Heroes and Hounds

CHAPTER 1 From the living room window she could see forever. Past the oak tree with the tire swing. Past the vegetable garden where the large green pumpkins were turning Halloween orange. Past the barn with the hay stacked to the rafters for the coming winter. Out into the rolling Virginia hills where the amber grasses of autumn touched the gray skies on this threatening morning. Carly balanced on her tiptoes, her nose barely touching the frosty windowpane. Eleven years old, she stood exactly four feet tall. What she lacked in size, she made up for in her enthusiasm for life. Carly was a bonfire of energy and was wildly curious about everything. Her heart was as big as the surrounding valley that she loved to explore. Each day brought the promise of adventure and Carly was always eager to take on a challenge, despite any dangers that might be waiting on a new or unknown trail. This morning as she watched from the living room window, a light mist fell outside, leaving a gleam on the fence and porch rails. Her breath added frost on the window, her eyes wide with anticipation. In the kitchen her grandfather lowered the heat on the skillet where pancakes were turning golden brown. Carly lived with her grandfather on his 200-acre farm. Grandpa Oakley was a burly man. A shock of gray hair showed no signs of thinning. His face was etched with wrinkles from too many days of sitting in the sun on his John Deere tractor. He hummed a tune from another era. The ‘Olden Days’ as Carly liked to joke, back when television was black and white. Even though Grandpa Oakley was seventyyears-old, he was as strong as his prize bull Samson and often proved it at the county fair wrestling championships, beating men half his age. The smell from the kitchen drifted across the living room where Buster the gray tomcat sniffed the air and purred. He loved pancakes with maple syrup. Grandpa Oakley complained that the cat was too fat and wouldn’t catch mice if Carly kept feeding him scraps from the table. Carly always looked sad when her grandfather said this. He said it at every meal but didn’t really mean it. So Buster kept eating human food and getting fat. And the mice had the run of the barn. Carly liked the mice and all the animals at the farm. Even the red fox that came to visit at dusk. Grandpa said the fox was spying on the chickens, plotting and scheming, waiting for a dark, moonless night when he’d return and make a feast of the hens. In the two years Carly had been living at the farm, no hens or roosters had disappeared, except the ones Grandpa selected for supper. So Carly and the fox became good friends. Sort of. While they shared a common space, the fox always kept his distance and Carly kept hers. From time to time, Carly saw the fox smile back when she smiled at him. At least she thought she did. “Carly!” Grandpa called again. Buster sat up ready to spring into action. But Carly didn’t move from the window. It wouldn’t be long now. She heard them before she saw them coming. They were still in the shadow of the hill. At first it was a low, distinct sound. The chorus of two-dozen hounds yelping in a feverish pitch. As the hounds got closer, Carly could hear the hammer of horses’ hooves in close pursuit followed by the mellow tones of a brass horn blaring out its shrill call. Carly, ignoring her grandfather and the awaiting pancakes, dashed out the screen door onto the front porch for a closer look. The mist had turned into a steady rain, forming small puddles beneath the downspouts along the edge of the porch. From this new vantage point, she could see the pack of hounds running and bounding through the tall brown grass. They followed the fox scent over a wild course, now going straight, now cutting left, now doubling back. The hounds darted and dashed at each twist in the path. Carly watched in awe. Then came the horses, prancing and snorting, their coats glistening with rain, steam rising from their backs. On the galloping steeds rode the finely dressed ladies and gentlemen of the Riverdale Hunt Club. Leading the way was the Master of Foxhounds, Thurston Drury, wearing a black riding cap, a long scarlet riding coat with bright brass buttons, a yellow vest, white riding britches and tall black boots with tan tops. Silver spurs, a hand whip, and a brass horn completed his wardrobe. His silver-gray horse, nostrils flaring, kicked soft sod high into the air, as it galloped across the open field. Forty other smartly turned-out members of the Hunt followed the Master. Several times each Fall on Saturday mornings, the Hunt would come through Grandpa Oakley’s farm. In preparation, he took down barbed wire and electric fences, put the sheep and cows in a back pasture, and opened part of his two hundred acres to the Hunt. There was a mutual understanding between the farmers of the valley and the members of the Hunt. It was the job of the Hunt to keep the fox population under control. In return, the farmers graciously opened their vast tracts of land for the equestrian sport. Carly treasured these Saturday mornings. Farm life could get very lonely and she loved any kind of excitement. As Carly watched the riders thunder by, her imagination swept her into the middle of the hunt field, riding a fiery young thoroughbred horse. The wind whistled by her ears, the rain pelted her face. Her heart beat wildly as her horse galloped down the side of one hill and charged up another. She could feel her muscles tighten as she focused on a fast approaching, menacing, four-foot stone wall. She held her breath as the horse in front of her jumped the obstacle. Now it was her turn. She pressed her legs tighter around her horse’s girth, urging him forward. Without missing a stride, her horse soared into the air, sailing over the large stone wall, as if in slow motion. Her daydream carried her into a grassy field where she raced across an open meadow. “Carly!” her grandfather shouted impatiently from the doorway. His voice startled Carly back into reality. “Wait a while, grandpa!” she sputtered, her breath coming in short bursts. “Pancakes are getting cold and besides Buster is having a fit waiting. You know if you keep feeding him scraps, he’s never going to catch any mice. Dang ‘ole cat just sleeps and eats, sleeps and eats,” he said, joining her on the porch. Carly smiled at her grandfather, as they watched the last riders splash through a shallow stream before disappearing into a stand of river birch trees. “Fine looking group,” he observed. “Someday I’m going to ride with them. Like the wind, Grandpa,” said Carly. “What’s that you say?” asked Grandpa Oakley. “Oh, nothing. Boy, those pancakes smell great,” she said, changing the subject. She whistled to Buster who was already walking in and out and around her legs as she headed into the kitchen.