They Can Nearly Talk by Chestnut_pod  

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Chapter 8

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The following weeks were tense ones for Elquessë’s practice. Immediately upon arriving home, Alparenë had made her displeasure at Elquessë’s dishonesty very clear. I was ashamed of myself for missing obvious clues and not asking for help where it was clearly needed, and embarrassed by being shown up in my own area of expertise. Elquessë apologized, and I believe felt genuinely remorseful for not at least discussing the case with Alparenë, but also felt irritated that Alparenë had berated Urundil when it came to it, then phrased her complaint to Elquessë in terms that implied Elquessë felt the wounds done to her and Alparenë’s people less keenly than Alparenë did. The interruptions of our rounds would have been a relief, except that Ránanandë’s energetic gossip network meant we were all forever being asked about Urundil. In our days together in Merrilosto, Alparenë stopped joining us for breakfast, though board made up part of her salary, the same as mine. I wondered if Alparenë would leave us once more and go back to the dovecotes in Alqualondë.

One such morning, when only Elquessë and I sat at the breakfast table, Elquessë sighed heavily and put her chin in her hand.

“This cannot go on, Hyamessë. I have apologized as sincerely as I know how, and I know you have too. It was foolish; I should have known better, and I certainly should not have made you keep the secret too.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. My one great rebellion, the only one I have ever truly committed, I think, was to stay in the lowlands after my return from war. Otherwise, the discipline of army life had suited me, a faithful Vanya, well, and now that I was a junior partner in a practice, it seemed only meet that I should do as Elquessë ordered. Yet we had both been wrong.

“I have tried my best to make amends,” I muttered, and indeed I had, until I had reached the point where I had realized that if I kept insisting, it would be for my own benefit and not Alparenë’s.

“Yes,” Elquessë sighed. “We must simply wait. She may choose to leave, and that would be her right. If she chooses to stay, though, we must come to some accord.”

Accord was not yet in evidence when I left for my rounds, where at least the gossip had died down. It was high summer in Ránanandë, when the green grass of winter turns to burnished gold and sways on the hillsides when the wind runs its hand over it. The final wildflowers starred the meadows when I stopped to graze Quildatal: rosy clarkias, bell-like salals, the last ultramarine lupines. A few of the blackberries ripened in the sunniest spots; the rest hung like garnets from a netted snood. Turkey vultures rode the hot thermals, wobbling but never falling on their vast, dark wings. As ever, the countryside soothed me. Riding through the palace-like columns of a redwood grove, where the trees were older even than I and graced travelers with fragrant coolth in the summer heat, it was easier to come to terms with my mistakes.

Summer meant relatively easy rounds, the calm after the lambing and the better part of the foalings, but before the autumn calving and the problems of cold. At last, everyone seemed to have squeezed the last drops of gossip about their local Kinslayer out of me, and conversations turned to the hay, the berries, the acorn crop. Elemmírë had her twelfth song cycle serialized in Minaret that summer, the nice lightweight one based on folk tunes, which everyone wanted to hear and which I received a week earlier than anyone else from my cousins in Orvambo. Therefore, it was with a much lighter spirit that I returned to Merrilosto for my week at home, resolving to stop fretting. I had made my apologies sincerely, and if they were not accepted, that was how it would be: not unfair, but not something I could manage by cringing.

It seemed to work, more or less. Alparenë and I arrived in Merrilosto at the same time on the ferry road. Her solid Sindarin-type stock horse whickered to Quildatal, who whickered back amiably. I gave Alparenë a respectful nod, which she returned with the barest courtesy before turning her horse’s head away from the plaza and towards the little warren of streets where she lived.

So it went. Elquessë appeared to adopt more or less the same tack as I, just a little more extravagantly — as one might expect. Alparenë began to join us at breakfast again perhaps every other day, coming in just as we were finishing, but bidding us good morning. I regretted what had seemed like a potential route towards friendship before the Urundil fiasco, but thought this state of events was enough for a start.

The very last day before we headed out again on our circuits, Alparenë appeared in the door of the dispensary where I was filling pills. I nodded, but did not speak. After wavering a moment, Alparenë truly surprised me.

