A little while ago, when the lightning was whirling over the valley and the hills, thinking to crackle, but hadn’t done so yet, the foal’s mother summoned the foal with a gentle neigh: the foal’s mother knew that the lightning was about to crack, and that the crack would scare the little foal. The foal thought that the mother was calling him to suckle. He pricked up his ears, moved them, and began to listen to himself, trying to understand whether he wanted to suckle, but he thought he would rather smell the grass and the flowers, and get to know them one by one. And at that very moment the lightning cracked. The foal was startled and ran for his mother, but was so scared that he ran in the wrong direction and couldn’t spot his mother. The mother wanted to go to the foal, but the rope around her neck wouldn’t let her. She neighed to the foal.
The foal was one month old, and it was the first thunder in his life. He sheltered himself under his mother’s chest, and from there, pricking his ears, the foal listened to the pattering of the rain on the oak tree leaves, stared at the rock for a while, then at the rose bush, at the oak tree, blinked his eyes and forgot about his fear of the lightning, thinking he had come to his mother to suckle. Wagging his black curly tail, the foal sheltered himself under his mother’s chest. The old mare moved her leg back and relaxed the milk veins so that the foal could suckle freely and fully.
He was a star-studded foal, covered with starlets like frost crystals, and had thin and long limbs. The shin of the right hind leg was white. The foal seemed to be covered with frost crystals, and his right hind leg with snow. His neck was also thin and long. He had a small head with a small, round, aster-like round blaze on his forehead. Deer, goat kids, and lambs, as well as the mare that gave birth to many foals, would come to drink water from the brook in that valley, but this foal was the most beautiful creature in this green field. His mane and tail were black. We didn’t know what color his eyes were, as he would shy away, and we couldn’t approach him; but we can surely say that his eyes were very beautiful, as horses’ eyes always are; the surroundings are reflected in them. Now, the oak tree, the flowers, the rose plant, the red mare, and the entire green valley were reflected in the foal’s eyes.
The foal was a little clumsy, as he was still very young. A drop of rain rolled down between his legs, startling him, and he ran away from his mother. The mother didn’t call him back. The rain had stopped, there would be no more lightning, and the sun had come out.
The green field was sparkling in the sun. The sole oak tree in that valley and the rose plant bush, the mare’s wet mane and the foal’s back, the brook that started out from the gray rock and ran through the green valley, all gleamed in the rich, moist light. The brook gave off the smell of lightning, and the foal got frightened. The rose plant also smelled of lightning: the foal jumped back, then stopped, gazed at the rose plant and slowly, step by step, moved closer to smell it again.
All the scents and odors of that valley were familiar to the mare. She knew the scents of all valleys and hills, but the smells of this valley were more familiar to her, as she was often put out to pasture in it. The lightning blaze was evanescent. It would fade away under the sun, evaporate with the dew. The scent of thyme did not belong to the valley either; the wind had blown it over from the hills. The mare was grazing and smelling wet sheep wool. The mare thought that, as there were sheep grazing on the other side of the hills, it meant there would also be shepherd dogs.
There were sheep grazing on the other side of the hills. The wet grass of the valley is juicy and delicious, the water of the brook is tasty, the old mare thought, the sun is warm; the little foal is shying, growing up in the warmth and kindness of the valley.
The mare raised her head: the oak tree stood still, the rock stood high; kind of sleepy, the little foal was smelling the rose plant. The sun was warm, the grass was tasty, so good to graze. The mare lowered her head to graze, plucked a couple of mouthfuls of grass, but something felt wrong; the mare raised her head.
Standing motionless, with her head held high, the old red mare examined the green valley for a long time and listened to the silence for a while. Everything was the same as before: the oak tree was standing still, the rock was dozing, the little foal was frolicking around the rose plant. It seemed to be alright to continue grazing, but the old mare did not drop her muzzle to the ground: she tossed up her head briskly and waited, pricking her ears to catch all the hushed sounds of the valley. She widened her nostrils to feel the strange and distant smells of the valley. Butterflies were flickering, bugs and flies were singing, the brook was burbling, the foal was chasing a butterfly around the rose plant with his neck held high. But these were not the sounds that the old mare wanted to listen to, nor was it that scene that she wanted to see. There was a danger brooding over the valley. There were no ominous sounds in the air, the peril was nowhere to be seen, nor could it be smelled in the blowing wind; but still, the mare could not concentrate on grazing.
The old mare started to get angry. She could feel that there was an enemy in the valley, but could neither hear nor see it.
