Monday, 25 September 2017

The summer of boys and horse (part-7)

  Pay no attention to it, my uncle Khosrove roared.

I walked ten miles to get here, John Byro said. 

You have legs, my uncle Khosrove shouted. 

My left leg pains me, the farmer said. 

Pay no attention to it, my uncle Khosrove roared. 

That horse cost me sixty dollars, the farmer said. 

I spit on money, my uncle Khosrove said. 

He got up and stalked out of the house, slamming the screen door. 

My mother explained. 

He has a gentle heart, she said. It is simply that he is homesick and such a large man. 

The farmer went away and I ran over to my cousin Mourad's house. 

He was sitting under a peach tree, trying to repair the hurt wing of a young Robin which could not fly. He was talking to the bird. 

What is it? He said. 

The farmer, Jhon Byro, I said. He visited our house. He wants his horse. You've had it a month. I want you to promise not to take it back until I learn to ride. 

It will take you a year to learn to ride, my cousin Mourad said. 

We could keep the horse a year, I said. 

My cousin Mourad leaped to his feet. 

What? He roared. Are you inviting a member of the Garoghlanian family to steal? The horse must go back to its true owner. 

When? I said. 

In six months at the latest, he said. 

He threw the bird into the air. The bird tried hard, almost fell twice, but at last flew away, high and straight. 

Early every morning for two weeks my cousin Mourad and I took the horse out of the barn of the deserted vineyard where we were hiding it and rode it, and every morning the horse, when it was my turn to ride alone, leaped over grape vines and small trees and threw me and ran away. Nevertheless, I hoped in time to learn to ride the way my cousin Mourad rode. 

To be continued......... 

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