“Would you look at my horse, please, Heriel?”

The “please” startled me nearly as much as the request. I looked up from my work and assessed. Alparenë’s face was very smooth, but she shifted from foot to foot on the threshold.

Laying my funnel aside, I straightened up fully. “I did not notice anything the matter with her last time I saw her. Is there a problem?”

“I believe so.”

When nothing more seemed forthcoming, I prompted, “Would you like me to come see?”

Alparenë nodded jerkily, and I washed my hands, took off my clean robe, and walked out the door into the long July evening. People were out enjoying the golden light. It was not the Mingling, but I wondered if perhaps I even preferred this, the long slanting rays of Arien’s arrows piercing the summer air and leaving sharp shadows against the glowing walls of the white houses. Alparenë and I were well known, and we waved and called out greetings as we walked.

Alparenë lived in the tangle of narrow streets on the south side of Merrilosto, where the cobblers, jewelers, and other small artisans lived. Her apartment took up the west side of one of those classic Falmarin buildings which give blind white walls to the street, then open up inside to beautiful tiled courtyards with arcades on the lower floor to let the air flow and rooms for living above. This particular courtyard boasted an ancient buckeye chestnut in the center, already dropping its leaves for its summer dormancy. Alparenë led me past it — we both brushed our hands against its silvery bark — and towards one end of the arcade, which I could see was fitted with fencing between the arches to create a long, open stall where three horses munched brome hay. I spotted Alparenë’s mare in a shady back corner.

She came when Alparenë called. I looked at her – the picture of bright-eyed health.

“So what is the problem?” I asked.

Alparenë crossed her arms and sighed. “It is behavioral,” she said crossly. “I am no specialist as you are, Doctor Heriel, but I can tell she has no physical problem. I did not notice before I moved in here, where I live over the stable and can hear her at night.”

“And what does she do at night?”

“She becomes a perfect monster. She stands stock still in the corner, and if the other horses come near her, she neighs like a destrier and kicks — even though she is friendly enough during the day. I have also been called out for late-night emergencies, and she absolutely refuses to move outside town, just plants her feet and stands stock still.” She knit her brows in displeasure. “I had to walk to a calving the other day, and might have arrived too late, because she would not move. I have done my best speaking to her, gentling her, explaining to her that there is no danger. None of it seems to make any difference, and I am at my wits’ end as to what to do.”

I looked at the horse, who looked back at me with her ears pricked convivially. Laying a hand on her neck, I pushed her to the right, then the left, and she went willingly. This close, her pretty brown eyes were gentle and soft, not at all a spitfire. Looking at those white sclera around them, I had an idea what the problem might be — and it was no wonder Alparenë did not.

“She–” I began, “No, wait, what is her name?”

“Ithilloch,” Alparenë replied. That did surprise me a little.

“Oh, she is actually from Beleriand, then!” I exclaimed. “I thought perhaps she was just Sindarin-bred; those crosses are very fashionable these days.” I rubbed at her ears, and Ithilloch ground her teeth in pleasure. It was a fitting name; her white coat with a few black spots on her strong hindquarters did bring to mind Tilion’s pale, dimpled surface.

“Yes,” Alparenë said, watching me make friends. I could not tell quite what she was thinking. “I bought her in a hurry when Elquessë said she wanted to bring me out here for the long run. A carter was selling; he got her from an ex-soldier who could not take her up in the mountains.” She sniffed. “Now I wonder if he was selling in a hurry because he found out about this whatever-it-is.”

I nodded; I thought that was likely, if dishonorable. “So you never rode her before.” Alparenë shook her head.

“That does actually help this problem make more sense,” I told her. “These patterned horses from Beleriand are lovely and different from the usual run of colors here, so they have become voguish, but people here are unfamiliar with their specific problems — the same inherited factors that cause the patterns also cause health problems in certain circumstances. I expect we might see some other problems of this sort as they become more common here.”

Alparenë gave me a measuring look. “You believe this behavior to be one of those factor-linked problems?”

I looked out of the arcade and to the sky, which had darkened to a profound blue like velvet, the first stars awakening. Glancing back at Ithilloch, I came to a decision.

“If you are willing to wait until dark, I can show you, so you recognize it if you see it again.”

