The Black Horse
by Kinto Mythostian


"These, sisters, are the stables. Please make sure to watch your step, and - Capique! I just told you to watch your step!"

Capique, one of the youngest of the group, shrieks and stumbles awkwardly to the side, the silver-furred rabbit girl narrowly avoiding putting her white-stockinged paws squarely in a warm mound of horse apples.

Ten lapine voices giggle at Capique's expense as her own oversized ears flush pink, her head bowed in shame and her hands clutching at the front of her Dark Green jumper. 

Their guide, Dakeh, a brown rabbit in a Light Blue jumper, shakes her head, "I should not have to warn you - any of you - twice. Please pay attention when someone is speaking to you. I do not want to have to assign any of you penance on your first day, but I will if you make it necessary."

Sepyrri, a black-and-brown-furred rabbit in a Gray jumper and the last member of the dozen, does not laugh. Her eyes are focused on the ground by habit; she had seen the hazard from several yards away and had already altered her course to avoid it before Dakeh even spoke. It seems to her that Capique had merely been unlucky, and that any of the others could have been Dakeh's target, absorbed as they all were in their own conversations and not in looking where they were going.

Sepyrri sniffs the air of the stables, trying to put words to the smell of the place; it isn't bad per se, but it certainly is pervasive. On either side of the wide gravel path are arrayed long, brown buildings - twelve of them, naturally, each with a different Hue of painted trim and their doors surmounted by a carved wooden image of two horse heads. Dakeh explains that the horses are out at pasture right now, but that doesn't stop most of her charges from looking in every doorway, hoping to catch a glimpse of equine, and lamenting the absence as they continue to talk amongst themselves.

None of them are talking to Sepyrri. It isn't that they are actively shunning her; they simply don't seem to recognize she is there. Even Dakeh has only spoken her name once today, at breakfast; Sepyrri did not like the way she pronounced it - she didn't trill the 'rr' properly at all - but she isn't certain it would be proper to correct her. Dakeh is their senior, and Sepyrri and the eleven others are, to use Academy vernacular, mere 'newborns'.

Dakeh begins talking about the riding lessons available, and the voluntary stable duty, and the Cult of Equo and Equa. The group troops after her in their stocking paws, parting around the erratic equine excrement like rocks in a stream. Horses hold no particular interest for Sepyrri, and she lets her mind drift.

All twelve of them have been at the Academy less than twenty hours, new lapine devotees freshly arrived from Yothi at dusk yesterday. They had only had time to go through the Affirmation ceremony and a late dinner before being ushered off to bed in their new rooms. Already at breakfast this morning, before Dakeh had gathered them for their tour, friendships were being forged, cliques forming, and Sepyrri had found herself on the outside, feeling intuitively that she had missed some crucial moment that she would never get back. The girl on her right would talk to the girl on her own right, the girl on her left to the girl on her own left, and Sepyrri was left with no companion but her own thoughts while chatter bubbled all around her.

Most of their conversations seemed to consist entirely of complaints: about the food, about the beds, about the uniforms. Sepyrri found it hard to sympathize; they had all chosen to be here as she did, surely must have wanted to be here as badly as she did. Now that they were actually here, complaining about it seemed a very confusing decision. Sepyrri had made a single game attempt to join in, but the words tasted wrong in her mouth and the dishonesty of it made her uncomfortable. At any rate, her input had been promptly talked over, and Sepyrri lapsed back into awkward silence. In her honest opinion, the food was very good, even if the portions were small, and the beds large and quite cozy. She didn't even find the clothes to be all that uncomfortable; it was true they might take some getting used to, but the craftsmanship was impeccable, unmistakably the best quality tailoring she had ever worn, and they have not even been fitted for their formal dresses yet. Sepyrri fingers the long white woolen sleeve of her informal uniform; the fit is rather snug, but in a secure, reassuring kind of way. Already Bivech had been scolded for trying to roll up her sleeves, and no one, Sepyrri included, is eager to be the second to attempt it.

She is keenly aware that she is the oldest of the group. Sepyrri has yearned to be here ever since first hearing of this place; something about it called to her in a way she could never explain. She thought she would never get the opportunity; she had never known the Academy recruiters to visit her city. But then, less than a week ago, miracle of miracles, they came, and Sepyrri was determined not to let the opportunity pass her by. They welcomed her gladly, her age no detriment in their eyes; everyone began as a blank slate at the Academy, they assured her, a place of starting afresh. She was the only girl from her city to join them, and she left that place and everyone there behind without looking back, all too glad to wipe it from her memory entirely. 