The gray rock, the lush oak tree, the old red mare, and the rose plant stood in the green valley, watching and listening to the silence. There was no danger in the valley for the rock, as there would be no more lightning that day. The oak tree stood still, watching; everything was fine for the oak tree: there was no danger of lightning, the sun was warm. The rose plant had nothing to worry about, either, as the foal’s muzzle could not reach the couple of flowers at its top. But the old red mare sweated in tense anticipation.
The valley was betraying the mare. There was an enemy in the valley, but the valley did not give away its sound and smell. The old red mare did not dare move toward the foal. She was afraid to lose track of the hushed sounds of the enemy in the noise of her footsteps. The red mare dared not breathe: she was afraid to drown out the furtive breathing of the enemy in the noise of her lungs. The old mare did not blink: she was afraid that the enemy would jump from one spot to another in that instant, and she would miss it.
The rock, the oak tree, the rose plant, the mare, all stood still in the green valley. The rock was dozing. The acorns of the oak tree were growing juicy in their safe armored coats, and everything was alright for the oak tree. The rose plant had exposed its calyxes to the sun and was sucking in its rays. But the old red mare was trembling with rage. Never ever had the valley betrayed the mare in this way. Maybe it was the smell of the lightning that blocked the scent of the enemy that was nearby, somewhere around, emitting an scent; its scent had faded in the burning smell of the lightning.
The foal was looking at something and then at his mother, moving his gaze back and forth from the object to his mother. The mother couldn’t see what the foal was looking at; it could not be seen from where she was. The foal was looking at the object, then turning his head to the mother, who was standing with her head high, her eyes burning.
The foal stretched his neck, raised his muzzle, and moved toward the object; at that moment, the mother felt the foul scent of the wolf. The mother neighed and jumped toward the foal, and saw the wolf jump across the ground in a smooth, long leap.
The short, nervous neigh of the mare could be heard on the other side of the hills. On the other side of the hills, the shepherd dogs pricked up their ears, waited for some time to catch other sounds, and then calmed down.
The red mare rushed to the foal; she hastily threw herself toward the wolf and the foal, but fell down. She was an old mare: she had fallen many times before, but never so unexpectedly. She got up immediately. It was her intense onrush and the rope that caused her to fall down. The rope was strangling her, hindering her from rushing toward her little foal.
The foal ran away, somewhere far from the rose plant; the foal wanted to run to his mother, he was trying to reach his mother by making a wide circle, but every time the wolf blocked his way, making him run farther and farther away. And the rope was strangling the mother. The foal jumped to the mother over the wolf. The wolf grabbed his hind leg, and the foal fell down. He squealed and jumped up.
The sharp squeal of the foal was heard on the other side of the hills. The shepherd dogs pricked up their ears; a dog with a black muzzle, Topush, grew even more alert.
The foal squealed and jumped up, at that moment the mother reared, furiously stretched herself toward the wolf and the foal with her whole weight; the rope broke and whipped her legs. The mother lunged forward with all her might, all her strength, all her rage, and all her love. She was a very fast mare, but never in her whole life had she rushed soaring like that.
Her faint hoofbeats could be heard on the other side of the hills. Then, no more sounds from the valley could be heard on the other side of the hills, and the dogs and the little shepherd calmed down.
The wolf let the foal go and escaped from being trampled. The mare was attacking; the wolf backed away a little bit. The mare kept moving forward, and the wolf withdrew a bit more. With her muzzle touching the ground, the mare kept advancing slowly, menacingly; the wolf stretched herself on the ground, and was about to jump and snatch the mare’s nostrils, when the mare turned around.
The mare turned around, and the wolf leaped and stood in front of her. The mare turned around again, with the foal under her belly, and the wolf circled with her. The wolf kept circling, and the mare kept turning around. In two short jumps, the wolf appeared under the mare’s muzzle, but the mare managed to turn around again, and kicked. With a long leap, the wolf appeared under the mare’s muzzle. The mare didn’t have time to turn around completely: the wolf scratched her nostrils, and the mare managed to trample on the wolf with her front leg. The wolf pulled back, but didn’t run away. The wolf sat down and looked at the mare, and the mare looked at the wolf. The wolf realized that the mare would defend her foal until the end, and the mare realized that the wolf would not leave. The mare was covered in sweat, but the wolf was also tired. The wolf dashed forward instantly, then kept jumping at the mare’s nostrils, and the mare kept turning around, keeping the foal under her belly all the time.