Alparenë visibly balked, but quickly unbent enough to thank me (only a little stiffly) and offer lemon-water while we waited. Her interest, I thought, seemed genuine. As the sky grew darker, Ithilloch inched back into her corner. Alparenë arrived with wooden cups of cool water, and we sat together on a bale of straw and watched the stars unveil themselves fully. It was strangely pleasant, I found, waiting for full dark in a silence that was almost companionable.

“I suppose you knew many of these spotted horses in Beleriand,” Alparenë said abruptly.

What, Alparenë willingly asking me about the war? I thought to myself, then remembered my resolve to be the friendly one.

“Yes, the Sindar love them,” I replied. “On the great plains, I heard, no one could be counted truly a person of consequence without at least three, and the more remarkable their patterns, the better. The range was all gone once I was there, of course, but the horses persisted, some of them.” I warmed to the subject. “But they are not only pretty patterns! They are wonderfully strong, clever beasts, fire-fast at a short sprint, and untiring trekking over distances. The Sindar bred for temperament, too — none of those hotheads you get sometimes in Aman.”

Beside me, Alparenë nodded, just visible in the increasing murk. “Ithilloch has powerful hindquarters, and she is very sweetly tempered. She never bothers the other horses at the inns, or here – well, except at night.”

“Speaking of which, let us go over to her.” We rose, and I led Alparenë to Ithilloch’s corner, crooning softly so she would know we approached. Ithilloch snorted in alarm when we drew close, and I let my fëa wash soothingly over her.

“She cannot see us,” I told Alparenë. Each of us was visible to the other’s Elvish eyes as a shape against the sky, the starlight providing the means to pick out a few details. I knew, however, that Ithilloch could likely not see a thing. I reached out and placed my hand delicately against the mare’s neck. Her calm, steady mind touched mine, and I felt her anxiety at being awoken into pitch darkness, with people and other horses around her.

From my pocket, I pulled a Fëanorian lamp and veiled it with my handkerchief to protect Ithilloch’s eyes. I held it above Ithilloch’s head, to the side where she could see me easily, and watched her pupils contract.

“You see,” I said to Alparenë quietly. “She cannot see at all at night. It comes with her particular color: that almost-pure white coat with but a smattering of spots means she has the spotting factor from both parents. Horses with double factors are always like this, night-blind.”

Alparenë leaned in to study Ithilloch’s eyes. I pointed out the white sclera around them, explaining that spotted horses who inherited the factor twice turned out like Ithilloch, almost like normal grays but for a few solitary splotches of pigment, striped hooves, and those white edges to their eyes. They would always throw dramatically spotted foals, which made them highly desirable, but they would also always be night-blind. Alparenë nodded, listening as I spoke, stroking Ithilloch’s nose gently.

At last, I put the Fëanorian lamp back in my pocket. With all the gentle force I could muster, I put to Ithilloch that the other two horses in the long stall were her friends, not threats, and that she was safe here, even in the dark. Then Alparenë and I retired again to our straw bale.

She kicked her heels glumly against it. “I am glad to know it is not dangerous to her, but I am often called out late. A mount who can travel at night is necessary for a country leech.”

I pondered whether Alparenë would accept a comforting pat on the knee, decided against it, but still tried to imbue my voice with sympathy as I spoke. “It is unfortunate, surely. I am sorry.”

To my surprise, Alparenë pulled her knees up to her chest. Perhaps emboldened by the darkness, she said, “Everything is much harder here, outside of the city.”

“I have little basis for comparison.” I pulled at the straw. “Aside from Tirion, where I hardly left the university, the largest town I have ever lived in is Merrilosto. I do not believe you could call a war camp a city.”

Alparenë scoffed, but mildly. “Alpalondë is one of the great cities of the Eldar, a pearl. It is entirely unlike a war camp.”

Greatly daring, I asked, “So why did you agree to come here, if it is so wonderful and out here it is so hard?”

Silence stretched, and I began to wonder if I had once again ruined our tentative truce. Then Alparenë spoke, voice halting.

“My– I–.” I heard her lick her lips, then try again. “Oh, what does it matter if I tell you?”

