Lessoc Fountain - a fairy-creature tale

Ch. 12 Hoof to Hand

Hector snorted nervously through his nose. Cocot held the brush higher so he could see it.

"I'm not going to hurt you with this brush," she said, and grabbed some chamomile flowers with her free hand. She took a step towards him, head low, arms out.

He nickered, his nostrils flaring to catch the scent of the plants. She tiptoed forward, repeating that she wasn't going to hurt him and that he was terribly, terribly dirty and the brush was only for the dirt and nothing else. He stretched his lips out to nibble the chamomile cautiously and she gently stoked his cheek with the brush. When he held still for this, she brushed his cheek again, moving slowly to his wide neck and the sagging skin over his chest.

She brushed him lightly since she was afraid to rub the sores, but even so a halo of dust glowed in a gold cloud around them and clumps of clay rained to the ground. She worked her way around the great animal, humming and singing songs, arms growing heavy and tired long before she was done.

To wash his sores, she lathered up a rag with soapy water and wrung it out over the wounds on his shoulders, chest, back (she had to stand on the bench) and legs, sponging them off as gently as possible. The same black maggoty creatures that were in his eyes burrowed in his sores, too.

She reached the 'S' shaped scar that ran from his flank to his knee that Soufflé had told her of. She traced it with her finger tip, the awful cut was as tall as she was.

"Could you really be the horse the Bounet Rodzos are afraid of?" she asked him. Hector nickered softly, his voice raspy. "I don't believe it."

She needed fresh water to rinse him and she hurried off to the pump, but pulled up short when she came back. Hector was covered in white foam. She frowned. "How did you..." Field fairies took flight off of him, like a snow flurry whipped upwards by wind.

Laughing, she climbed the bench to rinse the horse.

"Funny little things, aren't they?" she murmured. From atop the bench, she washed his eyes, too, using the tea infusion. As the concoction dribbled in his eyes, the grey scum loosened and ran down his cheek, but the maggoty things disappeared inside. Disgust crinkled her lips. What she wouldn't give to get those nasty things out of him.

It was time for his hooves. The sight of men scraping or changing the iron shoes on horses was common, so she took a deep breath and positioned herself like them; behind one fore-leg and crouched slightly under the massive beast's belly. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around his sore-ridden ankle.

To her amazement, at her touch Hector lifted his hoof instantly, placing it in her hand.

"Oh," she whispered. "Thank you."

Though her stomach flipped every time wriggling black creatures wormed through the pus and inflamed tissue, she cleaned the ankle as best she could and then poured the tea over it, too, thinking she would scrub her hands with soap at least three times before going to bed tonight.

She wiped bottom of the hoof and used a sharp stick to dig a stone out of the grooves in the bottom. When the shoe was clean, she studied it for a moment. The horseshoes she had seen (all three of them hanging over doors for good luck) had been the same thick iron bent in a 'U' shape with several holes for the nails. Hector's shoe had no holes or visible nail heads and instead of dull grey iron, it gleamed like silver. Most of it was deeply buried in the hoof, except for the sharp tip that extended slightly past the hoof.

"What is this for?" she asked softly. All too easily, she imagined the horse, a dark rider on his back, chasing a victim and cutting him down with a wicked jab of his hooves.