The War Mark by Katherine Carison (short books to read .TXT) 📖

One foggy cold morning while the golden-coated mustang, Clash, was grazing quietly in a field, a chestnut stallion approached him boldly, the frosty grass crunching beneath his hooves. Clash raised his head and pinned his ears back. “What are you doing in my mountains?” he asked angrily, breath billowing into the air, vanishing into the fog swirling around the horses’ hooves.
The newcomer answered him, straightening in dignity, “My herd and I are in search of a new home. We’d like a part of the mountains to live on.”
Clash threatened him, striking out a hoof at the other stallion, barely missing his nose. “Off my land, stranger. We don’t want you here,” he nickered, gesturing with his nose at his herd standing on a nearby cliff, ears pricked with curiosity.
The other stallion answered calmly, “My name’s Zeke, not ‘stranger,’ and I’m asking politely for you to give my herd and I a minuscule portion of your land. We, who haven’t had a proper meal in days, just need food. We’ll move on once spring arrives.”
“Food’s scarce already, I can’t afford to loose any of it,” Clash answered, his voice softening slightly in pity for his own skinny and hungry horses.
Zeke continued, now becoming frustrated with Clash’s stubbornness. “We’ll fight for it if we have to!”
Clash took a step back, pondering this. If he accepted this threat he would be risking his horses’ lives. Yet if he didn’t, how else would this quarrel be settled?
“Alright, but we should have three days to prepare. We’ll meet in the Blitzraag Valley at the crack of dawn.”
So the two stallions parted, taking with them their herds to prepare for the great battle soon to break out…

The next day was very busy. Everyone was rushing about stacking piles of carefully searched out grass and shrubs, arranging battle lines, creating attack plans. Clash was standing quietly near a tall tree, observing his herd’s work, when he noticed a young mare approaching him. “Clash, you know, obviously, we’re all mustangs, us and the other herd, right?”
Clash nodded, tilting his head slightly in curiosity. “Yes.”
“But, how do we know whose a friend or enemy in the midst of the battle? We know each other by names but there’s so many of us, you won’t know from a quick glance whose who.”
“Hmm… that’s a smart observation,” Clash replied. He quickly brushed passed the mare and called his horses together.
“As you may have heard there’s a conflict in telling whose friend or enemy in the battle. Any suggestions?”
A short gray horse raised his voice above the muttering. “We could wrap ivy tendrils around our necks?”
“I think it’s a novel idea,” someone shouted.
“But we’ll look like Christmas horses!” someone answered him. “Our hooves could also become entangled in them if they unravel.”
“Well, we’ll tie them tight,” someone else shouted.
Clash interrupted. “We can’t have something so loose. We need something…something to mark ourselves with.
A young, dark brown stallion shouted above the noise, “How about a mud streak down our backs?”
Murmurs of agreement rose from the cluster of mustangs. Suddenly another voice rose. “How should we know when the battle is really over?”
Clash answered, “ We make a flag. We shall drive a branch into the ground and tie some horsehair to it. If it still stands by the time the sun reaches its highest point, we have won the battle.”
Clash tried to smile cheerfully, though the battle edged closer every moment and waves of anxiousness pulsed from every horse’s fearful heart.

The mustangs waited in silence at the crest of Blitzraag Valley, breath billowing into the air. The bottom of the valley was hidden in a dense, still, eerie fog, the silence surrounding them was almost haunting. The sun had not yet risen, the shadows beneath the trees still dark. Nothing stirred at the other end of the valley, not a hoof beat, not a nicker, not even a scuffle.
Some of the horses shifted their hooves in the cold air, the frosty grass crunching beneath their feet.
Clash glanced over his shoulder at his horses. Everyone had a clear streak of mud tracing their spine and down the base of their tails. He could feel his own mark, the mud now dry and stiff. He raised his nose to stare at the sky as the first light of dawn began to light the clouds. Soon every horse had a gold silhouette. Red, pink, orange, and yellow streaks were sprawled in the sky, creating a brilliant prelude to the sunrise.
A stout brown stallion walked up to stand beside his leader. “It’s so quiet.”
“It’s the deep breath before the plunge,” Clash answered him softly, not taking his gaze from the ridge opposite them. Suddenly, as if on cue, the sun broke out in a burst of golden light from behind the mountains, while at the same time the other herd appeared on the ridge of the valley. The shadows around the trees and bushes were swept behind them as the radiant light spilled into the valley.
Clash gave a huge whinny to the other horses, “You can back down now or take the fight!”
“We’ll never surrender!!!” were the only words he could make out before the other horses plunged down the hill into the valley, vanishing into the fog. Clash took a huge leap forward and skidded down his own hill. The booming sound of a myriad of hoof beats pounding the ground filled the air, seeming more powerful than thunder. He could feel the power in his body, driving him forward, hooves pounding the ground. The stallion drove forward and took a brave leap into the fog, the gray moisture swallowing him up. He slowed to a trot, finding the fog incredibly thick. He couldn’t see anyone, or anything and his heart began to pound rapidly.
Suddenly something huge crashed over him, knocking him off his hooves. He let out an oof as he fell to the ground. Panic overtook him for a moment as he scrambled to his feet, regaining his balance. What am I doing? he thought to himself. I need to calm down. The stallion took a deep breath and began to search out whatever had knocked him down. Suddenly a dark shadow leaped out at him from the fog, violently striking out. No mud stripe traced his back. Clash suddenly snapped into defense mode and lashed out at his enemy with his tough hooves. Twisting around he gave his foe a sharp kick before turning to another horse who had been attempting to sneak up on him, and sent him fleeing.
The other horses were confused with each other and were racing franticly around.
The battle dragged on and Clash began to weaken, clumsily blocking blows and stumbling into leaps and turns. The little amount of food was beginning to take its toll on him. The fog had begun to fade, revealing the other horses.
The number of non mud-striped horses was decreasing. In the middle of a fight with a buckskin colored mare, Clash suddenly heard his name called. He stopped the fight and gave a questioning glance at the mare. She shrugged, her tired eyes giving away nothing.
Clash made his way to the center of the valley, from which the call had been made, where Zeke stood, battered and scraped. For the first time, Clash realized he must appear the same way. He stood in front of Zeke, trying to hold his head high, though every muscle in his body ached.
“I can’t watch my horses suffer any longer…. You win,” Zeke nickered, hanging his head in defeat and exhaustion.
Joy flooded over Clash like an ocean wave after the heat of the sand and sun. He stared up at the sky, now clear and blue, and closed his eyes in peace. The battle had been won, and spring was on the way. All was quiet and Clash was content to feel the soft sunshine shining on his back where the mark that won the battle still lay strong. Suddenly he remembered something. Staring to the ridge where he and his herd had started he searched for a particular mark. Joy rushed over him once again.
The flag was still there.

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And so, this is the reason why some horses with a golden coat and black mane and tail still bear the war mark of the brave mustangs who fought in the war in Blitzraag Valley. But it’s only on the golden-coated horses who bear it. This is in honor of Clash, the great golden stallion who led them in their victory. Yet, no one knows who really thought of the idea of a mud streak down the back. Whoever he was he must have been a great thinker!

Our hooves pound the ground like thunder,
The wind runs its fingers through our mane.
They cannot defeat us.
We strike the air with power and dignity,
Twisting and leaping, we cannot be defeated.
Tails streaming out like banners, we take to the mountains.
Out flag still stands, rippling in the wind as free as our spirits.
We are the mustangs,
The horses of the wind.

Publication Date: 12-22-2012

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