It was already evening. Their movements had slowed down: the wolf was moving around the mare slowly, almost dragging herself, almost crawling; and the mare was turning slowly where she stood, with difficulty, sometimes stumbling and collapsing. Their eyes had darkened, and they could hardly see each other. They had gone deaf from exhaustion.
The little shepherd walked to the top of the hill and watched the sunset. The sky was red; the sole oak tree in the valley was beautiful under the sunset . . . but what the little shepherd saw was so ugly that he was unable to utter a word: the wolf was hanging from the red mare’s nostrils, and the old red mare was unable to trample the wolf. The old red mare was about to crumble.
Hey, boy, they called from the opposite hills, that wolf is strangling the mare. Hey, there! Where are the dogs? Hey!
The little shepherd opened his mouth to shout, but he was unable to utter a sound. The little shepherd only waved his hands. The dogs focused their attention and stared. The dogs—Topush, Bob, Sevo, Boghar, Chalak, Chambar—saw what was going on and dashed forward. Black-muzzled Topush was a skilled dog. He would approach quietly and attack. And now, too, he was running quietly, leading the group. Boghar, on the other hand, was a young dog, still a little bit frightened of wolves: that’s why he would start barking from far away, so that the wolves would run away, and he would not have to fight them. Now Boghar kept on barking while running. Boghar was a fast runner; he got ahead of Topush from time to time, but didn’t have the courage to get ahead of the pack and run all alone. He stopped and barked, waiting for Topush, ran next to Topush, then again got ahead and slowed down again.
When the mare was about to fall on her knees, the wolf heard dogs barking in the distance, as if in a dream. The wolf didn’t want to believe that the dogs were coming to attack her: fate could not be so ruthless, her torments of the whole day could not come to no avail, she couldn’t return to her three pups hungry and empty-handed.
When there was no more strength in her, when the pain in her nostrils was growing dull, her eyes had completely darkened and her ears deafened, the mother mare heard dogs barking in the faraway distance; she believed that the dogs were barking for her foal and for her. Fate could not be so cruel; her foal could not live for just one June. The old mare knew that the dogs were near, and that it was because of her exhaustion that their barking seemed so far away. The old mare knew that she could persevere a little longer, just a bit longer, she had to endure until the dogs arrived. But it was so hard to breathe. Life had become such a heavy burden.
The barking of the dogs exploded in the wolf’s ears, but she still couldn’t believe that such a tormenting success would end up in such a failure. Her pups hungry at home, her nipples empty . . . They punctured her neck, punctured her ear, and the wolf released the mare’s nostrils. They had seized her paw. She didn’t have the strength to free it. The wolf wanted to sleep, just sleep. There was no strength to fight, the wolf wanted to die, to rest. The wolf stretched herself and pressed her throat on the ground so that the dogs would not seize her by the throat. The dogs were tearing her back, her neck, tugging on her ears, and she was trying to protect her throat and was resting underneath the pack of dogs.
The wolf bit a paw, and one of the dogs jumped aside, whining. The wolf lifted herself up, and the dogs waited, surrounding her. Standing among them, the wolf looked at the dogs: there were many of them, it was difficult, too difficult, impossible to get away from them and drag herself home, where her pups were waiting for her. With bared fangs, the wolf looked at the dogs, the dogs looked at the wolf, they looked at each other like that for a while: the wolf didn’t know what she was going to do, and the dogs didn’t know what they were going to do. One of the dogs shuddered, jumped at the wolf, hit her with its chest, and knocked her aside. The wolf barely stopped herself from falling down and realized that the most dangerous dog was that one with the black muzzle.
They called out from the opposite hills: Hey, boy . . . who are you? Hey, there . . . Go help those dogs, help them strangle the wolf, hey, there . . .
The mare could barely keep herself standing. Her head was getting heavier and was dropping. The mare felt the foal suckling and could hardly feel the joy of it. The mare’s head bent down, her forelegs dropped, but the foal was still suckling. The mare collapsed. The foal was now standing next to his mother waiting for her to get up, but the mother did not move. The foal poked at his mother’s belly with his muzzle, but the mother didn’t get up, didn’t move. The foal sat near his mother’s belly, his hind leg hurt badly, he began to suckle. And the mother was still nursing her foal, feeding him with overflowing, abundant milk, for one last time suckling her already orphaned foal, the most beautiful foal she had ever given birth to in her life; the star-studded foal with a curly black mane and tail, a white shin, with an aster-like blaze on the forehead, the foal who was a little bit foolish and clumsy, but that was because he was still too young.
