Argo reviews the
highs and lows of her life with the humans she adopted in “Greener
Pastures: A Horse’s Tale.” There are references to several “XENA”
episodes from Seasons 1-5. Thanks to
Edward Mazzeri for his 2004 Whoosh! article, “Horse As House: Equine Iconography and Domesticity in
XENA: WARRIOR PRINCESS,” which inspired
the “A Stable Life” section of this story. - IQ
December
2004
IseQween@aol.com
The
Clanky One perches on the fence, staring at me like an old bird. He does that a lot lately. I think he knows I will not be around much
longer. I do not mind. I find him comforting. No doubt we have that in common, as we are
all we have of our days of glory. We
are what humans call “out to pasture,” meaning in my case they put me to use I
once thought myself too good for.
Hauling. Breeding. Training little humans. Doing nothing at all while they gawk at me
as though I am still the warhorse I once was.
He has not worn that
loud armor of his for some time, not that his inability to sneak up on anyone
would have helped him much. His heart
as a warrior was always greater than what he could do with his hands. Perhaps I
still call him the Clanky One because of the sounds I miss. I believe he does too. Of battles.
My hooves beating the earth. The
crackling of fire humans make. The
voices of the two who gave purpose to our time. When he talks to me, he uses their names in a way he seems to
think I will understand. I nod and
speak in my own language to let him know I do, even though I also think of them
by who they are to me.
My Warrior. She became so the moment I smelled the blood
and death in her and had the feeling I would be the one to carry her through
that. I did. Well, except for the time I feared I had lost her to it. I do not like to think about that. I prefer remembering how she fought herself,
how we fought together against the hurt that humans do for reasons I will never
understand. She was more like my kind –
satisfied to take or keep or defend what was needed to survive. We did not waste bodies that meant us no
harm, nor grass another could use.
Maybe she did before me, but I like to think she followed my lead.
As for the
Companion, I called her the Noisy One at first. I could not see what she did besides disrupt the silence My
Warrior and I took for granted. But she
learned to fight and survive many battles, helped protect and even save
us. She differed in that her purpose
seemed not to kill or die. The life she
brought us was one of the few things My Warrior did not appear so skilled at
doing on her own. As much credit as I
give myself, I am not sure My Warrior would have fared as well without the
small intruder at her side.
Being the breed I
am, I accepted My Warrior could die. (Before she made a habit of coming back
from the dead, that is.) I am not sure
the Companion ever did. She saw more in
My Warrior than blood and death. She would prod us to rein ourselves in, to do
what we had not asked of ourselves before.
I learned different degrees of kicking or galloping amidst our
enemies. Became accustomed, like My
Warrior, to allowing more of them to get up, than to taking away any chance
they would ever rise from the dirt.
The Companion and I had that in common – believing we could carry My
Warrior beyond what we knew to be inside her, in our loyalty to keeping our
noses pointed in the right direction. I
will admit the Companion’s way had a certain efficiency, in that it often meant
less waste.
The Companion and I
drew closer that first time I thought My Warrior dead. I suspected something wrong when the
Companion rode me into battle wearing My Warrior’s things. She was never as good as My Warrior – no
one was – so I did not fault her for what happened. She tried to fight her captors as they tied My Warrior’s body
between me and another horse. She need
not have worried. I let the other horse
know we would stand our ground, however much the enemy whipped us into pulling
My Warrior’s limbs apart. I was as
surprised as anyone when she rose and stopped them from striking me again. I should have known, as neither of us would
ever let someone dishonor the other in such a way.
The second time, My
Warrior was still alive when the Companion tried to save her. She took a blade in her thigh when My
Warrior lay helpless from a run-in with a tree. She hitched a bed to me, to bear My Warrior toward help. She trudged through the snow of mountains,
once dropping to the ground next to My Warrior as though she too would not get
up. I had to prod her, but we made it
to a place where a male human laid gentle hands on My Warrior and took her
inside. When they carried her out, I
knew it was only her shell.
The Companion tied a
box behind me that I figured contained My Warrior’s remains. She seemed lifeless as well. She still moved, but without the noise that
used to annoy me so. She reminded me of
My Warrior when we first met – without purpose. She would throw herself on that box, making sounds my kind do
when we have lost one of our own.
