aces, a young hound, eagerly followed, as did the others. The other twenty-three couple of hounds, which is to say forty-six hounds, for hounds are always measured in couples and have been since the days of the pharaohs, followed. Cora, a brilliant hound, started feathering, that tail picking up speed like a windshield wiper.

“Got him!” she shouted as she took off.

Within seconds the pack moved off, Weevil behind. Again, the pace was blistering.

The brief wait allowed Sister to check the field. Some had fallen behind. Not all horses were as hunting fit as they might be, and then again, not all horses were fast. A few would finally bring up the rear or fall back to Second Flight, which took small jumps but often used gates, a time-consuming process.

The wind bit now. Glad she wore her white cashmere sweater under her heavy Melton coat, a white stock tie covering the neckline, Sister again moved out.

On and on they rode, the pace faltering then picking up again until hounds reached Bishop’s Court, formerly the only Catholic church in Albermarle County in the early eighteenth century before, as the population grew, the economy finally soared after we had paid our war debt and other Catholic churches cropped up. In those days being Catholic was no advantage, as most of the settlers came from the British Isles where, with the exception of Irish ones, if one was Catholic, they often hid it. Henry VIII and the Dissolution saw to that as well as mass deaths from turning out the monks, nuns, hunting down priests like vermin.

Sister saw the quarry, a healthy large male red fox who sped to the church, ducking into a den he’d dug under it. Hounds reached the spot perhaps four minutes after he’d gone to ground.

Weevil hopped off Kilowatt, his legs the tiniest bit shaky, for it was a long, long, hard run, where he blew “Gone to Ground.” Patting each hound’s head he praised them by name as Kilowatt patiently stood.

Finally Weevil turned to his horse, stroked his head, and kissed his nose. He loved animals and they loved him. Swinging up in the saddle, he smiled at his whippers-in.

The hunt had to turn back, as this was the last fixture before the end of the road, the southern spike from Chapel Cross, each road called by its direction, north, south, east, or west. The road ended before an odd ridge, left by the glacier, prevented further travel by car. The ridge was thick up there and steep. It was also full of game and perhaps a few illegal activities, for the waters ran crystal clear down to creeks below.

Sister rode up to Weevil. “The best.”

He grinned. “The breeding season runs are always the best.”

“So they are.” She turned to indicate the field. “We have about a seven mile walk back and I think we do need to walk. They look tuckered out but happy.”

“It was a test.” He nodded.

“I wouldn’t admit this to too many people but I feel it. This was the longest continuous run of our season. It’s been a spotty season.” She looked up and west. “And we’re about to get more snow. Okay. Let’s go.”

As the horses, hounds, and people turned to walk along, Sister joined the field, chatting with people as they walked. No need to be silent now. One does not speak in the hunt field, but the hunt was over so, of course, everyone wanted to weigh in on the bear. Death defying.

She smiled, listened, enjoying what she thought of as her people.

Their goal, Tattenhall Station, would take a good forty minutes at this pace but that was fine.

First Flight and Second Flight merged, more fun for all.

Crawling along on the road, driving her big BMW 5 SUV was Yvonne Harris and Aunt Daniella Laprade with, in the backseat, Kathleen Sixt Dunbar, an antiques dealer who had moved here when her husband died last year, leaving her his business. Kathleen, Daniella, and Yvonne became dedicated car followers, and soon good friends. Tootie waved to her mother, Yvonne, as she kept her eye on the hounds, just as happy as the people to return to water and a biscuit. Once at the kennel they would be given a warm mash after such a day. Sister would pour in a bit of whiskey. She claimed it was her secret ingredient for a terrific hound. It was a secret, or not-so-secret, ingredient for many in the field as well, for they drained their flasks. It may not have slaked thirst but one felt warm.

Twenty-five minutes later Sister reached the hill behind Tattenhall Station, which could be viewed in the distance, as welcome a sight as it once was for much of the county, being the old train station for the Norfolk Southern Railway, the line running east and west. Falling into disuse as passenger lines vanished, cars taking over, the Victorian structure held many memories. Norfolk Southern finally sold it to an Indian gentleman, Kasmir Barbhaiya, who restored it to its bric-a-brac glory, as well as the over one thousand acres he purchased around it. Educated at private, called public, school in England, thence on to Oxford, he had a brilliance that resulted in an enormous fortune made in the pharmacy industry in India. Once free of running the business he repaired to central Virginia, for he had fallen in love with the place.

Not only did Sister daily give thanks for this warm, loving man, she especially gave thanks as she looked at the train station, now perhaps seven minutes away. Anything to feel warmth.

Weevil, Betty, and Tootie reached the parking lot before the others, already dismounted, and were loading hounds into their trailer, filled with fresh straw so hounds could bed down. Once hounds were up, the three did not untack their horses except to take off the bridles. Each threw a heavy blanket over their mount, keeping the saddle on to keep the animal’s back warm. Most people removed the saddle but Sister believed the saddle and the pad kept the horse warm until you reached home. No point having a cold-backed horse. Also loaded onto the trailer, feed bags hanging inside, they were happy. Good hay can make most any horse happy.

Reaching her trailer, Betty and Tootie’s horses already inside, Sister steeled herself. Once her feet hit the ground they would sting like the devil. Swinging her right leg over, she slowly slid down Keepsake’s left side. Good boy that he was he didn’t mind this slow dismount. Accustomed to Sister’s ways he knew he’d soon be toasty in his heavy blanket, eating hay with his buddies.

“Dammit to hell,” Sister cursed under her breath.

Father Mancusco, at the next trailer, remarked, “I heard that.”

“Father, I apologize. But I will not do the stations of the cross.”

“Of course you won’t. You’re an Episcopalian. These things happen.” He teased her good-naturedly. “By the way, I do hope you realize that we were running Catholic fox. Popped right in at Bishop’s Court.”

“I did.” She adored the middle-aged priest, glad he was a hunting man, for he had been transferred to the area within the last six months.