The wolf, anyway, managed to escape. If she didn't escape, her pups would be orphaned: they were completely helpless, they would starve to death; and the wolf managed to get away. It was not an escape, it was a retreat, step by step, leap by leap, a few leaps at a time: when after a few leaps the dogs reached her and were about to seize her, the wolf turned back, bared her fangs, snarled, the dogs stopped, and the wolf leaped a few more steps back.
The giant, black-muzzled dog didn’t manage to seize the wolf’s throat, and the wolf didn’t manage to bite the dog and scare it away; the black-muzzled dog was no longer chasing the wolf, because a tuft of hair from the wolf’s neck had got stuck in its mouth, and the black-muzzled dog was lagging behind and was trying to clear its mouth coughing and sneezing in disgust. The black-muzzled dog was not chasing the wolf, and the other dogs were not dangerous, as they were not experienced.
The dogs lost sight of the wolf, lost track of her, but for a long time were running around, howling and blending in with the green valley, where the rock had now darkened, where the oak tree stood still, where the rose plant had opened up its calyxes to soak up dew drops, and where the body of the old red mare lay. The foal was standing beside his mother, a little worried, as if already realizing what had happened.
The whole valley was bright green under the sunset, but was black, very dark black, around the old red mare. The red body of the old mare was lying in that black circle. That black circle was the fighting spot of the mare and the wolf, the black spot trampled out by the mare. Looking at that black, trampled, smashed, shattered ground, one could envision how long the old mare had been circling around herself with the wolf.
That black spot remained black for about three years; for almost three years, grass did not grow there, and the white skeleton of our good old mare lay there, in that black circle. But then, the green took over: the grass sprouted in that black spot, flowers bloomed from the cracks of the skeleton, the grass grew lush and luxuriant, and the green valley is green all over now.
From the top of the hills, the green valley is entirely green: the oak tree stands majestically in the green valley; the rock is listening to the rustling sound of clouds, dozing; the rose plant has exposed its five calyxes to the sun; and a star-studded horse is grazing tied up in the green field. The shin of his right hind leg is white, his legs and neck are long, his mane and tail are sun kissed and tawny, he has a white aster-like blaze on the forehead. When he takes a step, his right hind leg twitches a little, spasmodically, because of an old scar.
The horse with an aster-like blaze on the forehead raises his beautiful head, and the rock, the oak tree, the blooming rose plant, the green valley, and the white clouds in the blue sky are mirrored in his eyes.
—That’s the end?
—Yes, it is.
—No.
—Why not?
—Let the mother horse not die.
—I can’t say that the mother horse didn’t die, because she did. When the little shepherd ran down from the top of the hill, the mare was dead, the foal was standing sadly beside his mother. When the shepherd who had called out, “Hey, boy, hey there,” came down the opposite hill, the mare was completely cold already; the old shepherd and the little boy sat near the old red mare for some time and wondered how they would take care of the foal.
—And so, how did they?
—With another mare’s milk.
—No, let the mother horse not die.
—I can’t say that the mother horse didn’t die, because during the whole summer I fed that orphaned foal with the milk of other mares.
—Can I say what should happen?
—Go ahead, tell me.
—Let the shepherd on the other side of the hills come to the top of the hill and notice the wolf sooner.
—The shepherd was on the opposite side of the hills and he noticed the wolf only when he came out to the top of the hill.
—Why did the mare die?
—When they were sitting next to the old red mare’s body, the old shepherd told the little shepherd that the mare’s heart had burst because of her fear for her foal, because of disgust and rage.
—Was she disgusted with the wolf?
—Yes, with the wolf.
—Let the dogs strangle the wolf.
—I can’t say that the dogs strangled the wolf, because our black-muzzled dog had swallowed a tuft of the wolf’s hair and was about to die himself.
—Were you the little shepherd?
—Yes, I was. The mare was our mare, the foal was the foal of our mare.
—Has the foal grown up? Is he tied up in the green valley?
—Yes, he has grown up and is tied up in the green valley.
—Does he remember his red mother?
—Maybe he remembers his red mother, because horses have a memory.
—Tell the story again.
—The lightning hit the rock with a dry crackle, then got thrown back and buried in the green ground. The gray rock was hard; the lightning could hardly tear off a few bits from its rough surface. Only the oak tree was slightly frightened, because lightning hits and burns oak trees; and the long-legged, star-studded little colt was very frightened. A male foal is called a colt. He was so scared that he wanted to run to his mother, but couldn’t spot her and was running in a different direction. And the old red mare let the foal know where she was with a gentle neigh . . .