We dragged the box
first in one direction, then to a place with female warriors who made a fire
under it. Suddenly a male human leapt upon me, and we pulled the box to
safety. Why did I obey him? I know this may sound impossible, but he
acted like My Warrior. Wherever it was
we ended up, whatever happened there, My Warrior sure enough came back. If you had experienced as many strange
things as I, you too would put nothing past her. Her ability to conquer death even rubbed off on those of us who
traveled with her.
I recall one time in
particular. Actually it was many times,
but they immediately followed one another and were very much like the preceding
time, so that they all seemed to be the same.
Except for the deaths that occurred.
I saw the bodies of the Clanky One and Companion go up in flames, yet
they appeared – alive – the next sun. I
believed myself killed by an angry human, but there I was, back on my feet in
the stables as before. Another time,
none of my humans returned. I saw the
Clanky One die again, now at the hand of My Warrior. I know that sounds unlike her, but by then she and I were both
pretty sure her act would not prove fatal.
I do not think the
other two knew what was happening. They
stared at My Warrior when she threw herself about in frustration. She and I shared a special bond. She could talk to me about our situation,
but had to bind and gag her humans. As
usual, she figured how to move us forward so that we no longer died over and
over. I cannot say that was entirely
good. Many bad things happened
after. I soon longed for those
repeating suns that became so familiar, when I had some confidence everything
would work out all right.
Death is to be
expected, even for those who do not stay dead.
But losing them when they are still living? I cannot count how often I had trouble finding My Warrior because
of that other habit of hers – disappearing from her own body or appearing in
someone else’s. Once she rode me with
both her legs to one side, directing me as though we had both become creatures
with no spines. She nearly took my ears
off with that round weapon of hers.
Brushed my tail so much as to test my patience beyond anything she had
ever made me endure. The Companion
seemed equally puzzled, until we realized is was not My Warrior at all, but one
of many humans who looked exactly like her.
My Warrior became
confused with another human who raises my hairs such that no amount of time or
brushing could subdue. The Rotten One.
She looked nothing like My Warrior.
She did have the same smell of blood and death about her, but hers was
more the stench of something decayed, past salvaging. She gloried in it as if she had no purpose other than to make the
rest of us lose our oats. She
certainly made it her business to bring misery to My Warrior, the Companion and
me.
The worst was when
The Rotten One came upon us after My Warrior had defeated her. Except she came in the shell of My
Warrior. My instincts warned me. Before I had time to trust them, she had
sliced me open and left me to die. Next
I know, someone looking like the Rotten One is hovering over me, tending my
wound, soothing me like My Warrior would.
The Companion and Clanky One tried to fight her at first, then acted as
if maybe she was My Warrior after all.
Once I healed, she indeed traveled with us awhile, until My Warrior
suddenly rejoined us as herself.
I do not believe it
an accident that the Rotten One pretended to fight alongside us when I glimpsed
a … Being … who this time wore the Companion’s face. Like the Rotten One, she smelled bad, but in a way that was not
quite human. They all seemed headed
for a large place inside which a battle took place. I do not know what happened.
When My Warrior came out, I never saw the Being or Rotten One
again. I thought perhaps My Warrior had
killed them for killing the Companion, as she did not rejoin us either. My Warrior certainly acted so.
The stench of the
Being and Rotten One lingered in our memories of what it was like having
friends and enemies in the same shell.
But as confusing as that was, it was not as bad as when my humans were
not themselves when they were. Like the
time My Warrior acted very strange, even rode me backwards for a while. Embarrassing. The Companion once suddenly developed the dead smell I had never
sensed on her before – flew like a bat into a cave. Also embarrassing, although My Warrior and the Clanky One seemed
to take the flying Companion seriously.
Yet none of that was as bad as the time I most want to forget.
Whatever the cause,
something happened between My Warrior and the Companion shortly after the
repeating suns. The ease between them
seemed especially unsettled since their return from one of their trips without
me. They began drifting apart even when
together, then one day went their separate ways. My Warrior was … beside … herself, her companion now the blood
and death inside, which finally turned against her. It pains me to admit, she smelled a lot like the Rotten One.
