He was friend to no man, but his great pride and joy
Were fine horses that he wouldn't share
.
Now Traveler he had discovered one day
A new stallion had come to the pen
It was dirty and white and had stood there all night
It was old and so terribly thin
.
He had no patience
He had no heart
So he beat the poor horse right to death
He came back later on, but the stallion was gone
And no sign of the body was left
.
Now Traveler he had a vision that night
Glowing strong with a long mane and tail
He said, "Traveler you have been tested like few
And I'm afraid you have miserably failed"
.
.
Now Traveler jumped up and ran to the gate
But his horses were gone, every one
The vision that night said, "Follow the light
Until daybreak and there they will run"
.
They will run, they will run
For all day and all night they will run
The warning was clear, but he did not hear
And now his long chase had begun
.
Now Traveler follows the trail of his herd
Over years and rough miles on the land
The white stallion coaxes and taunts him with hoaxes
But he never quite catches the band
No he never quite catches the band
.
There's a story the old ones tell by the fire
When the stars are washed clean in the wind
When the coyotes sing out beyond the cree jump
When the echo of hoofbeats begin
.
Mane and tails flying
They run in the hills
Just to follow the ghost stallion's flight
Sorrel and grey, appaloosa and bay
Are they real or a dream in the night
.
Are they real, or a dream in the night
Inspired by
A Yinnuwok Legend
This is a tale the old men tell around the fire, when the stars are blown
clean on a windy night, and the coyotes are howling on the Cree Jump. And when,
sometimes, over the wind, comes clearly the sound of running horses, their
hearers move a little closer to one another and pile more wood on the fire.
This is a story from a long time ago, say the Old Ones. What the man's name
was, no one knows now, and so they call him "The Traveler".
Long ago, The Traveler was a wealthy chief. A warrior in his young days, he
had taken many scalps, many horses, and many another trophy of value. And he had
increased his possessions by hard dealings with those less fortunate, and by
gambling with younger men who were no match for his cunning.
His fellow tribesmen did not love him although they admired his bravery, for
in times of hardship, when other chiefs shared freely whatever they had, he
drove hard bargains and generally prospered from the ills of others. His wives
he had abused till their parents took them away; his children hated him, and he
had no love for them.
There was only one thing he cared for: his horses. They were fine horses,
beautiful horses, for he kept only the best; and when a young warrior returned
from a raid with a particularly good horse, The Traveler never rested until
(whether by fair means or not) he had it in his possession. At night, when the
dance drum was brought out, and the other Indians gathered round it, The
Traveler went alone to the place where his horses were picketed, to gloat over
his treasures. He loved them. But he loved only the ones that were young, and
handsome, and healthy; a horse that was old, or sick, or injured, received only
abuse.
One morning, when he went to the little valley in which his horses were kept,
he found in the herd an ugly white stallion. He was old, with crooked legs, and
a matted coat, thin, and tired looking.
The Traveler flew into a rage. He took his rawhide rope, and caught the poor
old horse. Then, with a club, he beat him unmercifully. When the animal fell to
the ground, stunned, The Traveler broke his legs with the club, and left him to
die. He returned to his lodge, feeling not the slightest remorse for his
cruelty.
Later, deciding he might as well have the hide of the old horse, he returned
to the place where he had left him. But, to his surprise, the white stallion was
gone. That night, as The Traveler slept, he had a dream. The white stallion
appeared to him, and slowly turned into a beautiful horse, shining white, with
long mane and tail - a horse more lovely than any The Traveler had ever
seen.
Then the Stallion spoke: "If you had treated me kindly," the stallion said,
"I would have brought you more horses. You were cruel to me, so I shall take
away the horses you have!"
When The Traveler awoke, he found his horses were gone. All that day, he
walked and searched, but when at nightfall he fell asleep exhausted, he had
found no trace of them. In his dreams, the White Stallion came again, and said,
"Do you wish to find your horses? They are north, by a lake. You will sleep
twice, before you come to it."
As soon as he awakened in the morning, The Traveler hastened northward. Two
days' journey, and when he came to the lake there were no horses. That night,
the Ghost Stallion came again. "Do you wish to find your horses?" he said. "They
are east, in some hills. There will be two sleeps before you came to the
place.'
When the sun had gone down on the third day, The Traveler had searched the
hills, but had found no horses. And so it went night after night, the Stallion
came to The Traveler, directing him to some distant spot, but he never found his
horses. He grew thin, and footsore. Sometimes he got a horse from some
friendly camp; sometimes he stole one, in the night. But always, before morning,
would come a loud drumming of hoofs, the Ghost Stallion and his band would
gallop by, and the horse of The Traveler would break its picket, and go with
them.
And never again did he have a horse; never again did he see his own lodge.
And he wanders, even to this day, the old men say, still searching for his lost
horses.
Sometimes, they say, on a windy autumn night when the stars shine very
clearly, and over on the Cree Jump the coyote's howl, above the wind you may
hear a rush of running horses, and the stumbling footsteps of an old man. And,
if you are very unlucky, you may see the Stallion and his band, and The
Traveler, still pursuing them, still trying to get back his beautiful
horses.
Can
you hear that sound? It’s the trees calling. That primeval urge to go
home to the woods, to smell the air, and the innate need for Quiet are
things that motivate me. Though I currently live in southeast Michigan,
it is this need that causes me to hitch up the horse trailer and haul
my family of animals six hours north to Drummond Island each year.
Someone once described me as a “woodsy ragamuffin”. This is pretty
accurate, except for the seemingly incongruous fact that, like many
thespians, I enjoy dressing up. There are various reasons people do
stage plays: A love of the arts; a desire to be someone else at least
temporarily; an urge to behave erratically in a public forum. While
all these apply to me, my main reason is that I am, quite simply, a
ham. I love karaoke too. There’s nothing like bopping around on stage
in leather pants, swinging a microphone and forcing a crowd of
strangers to listen to my slightly off-key version of “Tracks of My
Tears”.
{/viewonly}
SUBSCRIBE
to HORSES For LIFE™ Online Magazine for full access to the exclusive
and educational monthly articles in every Issue. Register and then USE
the "Subscribe"button in the left hand menu.
Your subscription includes access to
A FULL 2 PAST YEARS OF ISSUES!
Over 300 Articles!!!
For the Instructor, For the Rider, For the Horse.
Horses For LIFE - For You!
OR Enjoy the free
articles in every issue available for Registered Members! Registration
is FREE! Look for the asterisk * that denotes Free Articles!
Can
you hear that sound? It’s the trees calling. That primeval urge to go
home to the woods, to smell the air, and the innate need for Quiet are
things that motivate me. Though I currently live in southeast Michigan,
it is this need that causes me to hitch up the horse trailer and haul
my family of animals six hours north to Drummond Island each year. 