Now, for the first time, she is starting to wonder if she has made a mistake. Not even the ordeal of the Affirmation had caused her to feel a shred of doubt. But listening to the inane chatter of her fellow newborn affirmants it sounds depressingly like any other group of children in the outside world. Perhaps she really is too old, perhaps she is doomed to forever be on the outside looking in, perhaps there really is no place she belongs, for if she does not belong here, then where?

Eleven voices let out a collective "Ooh!" The group, now walking back towards the main path, has stopped, and Sepyrri, lost in thought, nearly walks into the back of the girl in front of her. She mentally scolds herself for not paying proper attention, and steps to the side to get a better view at the cause of the interruption.

There is a horse in the path in front of them. Sepyrri has never been this close to a real horse in her life.

It is huge, and black. It shines in the sunlight. The strappy bits around its head are light purple. Sepyrri doesn't have the vocabulary to describe it.

The three older devotees standing beside it hardly even register.

Dakeh is looking back and forth from the horse to her dozen charges, smiling at the twelve awestruck lapine faces gazing at the ebon equine enormity.

Dakeh curtseys and speaks, addressing the devotee holding the horse's reins, a vixen in a Yellow jumper and evidently the trio's leader, "Good morning, Martingale," and then turning to the other two, a dark-haired human in Light Blue and a gray-furred goat in Dark Blue, addresses them as Atkeelathit and Czahana respectively. 

The trio, wearing brown boots and aprons in addition to their informal uniforms, return the proper greeting; Martingale does not curtsey as one hand still firmly holds the horse's reins. "I heard there was an arrival last night. Are these the newborns?"

"Yes. Sisters, say hello."

As they have been taught, twelve sets of lapine knees bend in a polite curtsey and twelve little voices parrot "Good morning."

Dakeh is beaming with pride as she turns back to Martingale. "And who is this handsome son of Equo?"

"This is Zysto."

One of the twelve pushes her way to the front of the group and out into the empty space between them and the horse. Her fur, at least what could be seen of it, is whiter than the sleeves and stockings of her uniform, and her jumper Light Green. Sepyrri knows her as Ciwwhim, who had been the most vocal complainer at breakfast, and despite her youth had established herself as the center of the largest clique. Smiling in what Sepyrri considers to be an immodestly smug fashion, Ciwwhim curtseys with rigid formality and speaks, "Good morning, Zysto." Snow-white ears erect, she is practically quivering with excitement.

The horse stares down at her disinterestedly. 

"May I pet him, Martingale?" Ciwwhim asks eagerly.

"Yes. You all may. I think he would like that very much."

"Don't crowd! One at a time, please!" Dakeh barks as eleven girls throng forward and cluster around the supremely patient Zysto; at a gentle tug from the vixen he bends his neck to place his head within easy petting reach. The horse accepts the attention with remarkable tolerance.

Ciwwhim begins babbling excitedly as the others take turns touching the horse, talking about the horses at the barn in the park in the city where she had lived, and how much she had loved spending time there, and how much she is looking forward to spending every day here at the stables, and telling anyone within earshot anything they might possibly want to know about horses, speaking over Martingale, Atkeelathit, and Czahana when they try to answer the other girls' questions. 

Sepyrri hangs back at the rear. There had been no horses in her city. She has only seen pictures, and has never given the species much thought at all one way or the other. Horses existed somewhere out there, and that was all well and good, but was also utterly irrelevant to her own existence. Staring at one standing right in front of her, it is suddenly extremely relevant. The beast is far larger than she had expected, and extremely intimidating. None of her peers seem to have any qualms; do they not see how big it is? Do they not see the stomping hooves, the chomping teeth, the glinting eyes? Sepyrri does not want to be near it, does not want to touch it, does not want anything to do with this beast whatsoever, and yet it is expected of her; it seems to be important that she do so, but why?

It strikes her as sudden as a blow to the head. It is important that she do so because she is /afraid/. Her hesitance is a symptom of fear. It was one of the first lessons they had all been taught upon arrival, even before Affirmation: Fear was a Choice; ergo: To be unafraid was also a Choice. To be Noble meant to Choose To Be Not Afraid. This is a test for Sepyrri, and a chance to prove she does belong here, that she can be Noble. They are watching her, she is sure, to see what she will do.

Timidly, haltingly, Sepyrri starts to move forward, her hand outstretched. 