She rode me as if
she had become the Rotten One. She used
…. She used her … whip. On me! On the Companion! Yes,
she is like a wolf when attacked or defending.
She will tear her prey’s throat out if needed. But I had not known her to hurt, to hunger for the blood of, her
own. Certainly not me. Perhaps it was because she knew that I would
not be proud to carry her on a mission so far off the course we had dedicated
ourselves to.
We arrived at the
place filled with the female warriors who had been our allies before. My Warrior hurtled off my back. She snarled at and fought the warriors. Suddenly the Clanky One appeared, carrying
the Companion. My Warrior hit the
Clanky One. She used her whip to snare
the Companion. She leapt upon another
horse and raced off … dragging … the Companion behind! I could not believe my eyes! I could not believe that I had suddenly lost
everything – My Warrior, my pride, my purpose.
Never before or after did my head hang so low.
Just as I thought I
must go on marked by The Time of The Whip, my humans returned. I saw no marks on them. From the way they acted toward each other,
they had healed inside as well. I
suppose it is hard to feel the quickening of blood at seeing someone unless you
miss them for awhile, but that was another of my humans’ habits that no doubt
hastened my trip “out to pasture.” No
sooner had I begun getting comfortable, than we were nearly separated again!
It resulted from an
affliction humans call “hard head.” The
Companion had hobbled herself trying to imitate My Warrior. An enemy soon appeared. My Warrior ordered me to take the Companion
to safety. I obeyed the Companion instead. She turned me around to help some human
briefly traveling with us, only to be hurt again, this time by an arrow. My Warrior tended the Companion, but I
could tell from her slumped posture on my back that the wound was bad. They argued after the other human left. As usual, I think the Companion won.
They hid in a small
place. Not a good sign, considering the
mounted army I sensed headed our way.
My Warrior came out alone. She
took off my saddle with a face that suggested she would not be needing me
anymore. I accepted my humans could not
always take me with them, with the understanding the separation would not be
permanent. Yet once again My Warrior
decided to shoo me off so they could die without me. More “hard head.”
There was no shame
in my leaving as commanded. Still, I
felt I had let My Warrior down. I only
pretended to obey. (Perhaps I caught “hard head” from them.) I watched the riders attack – more of them
than even My warrior could fight by herself.
I would have chomped at the bit if she’d left me one, frightened nearly
to death at the screams and weapons clashing inside, more afraid when the
sounds finally ceased.
Oh, how happy I was
when, sure enough, My Warrior came back out and whistled for me. She laughed when I trotted up too quickly to
have gone as far as I should. I snorted
a little to impress upon her my better judgment, but otherwise did not rub it
in when she put her arms around my neck.
I was not so
forgiving the next time. This was when
I thought the Companion dead from the battle involving the Rotten One and the
Being. Once more My Warrior seemed
without purpose. When the fire blazed
within her again, I feared it would burn her to nothing. We rode hard until we both might drop. We finally stopped in the middle of nowhere,
loose dark earth stretching as far as I could see. She dismounted. To change
horses. No doubt for yet another trip
where she would die and did not want to take me with her.
I felt sorry for the
other horse who would probably die in my place. My place. She left
me without a backward glance. I know it
was because she could not bear looking me in the eye, that we would both see
the shame of abandoning our purpose to the unknown. I watched her make tracks away into the distance, until she
disappeared. It was like the first time
I had trouble sensing her, shortly before the Companion joined us. She had returned to me then, just as she
returned from death later. What could I
do, besides wait for her as always?
I trotted back in the
direction we had come, to the place where we first found each other. I spent many suns and moons on my own
there. At last I sensed her! The Companion was now with her, along with
the Clanky One. I felt like a filly
again, except this time I knew where I belonged. Still, My Warrior would have to win me over like before. I needed to remind her that I was the one to
ride her to our deaths.
I left tracks for
her to follow, let her glimpse me, pranced off at her whistle. I let one of her enemies capture me. I know he was nothing like her, but he took
care of me as though he knew my worth.
When My Warrior saw him mounted on me, I could tell she wore my shoes
when I had to watch her choose another horse.
I admit, I did not “be nice,” even as we finally stood face to face in
the enemy’s camp. Even as she attempted
to make peace and pull me with her.
