Qinglian Chronicles Chapter 79

…I’m positive this was an April Fool’s joke of some sort.]

What position do horses occupy in this world? I think that, aside from me, there would definitely be very few that think about it.

Humans wouldn’t think about it, and the horses pulling carts and grindstones probably don’t have the time or energy to think about it. But I have been thinking about this topic from a very young age.

I am considered fortunate. Just like humans being born within the cinnabar gates of a n.o.ble family, a horse’s bloodline is also very important, even moreso than humanity’s. For though the content of a human’s family background determines a great many things, there are still opportunities for them to fight for, but for a horse, bloodline determines everything. Whether they’re fast or slow, can run or not, their speed, strength, and endurance is cut and dry.

I am very lucky that both of my parents are horses from the most n.o.ble bloodline, my sweat running red as blood.

When I was small, I lived in a large pasture. I didn’t know at the time about the Central Plains, nor did I know the place I was in was called the Western Regions, nor did I know that humans are the Keepers of this world. I believed that the Western Regions were the center of the world, and that this pasture underneath my feet was mine.

There are very many humans at the pasture, and very many horses. When I was a young colt, I lived in a special encirclement alone with my mother. I never met my father, as he had been studded from outside.

Our treatment was different from the other horses’. At that time, the only thing I ate was the most verdant gra.s.s, and when idle I trotted about, watched the white clouds in the sky above that sometimes floated by quick and sometimes floated by slow, and should a white and yellow b.u.t.terfly come to a stop on a little blue flower, I would suddenly rush over to scare it into flying off. At that time, I believed the humans who frequently came were only to open the enclosing for us, and were born to give us fodder.

This sort of life slowly started to change as my body began to grow into that of an adult male, though I still wasn’t really an adult then.

My mother was either sold or gifted to a n.o.ble. I was thereupon put together with the big group, yet still received preferential treatment. The alpha horse was very vigilant towards me at the start and was fine later. Leaving one’s mother is very unsettling, but this is the predestined fate of all living things.

I found some companions similar in age to me. For the most part, they’re a bit smaller than me, but it doesn’t prevent us from running back and forth and forth and back every day, or mischievously scaring the old mares and mild-mannered geldings.

My best companion is a jujube-red little stallion that was born at almost the same time as me, whose speed is much worse than mine, and whose mother died when it was very small. For a chunk of time, we were almost inseparable as a form and its shadow. My ponderings in regards to life starts with its’ experience.

When the little stallion was over a year old – due to estrus – was the beginning of being confronted with what was a complete consideration of convenience for humans, yet a very grim affair to an individual horse: apart from chosen breeding stock, the stallions were to be gelded.

Of course, wouldn’t have that problem with my parentage, but my friend was not so lucky. I witnessed that day in person: everyone’s unease, my friend’s painful whinnying, and the uncaring smell of blood in the air. I fretfully stood straight in the enclosure, but I couldn’t rush out of it, and I couldn’t change anything. From that point on, my friend became a type that was different from me, and from mares, the kind of freak that falls to the lowest level of the colony…

That was the first time I knew what it was to be powerless, the first time that I understood that humans – the tiny, frail creatures – were much more powerful than us. They are the Keepers of this world, and we are merely tools under their command.

From that day on, I no longer watched clouds, or chased b.u.t.terflies, or did mischief, slowly transforming into a bad-tempered horse, and slowly growing into adulthood, breaking the fence very many times with my kicks and injuring very many humans with my kicks. Even those of my own kind who are silently enduring things are really annoying to me, with both humans and horses gradually keeping more of their distance.

They call me Wild Horse.

On the day of my saddling, a major event for the whole horse pen, those humans are excited yet very cautious, as facing down a big enemy.

A saddle, stirrup and reins were suddenly adorned on me. I brayed unhappily with the discomfort, hoofing at the ground and threatening those loathsome humans, attempting to kick anything near me. The rider was an expert known far and wide, and he deftly jumped onto my back. I began to jerk about and run, rearing up on my hind legs, but I couldn’t throw him off.

