Opal Dreaming: The Bronze Horses

Opal Dreaming

Book One

The Bronze Horses

© Jennifer Crane, 2012.

Morris Publishing Australia

Acknowledgements

My thanks to Elaine Ouston and

Morris Publishing Australia

for giving Opal Dreaming a home

and a chance to be read by everyone.

Cover Artwork

By

Jaclyn Crane

Opal Dreaming

Book One

The Bronze Horses

© Jennifer Crane, 2012.

The right of Jennifer Crane to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted by her.

ISBN: 978-0-9859147-4-5

Smashwords edition

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This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Morris Publishing Australia

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Opal Dreaming Series

Book One

The Bronze Horses

To come in 2013

Book Two

The Marble Horses

Opal Dreaming

‘Ten seconds.’

‘We can do this,’ I whispered to Banjo-P. ‘A clear round, with no time penalties and we’ll be on our way to our first Olympic gold medal.’

I tugged at my helmet chinstrap; a nervous habit. The pony chewed on the bit and stomped his hooves. The only sound I could hear was the countdown to the start of the cross-country course of the Three Day Event. With the back of my hand, I swiped at the small, black bush fly drinking the drops of sweat from my upper lip.

‘Five, four, three, two, one … go.’

Banjo-P leapt across the white painted line, his ears pricked forward. Despite the feeling that my heart would jump from my chest, I pushed my weight down into the stirrups and raised myself slightly out of the saddle. My bent knees acted like springs, to absorb the force of our forward plunge. I concentrated on keeping my hands steady on the reins to calm my mount as we approached the first fence – a narrow wooden gate fixed between two large stringy-bark trees.

‘There’s no room for mistakes with this one, Banjo-P.’

The rhythmic, three-time canter beat of his hooves on the hard ground - 1, 2, 3…1, 2, 3 – told me he was at the correct pace leading into the obstacle. I focused on the jump in front of us. As we came closer, I sat down in the saddle and eased the reins back to slow the tempo of the canter. When I had lined Banjo-P up in front of the gate, straight and balanced, he tugged on the reins so he could raise his head high. I knew his bright, alert eyes were assessing the height and width of the fence; after all, he was the one who had to jump it. Before the point of take-off, I squeezed my lower legs against his sides to urge him to lengthen his stride

‘Now!’ I said and sucked in a deep breath and held it.

Immediately, the pony gathered his hocks under him. My hands relaxed when I felt his forefeet lift and we started to rise off the ground. My contact on the reins became light and giving, as though I held elastic through his mouth, just as Mum had taught me. Simultaneously, I swung myself into the forward seat position to move in harmony with the momentum of the leap. With my weight removed from his back, he rounded his spine mid-jump and we hung over the fence in a period of suspension. At the moment when I knew we had cleared the fence, we flew. That was always the best moment of any jump.

The solid thud-thud of Banjo-P’s forefeet on the reverse side of the gate vibrated through the ground. We had landed cleanly. I sat back into the saddle and blew out the breath I had been holding deep in my lungs.

‘Well done,’ I said and patted his neck.

The initial thrill of the first, less testing fence was behind us and I looked towards the next obstacle – a large, ancient tree lying across the bend of the track. Once again, I gathered the reins to slow and control the canter pace. This approach would be tricky. A tight and dangerous turn before the log, risked a run-out that would incur both time and penalty points. I had walked the course, and knew that to be safe, we needed to take a wide sweeping turn through the bush to the jump.

I guided Banjo-P into the copse of trees. On fine, agile legs, he skipped between the rough, scaly trunks of the bloodwood and black-wattle trees. In quick succession, I positioned one leg hard against his side, then changed to the other as I shifted my weight, first left, then right. The firm pressure I placed on one rein, and then the other, helped him balance when he lent hard to bend around the trees. The route we threaded through the bush gave us a perfect approach to the log.

We cleared the fallen eucalypt with ease and were well positioned for the water jump into the shallow, stony-bedded creek.

Throughout the remainder of the course, I pushed my mount hard. I knew he could do it. However, towards the end of the course I could feel his stride begin to slow and shorten.

‘Come on. We’re nearly there,’ I urged, and bent over his neck like a jockey. I allowed the reins to go loose to give him the freedom to stretch his neck.

As soon as we crossed the invisible finish line, the pony slowed to a walk, and then stopped, his sides heaving. Between gasps of air, I checked my wrist stopwatch. I double checked the time, then dropped the reins, flung my arms in the air and yelled, ‘Yes. Yes. We did it. A clear round. Look Banjo-P.’ He turned his head and I leaned forward and twisted my arm around to show him the face of the stopwatch. ‘Optimum time. No penalties,’ I gloated. ‘That gold medal is already in my hand.’

A loud thwack echoed across the paddock. We jerked our heads around at the sound.

‘Erin, what do you think you're doing?’ Mum yelled from the back veranda of the house. ‘I asked you to feed the horses.’

‘I just rode my best time over the course,’ I called from the paddock.

‘That’s just as well. Because it will be your last ride over the course if you don't get a move on and feed those horses. You know what Sal will say when she finds out,’ said Mum. ‘And don't forget to put some linseed in the feed.’

‘But it was a gold medal time,’ I protested. The second thwack of the screen door shattered my moment of victory. ‘Next time, it will be for real.’

At the weather worn timber and corrugated iron stable, I took my time to unsaddle the pony and dawdled over brushing away the curly, brown wattle seedpods that had collected in his long, black mane during our ride. He snorted with impatience when I hosed the sweat from his dappled, buckskin coat and tossed his head when I dried his face with a towel.

‘I know. It’s dinnertime. Sorry we’re late, but I just had to have a ride,’ I apologised and gave him a carrot. ‘But hey, I know you enjoy it too.’

At nearly thirteen, I had outgrown Banjo-P. The Australian Pony gelding had been my first horse and now belonged to my eight-year-old sister, Sal. However, I could not resist riding him over the cross-country course Dad had built on our hinterland property.

The four horses waited at their favourite feed bins, which hung on the wooden fence. They watched my every move. I added a handful of linseeds to each of the buckets already filled with chaff, grain, and molasses. Banjo-P attacked his feed with gusto, even before I could empty the bucket into the feed-bin. Girly, Mum’s thoroughbred mare, shared her food with her yearling colt that looked just like his dam – chestnut with white socks on his hind legs.

Our new sixteen-hands, black, thoroughbred gelding, Max, calmly munched his feed, and ignored the other horses that stamped the ground in enjoyment as they ate. I leaned over the fence and stroked Girly’s velvet ears. I enjoyed this quite, slower time