Dakeh speaks loudly, "Alright, sisters, that's enough. Zysto has an important appointment. Correct, Martingale?"

"That's right. Say goodbye, sisters. I'm sure Dakeh has a schedule for you to keep, too." The vixen tugs on Zysto's reins and begins to lead him away down a path to the right, off to the side of the main road where they have been standing.

"Goodbye," eleven voices parrot, and then Ciwwhim's voice pipes up above the others, "Goodbye, Zysto! I'll come see you later!"

Sepyrri stands silently with her hand outstretched in midair. No one noticed. No one had been watching.

"Come on, sisters. Our next stop is the dairy barns, this way, and I am not going to remind you again to watch your step," Dakeh turns to the left and strides onward.

Twelve sets of stocking paws start to follow, some rather reluctantly.

Sepyrri stops. The group continues on. She looks down the side path, and sees the horse and its attendants enter a small, blocky shed. She looks back at the group of her fellow lapines, already a good ways away. Her absence appears to be unnoticed. Sepyrri knows she should go with them, should obey; but she also knows it is important to not be afraid. She cannot let her fears rule her anymore; not on her first day, not ever. Right now, that seemed to be the most important thing.

All she needs is one pet, to prove to everyone that she can do it; it won't take long, and she can catch up easily.

The group continues on one fork towards the barns. Sepyrri goes the other, resolutely following the frightful black horse.

This path is narrower than the main path, though paved with the same yellowy gravel. On either side grow gnarled and stunted trees planted in rigid, orderly rows; an orchard of some kind. Small, bright red fruits peep out from among the leaves, and Sepyrri places her steps carefully to avoid treading on any windfalls; she knows she will be in trouble for wandering off and does not want to add dirtying her stockings to her offenses.

The shed stands in a cluster of larger trees, their dark green boughs of needle-like leaves forming a canopy above its peaked and mossy roof. The side facing the path is open, providing a clear view to the peaceful orchard outside, the ground at the threshold scattered with straw. Determined to complete her mission before her resolve fails, Sepyrri strides to the edge of the doorway and peers inside.

Martingale, Atkeelathit, and Czahana are all facing away from her, the trio busying themselves around the horse. Not even Zysto appears to notice her. Sepyrri's nerve wilts. She cannot leave, not without doing what she has come here to do, but she is sure it would be rude to interrupt them while they are busy, so she stays back, one hand clutching the doorframe, and watches and waits for an opportune moment to present itself. None of them pay her any attention at all. Sepyrri feels more awkward with each second that passes.

Though the rabbit initially registered the trio as mature by their air of confidence and authority, Sepyrri realizes as she spies on them working that they are not much older than herself; they may all even be younger than Dakeh, though Sepyrri has always found age hard to judge with different species. The human and the vixen are standing by the horse's head, stroking it with their hands and whispering into its ears; Sepyrri cannot make out everything they are saying, but the cadence suggests they are speaking from some memorized script. Meanwhile, the goat girl, the one in the Dark Blue jumper, is knelt on the ground attaching a length of chain to the horse's two front legs, linking them together; slack enough that the horse can stand comfortably but not walk with ease. Another length of chain already links its hind legs together. The horse shows no alarm, or any sign that this is at all out of the ordinary. Sepyrri can only suppose that this must all be normal horsekeeping activity.

The human unbuckles the horse's pale purple head-thingy and the vixen hangs it from a hook mounted in the wall behind her. Still on the ground, the goat attaches a long chain to the length that links the horse's hind legs together. It trails slack along the floor and then rises to a complex set of pulleys mounted to the ceiling beams. She stands up and backs away, close to the side wall. 

The vixen looks over to the goat, and the goat nods and says, "It is time."

The vixen nods in response, and says "It is time" to the human; she acknowledges with a nod of her own and agrees, "It is time." Sepyrri, watching and unheeded, nods likewise, though she has no idea why; it seems to be the thing to do.

"Thank you, Zysto." Without warning, the vixen swiftly draws a blade as long as her forearm from within her apron and slashes it twice across the front of the blithe horse's throat, down low near his chest, and then she and the human both immediately step back to the walls. The horse shies away from the sharp touch, hobbles rattling and hooves clattering as he dances across the floor. He does not cry out, does not react as though the sudden assault were anything other than the bite of an irritating fly.  Thick red blood begins to pour profusely from the wounds, not gushing or fountaining, but showing no sign of stopping or slowing, running down his hide, flowing down channels in the floor to the drain, crimson, and foamy. 

