Рита Браун - Homeward Hound

“He turned here.” Dasher leapt, turning himself in midair.

A trusted hound, the others followed suit and now hounds ran. A lope, not a flat-out gallop, but the field awakened, a stiff coop loomed up ahead. Sister, an Episcopalian, nonetheless carried rosary beads. This jump did not elicit a call to the Blessed Virgin Mother but she needed to take it seriously. Actually, the jumps that often caused the most problems were smaller jumps because the rider didn’t take them seriously and then neither did the horse.

Up and over she sailed on Aztec, such a handy chestnut Thoroughbred. Handy, sensible, loved leading the field and he loved Sister; the two of them made a wonderful team.

Sarge, the young fox, heard the hounds, zigzagged, crossed the tertiary road.

“Tallyho!” Aunt Dan beamed as Yvonne stopped, the fox forty yards ahead.

“He’s a little fellow. What a gorgeous coat,” Yvonne, learning about foxhunting, exclaimed. “I think he’s the one who visits my doghouse.”

“Young. He’ll get bigger. Maybe eight or nine pounds when he’s done. And that winter coat is lush. Oh dear.”

A visitor’s horse refused the jump so the lady, put out, had to ride to the rear of the field and give everyone else the chance to go over. If a horse refuses, it gives the other horses ideas. Best to get someone over right away, which almost always takes care of that.

“Nice jump. That Luckham fellow can ride,” Yvonne noticed. “Ronnie introduced us when I arrived. Perfectly calm given that this is the eye of the hurricane.”

“Honey, every man wants to meet you.”

“I am done with men. You mark my words.”

“I am. I am.” The older woman, her silver-domed earrings highlighted by her silver hair, grinned. “Stop. Don’t move.”

“What?” Yvonne, confused, asked.

“Second Flight is coming up behind you.”

Checking her rearview mirror, sure enough, the long line of those who did not jump trotted on the road.

“Toughest job in foxhunting, leading Second Flight. Bobby Franklin has done it for years. He gets the sick, the lame, and the halt.” Aunt Daniella smiled again. “Well, I’m being a tiny bit sarcastic, but it can be difficult. Sister has the best riders in First Flight. But sometimes when one ages or is on a green horse, you go out with Second Flight.”

“Sam says that’s where I will start.”

“No one is better than Bobby. He’ll get you as close to the action as possible.”

The hounds moved closer to the action so Sarge picked up speed. He sailed over the stone fence enclosing Old Paradise pastures, the estate, having endured as much tragedy as joy.

The white field, open, meant he’d better step on it. No point in being out in the open any longer than possible. The two women in the car could clearly see him hook left heading toward woods’ edge, where boulder outcroppings were glimpsed between trees.

Flying now, hounds closed with their quarry. Sarge, with a good head start, easily vaulted onto a large rock, then another, finally slipping into a crevice large enough for him but not a hound. His den, a little cave, filled with straw, old towels, old dog toys he stole from the farms around the area, provided cozy quarters from wind, rain, sleet, snow, for the main opening faced east and weather usually came from the west. Another exit, way in the rear, off to the side, also kept out the weather. And just in case, the little fellow had a backup den forty yards away under a huge fallen tree.

The hounds leapt onto the rocks, only a few at a time, for it wasn’t broad enough for the pack.

Trident, a young hound, called down. “We know you’re in there.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Sarge taunted.

“Well—” The young hound wrinkled his brow.

“Don’t encourage a smart mouth.” Diana, a lead hound, chastised the youngster. “Come on. Get down. We might get one more cast for the weather is changing.”

The clouds, stacking up on the west side of the Blue Ridge Mountains, were fifteen minutes away from peeping over the top and then another fifteen before they swept down, the wind moaning before the snow arrived, early.

Sister rode up as Shaker had dismounted to blow “Gone to Ground.”

The hounds wiggled in excitement. They had done their job after all.

“The Weather Channel predicted the snow would arrive early afternoon. I say we hunt back. We’ve got some time.”

“Yes, madam.” Shaker, who had known Sister for decades, addressed her correctly in the hunt field.

Wesley Blackford, “Weevil,” held Shaker’s horse. The older man mounted with ease. Weevil then fell back as he rode today as third whipper-in. Tootie Harris, Yvonne’s daughter, rode as second whipper-in on the left while Betty Franklin, first whipper-in, rode on the right. The side they covered had nothing to do with their ranking and both ladies were honorary, which is to say amateurs. They knew their stuff. Weevil was paid, therefore professional. Betty, in her fifties, had the territory memorized plus she remembered the great-great-grandparents of some of the hounds. Family traits passed. And most of all, she knew Sister. Their friendship, deep and loving, carried both through life’s sorrows and joys.

Sister watched Weevil, thirty, perhaps a year or two over the 0, ride to the rear. He carried himself on the ground or on a horse with a peculiar masculine grace. Every action appeared effortless. He hunted with Toronto–North York where he learned how to do things properly, winding up in Virginia through fate. His grandfather had hunted the Jefferson Hounds back in the early fifties. While one rarely describes a man as beautiful, he was beautiful and quite unaware of it.

“Come along,” Shaker called to the hounds.

They moved to the edge of the pasture, jumped a tiger trap that was built like a coop but with logs facing upward, stacked next to one another. Snow rested in the crevices between the logs, which gave a few horses pause. The riders kept their leg on and everyone popped over.

“Lieu in,” Shaker called out using the ancient Norman term meaning “Go in, get in the covert, and find your fox.”

If it was good enough for William the Conqueror, it was good enough for modern foxhunters.

The hounds fanned out, noses down. Nothing doing. Pookah, another younger hound, drifted toward woods’ edge. Another huntsman would have thought the hound was trailing off skirting, but Shaker knew his hounds. Pookah stopped. His stern wagged. He sniffed. More tail work.

His sister, Pansy, called out. “What do you think?”

“An old line. But maybe it will heat up.”

Gregory Luckham, next to Ronnie, as the field had pulled up, said low, “Skirting.”

Ronnie shook his head. “No. Shaker makes a loose cast. We can in this territory. That’s a blue-chip hound.”

How wise of Ronnie to call attention to both the hound and the fabulous territory.

A loose cast was a bit like throwing your hounds on the ground like dice. Fixtures crisscrossed with roads, too much traffic, demanded that hounds stay more tightly together. This was hard on hounds, huntsmen, and staff, to say nothing of wildlife pressured by too many humans.

“Got ’em,” Pookah finally sang out.

The hounds rushed to him, noses down. Everyone trusted the hound even though young and yes, they had a good line. All sang out at once. A sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Sister grinned, kicked into a canter, a low dip ahead; she leaned back in the saddle, her legs a bit ahead of the girth.

Raymie, the steeplechase rider, had his legs even farther ahead. He considered it his insurance policy. The man had cleared so many big fences, one would think he wouldn’t pay attention, but he did pay attention, which was why he was still riding in his eighth decade, riding hard.