Even as she had to flee alone. I
am her horse, after all. Hard as steel
when called for.
Her opponent came
and climbed aboard me. I soon
discovered My Warrior was our prey. Ah,
but she is a smart one. She could
always see through me. She planted
herself, weaponless, in my path – her way I suppose of acknowledging she had
learned that only I should ride her to death.
I tossed her opponent over my head.
I rejoiced at the feel of her on my back again, reuniting to defeat an
enemy like before. But I do have my
pride. Like her, I did not feel the
need to explain myself. I let her think
I had abandoned her for apples.
Neighhhhh!
My Warrior had many
faces that can fool. No fences staking
out where to find her. No time when you
could always guess that she would or would not appear. But when she sat astride me, there was
little doubt who she was, that we were brave and fierce opponents who could
stop trouble simply by standing there in its face. Any warhorse would glory in that – in the battles that bear my
hoof prints, the travels I have made, the many skills required to keep up with
a warrior as great as mine. I do. Yet I believe it is what I became away from
the battlefield that outpaces just any warhorse.
I was more than a
weapon or one big saddlebag. More than
some animal that carried humans for no purpose, bound by force to whichever
human survived to ride me next. I was
tied to the humans who lived like me, but by heart and purpose. In our case, I served as my humans’ stable,
the ground they returned to after traveling far away or being close by. Except for me, they had no other place they
called their own.
Whatever my humans
needed to eat, to rest, to protect or dress themselves, they stored on me. I carried the “scrolls” which the Companion
used for mysterious purposes out in the open and My Warrior in the bushes. When it became dark, they would build their
fire and lie down under my guard. They
played in the sun and water as though my amusement or disapproval
mattered. They sought my advice or to
win me over for “two against one.” They
often talked to and brushed me when unease grew inside or between them. I believe it calmed them to know I would be
there no matter what other humans or places came and went.
A particular time
did test my nerves and loyalty. It was
after My Warrior and I had abandoned each other and reunited. Something seemed unsettled. Not between my humans so much, as around My
Warrior. There was nothing new about
the Companion acting like a bird flitting about, but My Warrior treated her
like she might fly away. Sometimes it
seemed My Warrior might fly away. It
was if she did not know which way to go, or whether to go at all.
She and the
Companion took a succession of trips.
It would not surprise me if they died while they were gone, as something
usually changed when they did. Like the
clothes and weapons My Warrior now wore.
She was herself again, though heavier than I recalled. She swayed in the saddle sometimes as though
not alert. She would take food in, then
lean over me and let it out. I should
have guessed, being a mare, but one forgets such things living with
warriors. I did not have to guess
anymore, when the lump growing in My Warrior went away, replaced by a crying,
kicking tiny human.
We added another to
our family during this time. A young
stallion we found injured. He and the
Companion took to each other. Like me,
he had spirit. Unlike me with My
Warrior, he was not immediately certain the Companion might be worth his
freedom. I could not in all honesty
encourage him. Our work required skills
from both rider and mount which neither of these two yet possessed. But when, on his own, he bolted from the
stables to aid the Companion in defeating an attacker, I knew his heart to be a
good enough match for her own. They
could be taught whatever else they needed to know. As it happened, they both proved their worth sooner than I
expected.
My Warrior’s tiny
one meant more problems than even the Companion when she first began traveling
with us. Now the Companion stood in
front, fighting like My Warrior, to protect the little one before and after its
birth. Our life became devoted to
running from the trouble this new part of My Warrior brought with it – storms,
armies, beings who could throw fire from their hands. Perhaps they are still running.
If so, it has been without me, the stallion or the Clanky One.
I will never forget
that day the Clanky One finally gave the stallion his freedom and took me with
him for good. If it had been anyone
else, I would not have consented. He too
had witnessed my humans die and come back.
He had braved everything I had, flicked his ears at the doubts of others
– never giving up on my humans’ ability to triumph. I knew he would not abandon his search for them without sound
reason. This time, the wait had gone
out of him, along with his funny face and walk. He wrapped his arms around my neck. I could tell from the wetness he left on my coat that he would
have to stand in for my humans.