Sepyrri stares in shock, finding it hard to understand what is happening.  

The magnitude of the situation seems to dawn on the horse only gradually as blood flows steadily out of his neck. He shifts his weight awkwardly from side to side, his hooves shuffling first one way and then the other. The discomfort is not going away, no matter what he does. His shining black hide shivers and ripples, his ears twitch agitatedly, and he shakes his mane. He looks to the vixen but she only looks back at him placidly and places her free hand - the one not still holding the crimson-dripping blade - to her chest in an enigmatic gesture. Zysto at last appears quite aware that something is drastically wrong but he will receive no relief from her. 

Sepyrri is suddenly acutely aware of how warm her uniform is; uncomfortably hot even, and tight around the collar. Her hand clutches the doorframe tighter. The horse has been killed, is bleeding to death, is going to die. She has intruded on something intensely private, something she was not meant to see. Sepyrri knows she should leave. Her footpaws remain firmly rooted in place.

As the horse's distress grows, the pulsing of his blood intensifies, now spurting out with each rapid beat of his mighty heart. He appears woozy, trying with difficulty to hold his head up, only for it to keep sinking down, his neck bending lower and lower, and taking more and more effort each time to raise it.  

At last, he can support himself no longer. The horse's legs stagger and slip out from beneath him; he collapses to the blood-soaked floor with a resounding crash, his legs jutting out awkwardly. He kicks and thrashes, his hobble chains rattling in his throes, hooves thumping staccato against the floor, the terrific clatter echoing in the tiny space.

Sepyrri's heart skips a beat when the beast stumbles, and then thumps faster as it desperately, agonizingly fights to stand again, but it will not, not ever.

As soon as the horse falls to the ground, the goat girl, joined by the human, begin to crank the pulleys, taking up the slack in the long chain. Straining with effort, the pair hoist the stricken equine's hindquarters off the ground, dragging the thrashing, bleeding stallion across the ground and then up, up, up into the air to dangle by his hind legs. 

When the horse is completely off the ground, the vixen approaches again. With unhurried composure she drives her blade deeply once into his chest at the base of his neck, directly into his heart, and withdraws it. The horse's forelimbs almost instantly go rigid, sticking out horizontal from his heaving chest like iron bars. Blood, terrifyingly black and thick, gushes from the new wound. 

Sepyrri finds herself completely transfixed; with all the blood it has already lost, how could there still be so much left?

The horse's eyes squeeze shut and face clenches in a rictus of grim surrender, resigned at last to the fate of a defeated beast of prey. There is a terrible acceptance in his pained expression, and yet still the flexing of muscles beneath his sweat-shining hide attest to a body that will cling to life until the bitter end.

Her boots planted firmly on the floor, the vixen grips the forelock of his mane with one hand and with the other begins to saw at his neck, this time at the base of his head, just behind the jawbone. She cuts deep, through muscle and sinew, right down to the spine, and then through it. As her blade cuts into the spinal cord it triggers something in the dying beast and he gives one last, great reflexive thrash of his spine, the mightiest, most violent buck he has ever given in his life. The vixen's knife cuts the final strip of flesh just as the momentum of the buck reaches it; a gush of blood from the arcing neck splatters the vixen's apron and in surprise she releases her grip on the mane, and the horse's head is sent soaring free.

It lands with a heavy thud in the straw at Sepyrri's stocking feetpaws.

The whole operation has taken less than two minutes. Sepyrri watches wide-eyed; she has not made a sound or even moved a muscle the entire time. She can only assume this is a normal occurrence. 

The trio are industriously peeling the hide from their kill, its senseless struggles quickly abating now along with the flow of blood from the raw stump of its neck. They do not notice her.

Sepyrri carefully hikes her skirt above her knees and kneels in the straw.

Its eyes roll until only the whites show. Its ears are folded back in pain. Its lips are gently parted, strikingly white teeth bared, frozen in a terminal grimace. Its eyelids close.

Sepyrri stares numbly down. Her ears swivel back. Her mind is buzzing with what she has just witnessed. What was it she came here to do?

The horse is not looking at her, does not seem to even see her. It is non-threatening, inert. Sepyrri feels surprisingly calm, there is nothing to be afraid of, there never had been. It could not hurt her, harmless.

Gently, as she had seen the others do, she reaches out and begins to pet him.






Started July 8, 2020. First draft finished October 18, 2020. Editing completed March 14, 2021.