I wondered briefly whether to be offended, but Alparenë went on. “My parents were ropemakers, rigging the Swanships, but I never learned to make rope. We were always at court, or arguing our case to Prince Arafinwë, or even in Valmar petitioning the Valar for redress for… everything. They lost friends, their livelihood, their way of life. I was born the same year; I always went with them, wherever they went.” She trailed off.

“And then the war,” I guessed.

“And then the war,” Alparenë echoed. “Or rather, there was plenty to do during the war – protesting it, mostly –” I restrained myself from comment “-- but then the war ended. Everyone was dead, and not coming back to bother us. So… what was left to do any longer? Make rope? I never learned how. I went to the university out of boredom, as much as anything. I do not think I know what Alpalondë is, any longer.”

I listened to the horses shifting in the darkness. That was a surprising revelation, from Alparenë the firebrand. I murmured my thanks, as sincerely as I could. Alparenë sniffed, but her heart was not in it.

A sudden impulse made me speak up again. “Wait to try to sell her until we are back from our rounds next month. I have an idea.”

“Well… all right.”

That easy acquiescence felt like the greatest victory of the night.

The next month, when the heat peaked, I returned to Merrilosto and did not hesitate to visit Ruanel. I found her in a round pen, working a handsome bay gelding over crossrails at the canter. Leaning against the wall, waiting for her to finish, I admired his form and Ruanel’s gentle instruction, just catching the outer edges of her fëa coaxing him into frame. Once she had clucked him down to a trot, then a cooling walk, she turned her attention to me. My previous regular visit had been only two weeks before, so I explained that I was there to see about trading a horse.

Ruanel raised an eyebrow. “I had not heard that you had acquired a horse.”

I clarified that I was brokering for a friend (I did not hesitate to say it), who had an exceptionally fine Sindarin mare, pure-bred, whose unfortunate night-vision problems prevented her from being a leech’s mount. Ruanel’s other eyebrow joined the first.

Gesturing at the gelding, who stood seventeen hands high if he stood an inch, she said, “You know I breed sport horses, Doctor Heriel — when certain Powers are not meddling. I’m sure this mare is a fine example of the type; I have seen a few at shows in Alqualondë doing all sorts of fancy cutting and chasing on the flat. But that is simply not what I do here. That downhill build isn’t at all the thing for a jumper.”

She brought the gelding in with a click of her tongue and pulled out a currycomb, breaking up some places where he had sweated his hair into clumps. The great beast hung his lower lip and made a face like Illimmállë’s drunken bull. I smiled.

“There is something a little special about this one, though. First of all, she is willing as anything: a lovely temperament, good with strangers and novelty. These plains horses have endurance, too. Then, also: I remember the other week you mentioned that buyers kept asking you about spotted animals.”

Ruanel ducked around to the gelding’s other side. Dubiously, she said, “A good horse has no color; I know you know that!”

I held up my hands. “Certainly! But it is so fashionable these days, and this mare is double-factor: any foal she throws will be spotted. Most will be spotted all over like pard-cats.”

Ruanel gave me a sidelong look. I sensed an advantage and pressed on. “I saw several of these crosses between Sindarin horses and Amanyar ones in Beleriand — needs must, you know. They certainly were not showjumpers, for you’re quite right that they lacked the scope, but they were fantastic all-arounders. Good tempers, good stamina, a bit of a jump when needed, comfortable standard gaits. I would certainly recommend such a cross to any number of amateurs or beginners — who as we both know are the most likely to judge a horse by its color.”

There was a beat, during which Ruanel pocketed the currycomb and drew out a hoofpick. From down by the gelding’s left hind, she eventually said, “All her get would have spots, you said?”

I grinned. “Every one, though they would not necessarily throw true themselves. If you bred her to your Maldanar, for example, the foal would be spotted all over: either black spots or chestnut ones, depending on her other factors.”

“I really do not believe in breeding for color,” Ruanel warned me, switching to the gelding’s other hind foot.

“Nor do I!” I protested. “If I did not truly think you could produce some good beginner horses out of this cross, I would not suggest it.” I spread my hands wide. “I thought merely to offer you a bit of an exciting deal, since to my knowledge this is the first of these spotted Sindarin horses in Ránanandë, and there are not so many anywhere in Aman, yet.”

