Heroes and Hounds

CHAPTER 1

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.