I tried not to blame
the little one who had brought such happiness to My Warrior. Now that I have borne my own, I understand a
foal must go its own way, that you cannot always determine what that may
mean. The Clanky One named my little
filly “Argo” after me. She is frisky
and smart. Strong. I am proud she will bear my spirit when this
old frame is no more. The Clanky One
and I have made sure she knows she is of good and special stock. We want her prepared in case she is called
upon for greatness as was I.
My days have been
brighter, recalling old times I share with my Argo. When she was younger, she liked the stories of how my humans
tricked one another, fought over each other’s things, sent the poor Clanky One
chasing after wild geese. As she
matured, she preferred hearing of my own deeds. Her favorites are when I rushed in to get the Companion out of
trouble that time she pretended to be my My Warrior, and when I helped dispatch
a female human who meant to hurt My Warrior by hobbling me. She thinks it is funny that I treated the
Companion like a skunk at first and that humans would say I had the most fierce
warrior “eating out of my hands.”
I have taught my
Argo not to judge humans by their horses.
Two of the worst I encountered were light-haired female warriors with
intelligent, skilled mounts. If someone
else had ridden them, they might have brought honor to our kind. Instead, they did not have the heart to
leave in search of the right warrior, as I did. They settled for brainless obedience, the certainty of needs
without honor, the ease of wasteful victories.
True, the worries My Warrior saddled me with might have broken a lesser
mount. I did endure many a blood-red
day and black night. Yet I knew no
greener pastures. I can say I rode with
the best – a true warhorse to the truest humans their kind could produce.
The Clanky One still
rides off sometimes with surprising vigor, saying he may bring our humans back
with him. I suspect it is more to
satisfy his heart than his hope of ever seeing them again. As for me, they will always be out there
frolicking in, fighting for, greener pastures.
Perhaps My Warrior’s little one will come one day to claim my Argo. I hope so, as already she has standards like
mine. She will not let anyone mount
her. Maybe it is too late for me and My
Warrior, but I believe my Argo will wait for someone as good. Her legs will bear me into the sunrise – the
ending of one horse’s tale, the beginning of another’s, the continuation of a
longer one that, like my humans, might just go on forever.
The Clanky One
showed almost as much life as me this sun.
I have never seen him prance so, certainly not since my mother fell and
got up no more. I too miss her. She had taught me all she knew, but I never
tired of hearing about her great deeds with Her Warrior and the Companion who
traveled with them. With the Clanky One
so sad, my suns have followed one another with little to keep me out of
trouble.
I would be chomping
at the bit, except neither he nor I will allow one near me. He lets me race around in the open
sometimes. I practice the moves my
mother said I would one day need for someone like Her Warrior. I wonder sometimes if he wants me to run
free to find that warrior. He does not
seem surprised when I always trot back.
Perhaps we both believe he is the best guidepost for whatever awaits me.
All I know is that I
felt the Clanky One’s excitement when he brought those two female humans to my
corral. Mother always hoped Her
Warrior’s little one would claim me some day.
From the look and moves of the taller human, I thought maybe her dream
had come true. She certainly stared at
me as if she knew me. Something in my
blood said she did.
In the blink of an
eye, she had grabbed my mother’s old saddle, cinched it on me and jumped
aboard. It did not occur to me to
bolt. Instinctively I responded to her
touch. We flew over the fence, galloped
and circled as if with one mind. She
rejoiced at how much I showed I was my mother’s foal, and I knew I had been
right to wait for someone as good as Her Warrior. She is strong and skilled, has brave and commanding eyes, the
hands of someone who knows how to treat a warhorse. True, I do not yet have battle experience, but I can tell from
the weapons she carries that I soon will.
All the humans seem
pleased by me. I believe I am the
happiest of all. I have set out with them
– the Clanky One, his young one and the strangers – for the wide open
spaces. The Clanky One refers to the
females by the names my mother said humans used for Her Warrior and the
Companion. If they are the same, time
has certainly been kinder to them than to my mother or the Clanky One. Perhaps they are indeed the next in line
and, like me, were named after those who bore them. No matter. They smell of
greener pastures and the life my mother promised me. I sense we will all bear our names with pride. All that has changed is what I call the
taller one who rides me. Whoever she
was before, she is My Warrior now.