Ruanel picked out the rest of the gelding’s hooves in a quiet I let settle, making silly faces at the horse while Ruanel could not see me.

At last, Ruanel put down the gelding’s last hoof and stood, hands on hips. Turning to face me, she warned, “I would not pay anything like my usual prices for her.”

Blood in the water! I thought jubilantly. “No, no,” I protested. “In fact, I was hoping for a trade, rather than a sale. Do you, by chance, still have that husband horse?”

Being a breeder of sometimes high-strung sport horses meant Ruanel also kept a docile light draught cross to provide companionship and a steadying influence in the pasture. I had seen her pony green yearlings alongside him to teach them nerve and patience, and I thought that while he would never go fast, he would go a long time, and willingly. Those big horses, crossed with something with just a touch more lightness, are surprisingly good on tracks and trails, taking their time but taking it well.

Ruanel looked taken aback once more. “You mean Heldamorco? Really? He is nothing like a sport horse; I believe his dam was bred in someone’s garden.”

I laughed. “That is not at all a worry! My friend — you have surely met her, the other junior leech — needs a strong, calm horse with comfortable-enough gaits in order to ride long distances and carry instruments. Nothing fancy is needed; in fact, just the opposite, for Doctor Banilómiel is not so horse-hearted as you and I.”

That seemed to seal the deal. Ruanel hemmed and hawed a little as she finished grooming the gelding and put him back in his paddock, especially when I explained the night-blindness, but she promised to accept a visit from me and Alparenë the very next day. I took that as a hopeful sign.

Alparenë was shocked when I told her the news over dinner that night. She made a few awkward protestations, clearly entirely at a loss as to why I might have done such a thing. It might have been a little insulting, except that I felt truly pleased to have made a grand, but useful, gesture of friendship. From the head of the table, Elquessë watched with jovial approval, periodically breaking in to expound upon the interest inherent in inheritable spotting patterns.

Alparenë and I brought Ithilloch out to Ruanel before the next day could grow too stifling, and I put her through her paces, with special attention to her nimble turns and good wind. Ithilloch did not need much help; her placid friendliness in a new place, surrounded by strange horses, spoke for itself. Ruanel handed over Heldamorco and his tack right then, and Alparenë, not without a slightly wistful goodbye, gave Ithilloch a final pat on the neck and went to try him under saddle. I rested my forehead against Ithilloch’s and murmured soothingly about her new home until her ears pricked and she went and butted her sensible square head against Ruanel’s chest.

“Very well, very well,” Ruanel muttered to her, as though I could not see her rubbing at Ithilloch’s poll. “It will be interesting to try something new, after all. Ithilloch here will have a good life with me, Doctor Heriel, and if I sell her on after a few foals, I will be sure it is to a steady household who will not mind her eyes.”

I thanked her, and Alparenë returned to announce that she had found Heldamorco a comfortable ride. We hammered out a few last details for if either horse should later turn out to be a poor fit, but left Ruanel feeling that the business was done, and for the better. Alparenë seemed slightly mournful, but big, friendly Heldamorco was impossible to resent. He and Quildatal were fast friends already, trading places along the sunny, dusty road back into Merrilosto.

Outside her apartment, Alparenë turned to face me, looking down from her Heldamorco-assisted height with a slightly confused expression.

“This was truly… truly generous of you, Doctor Heriel.”

I smiled at her. “My pleasure,” I said, quite honestly.

Alparenë slid down off Heldamorco’s back – it was a longer way down than she had grown accustomed to with Ithilloch! – then turned back to me, squaring her shoulders.

“You know,” she said, “Elquessë would probably be quite pleased to work with you on a publication on these spotting factors, once Ithilloch starts throwing foals. They are quite interesting; I would be keen to read such a thing.”

From Alparenë, I thought, that was probably as close to a declaration of friendship as I was likely to get. With thanks for the idea, I turned Quildatal towards the rambling house on the plaza, smiling as we went.

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Chapter End Notes

Much inspired by HoundsOfValinor's wonderful art of Beleriandish horses: I, II.