The Horse Who Held Back the Hunter

Drops of blood stained the snow with each step.

A bent arm held a dripping, severed head out to the side.

Coins in the pocket. That’s all it is, George thought. Just get it back to town and that’s that.

He hobbled against its heaviness.

For something with so little brains, this thing outweighs its worth in gold.

Two perked ears greeted him as he stepped out from the oak trees’ cover.

“Okay, Ethel?”

As if to answer, Ethel caught sight of what George was carrying and spun around in an attempt to run. Snorting and high headed. The whites of her eyes flashed.

She tugged against the rope that tied her to a nearby tree.

George stopped and waited for calm.

“It’s dead.” He raised the head and shook it. “Won’t hurt you.” He stepped forward.

Ethel rocked her weight onto her hindquarters and pulled hard against the rope, as if to try and sink into the ground.

I kill the beast. I almost die trying. I hold the trophy–yet my horse is what keeps me from claiming my reward?

George dropped the head on the ground. It rolled a blip, leaving its peeled eyes staring skywards. Long canines, still bloody, poked over its battered lips. Pale skin. Purple tinge. It was the monster he needed, aye. But, only if he could get its head back to town as proof of kill.

Ethel startled at the crunch of the head smacking snow.

“Easy, girl.” George inched towards the horse, leaving the monster behind.

Ethel let out a snort but stayed still at George’s approach.

He rested an open palm against her cheek. “I’m alive. It is dead. It won’t kill anymore.”

She didn’t understand his words but his calm tone eased her highly held head lower.

Ethel blew out a huge sigh of relief. George did, too.

Who knew becoming a bounty hunter meant becoming a horseman?

His open palm continued to stroke her neck until she returned to the calm, ploddy plough horse he’d always known.

“Right. Let’s try this again.”

George gathered the monster’s head. He made it within arm’s reach of Ethel’s rope, then extended a hand to try to untie it.

The mare spun around, showing her hind end and a cocked hoof–an omen of a kick to the face. So, again–he stopped and dropped the head.

Upon hearing it thud, Ethel turned to appraise the abomination laying behind her. Far different to a plough but still a burden to carry nonetheless. She left her back right leg cocked in warning. Her ears laid flat against her head.

Dammit, Ethel.

George flung his hands to his hips and looked up to the sky.

“What would you do?”

Ethel’s ears swiveled towards his voice.

George thought of his father who trained Ethel. Taught her to pull a plough to help feed the family. Even after he died, Ethel kept doing what she knew how to do, no matter who held the reins. But, her protest made it clear that hauling monsters was no part of that training.

What would you do, father?

His mind recalled when Ellesmere stopped by with her flower wagon; Ethel wouldn’t work that day. She was too spooked by the wagon bed that overflowed with rare and extravagant bushes– his mother’s favorite arrangements. The tangled vines and splashes of bright color reminded George of the monster’s head, with its knotted dark hair and highlights made from fresh blood.

His father cursed the “damned daft flowers” before storming off to the shed. He returned with a leather device that he hoisted over Ethel’s head. Blinders; a cup of leather over a portion of each eye would hide the full range of vision that the horse could see. George remembered being told that horses could see more of a range than humans could. Those blinders blocked her eyes from seeing what scared her mind. Ethel went back to work.

I’ll make blinders.

George looked her over.

She carried just a saddle. No extra barding or leather could be spared as material to use. Her bridle was minimal and each piece of it necessary.

Can’t do blinders, he mused.

He glanced back at the beast’s head. Eyes stared back.

I don’t blame her. Wretched thing.

As if by magic, a gust of wind rushed through the valley, sending leaves floating down from above. Both Ethel and George watched as two large leaves landed atop the head, slightly shading the stare of one of its eyes.

George sprung onto the balls of his feet as he realized he didn’t need to cover the horse’s eyes, but instead, the monster’s.

He patted down his body. Could I spare my vest?

George quickly unbuttoned it then threw it over the severed head.

Ethel tensed at the action but took a step forward as if curious about the shapeless pile of fabric.

“See? It’s gone.” George bundled the thing as tightly as he could and held it against his chest.

Two steps forward.

Ethel stayed curious. Watching.

Two more steps.

She craned her head towards his approach.

George flopped the bundle over the front of the saddle, so that it hung from the horse’s right side. He gently reached for the rope that tied Ethel and gave it a tug loose.

A few lashes and wraps later, and the hidden head was securely fastened to the clips of George’s saddle. Ethel was none the wiser.

George lifted his left foot to the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle with a smirk.

Town was only five miles away and he’d just become the only beast hunter in the village.

The trophy dangling at his side was the proof he needed to secure his new status.

Drops of blood fell from the bundle and slid down Ethel’s grey coat; they stained the snowy ground with each stride.