His legs were clenched tightly around me, his spur piercing my abdomen and drawing out blood, the reins in my mouth and nose bleeding from the pull. I had never hurt so badly before.

I’m furious. I use all the tricks I have, and exhaust all of my strength.

Ultimately, I lose.

Humans truly are more powerful beings than us.

That rider came down from atop my back, walking unsteadily. “I’ve never seen a horse like this,” he said loudly. “I sweat through three layers of clothes.” The humans exploded into loud praises, congratulating him for his perfect, undefeated record of taming horses.

There was a special bonfire party that night, humans shouting and chatting and laughing and singing and dancing around the flames, young ladies and men slipping off into secluded places for trysts. I waited by myself in a corner with no light, alone as I sensed the sting of my wounds. I still remember the buzz of the flies as the circled my cuts, unable to reduce their numbers no matter how much I flick my tail.

Afterwards, I was presented to the King.

The King is a human in a position of the rest, and is said to be even more important than the leader horse would be. I could be a leader horse if I wanted to, but I will eternally unable to be a King.

I was still widely known for my bad temper and still kept clear of by humans and horses. The King came to see me later; he was an old man, probably very formidable in his younger years, but is now feeble. This is naturally unimaginable to horses: if a leader horse gets old, it will be ousted by another young stallion.

The King’s laughter was very grand and bright. No matter how many objections his subjects had, he was set on taming me himself, saying, “If a Huihu man cannot ride a wild horse, is there any point in him being alive?”

As a result, he climbed on top of my back, and after putting on a show of jumping a few times, I turned obedient. The King got off, pleasantly surprised, and the explosion of cheers was even more intense than last time.

I was very polite to the King, but anyone else getting near me would get bitten and kicked, my temper all the more violent. The King was happy to the fullest about this, believing I knew who the Son of Heaven ordained by fate was, and an unusual horse that’s loyal to its Keeper is more important to him than his daughter or his kingdom. I live in a splendid room, sleep upon embroidered felt blankets, and eat the best gra.s.s, with no horse being in a higher position than me.

At the time, I thought that Keepers or whatnot have nothing to do with me. I’m more significant than the majority of humans, and that’s just fine.

Then the old King was extinguished. It was not a young man of his own country that killed him, but one that came from the distant Central Plains. My life was also shattered.

I felt that it was okay, going to go see what’s different in a far-off place.

Then I went on a very long journey, uncomfortable the whole process.

And then I was sent to their home.

I was indifferent to changing Keepers, as I could handle every human regardless, but for reasons unknown, my mood was quite bad.

Then that human showed up. They were very young, and very pretty, and very happy to see me, taking out sweet and good-smelling things to try and please me. The moment they tried to approach me, I bit them, but I didn’t use much force. Though they were pained and shocked, they didn’t cry out in alarm or curse in anger. They looked at me tenderly and spoke to me softly to pacify me, under the impression that I was afraid.

Their eyes made me think of when my mother left very long ago, but they endured the pain while looking like a pitiful animal much weaker than me. I felt like it was beneath me to bully them and let go.

We got along well. They didn’t give me a gorgeous stable, but they tended to me with the utmost of care, made me comfortable, and frequently ran off alone to come see me, talking on and on about many things to me.

I slowly came to like them.

It was the first time I liked a human.

One day, theu rode me to go on a hunting excursion with some humans, and ran into enemies.

Sensing their anxiety and fear, I ran as hard as I could, but I had three humans on my back and found it hard to run through the woods. The enemies were catching up.

When they rolled off my saddle, I felt so mournful and panicked, yet I still listened to them and carried the two people on me forward.

As the wind flitted past my ears, I though, unlike last time, if I never saw them again, I’ll be inconsolable. I’m not willing to change Keepers again. I’m not willing to change location again.

Therefore, when I did see them again, I had never been so glad. I allow them to ride me even without getting pine nut candies.

Rumor has it that my temper’s getting better and better.

Ah, that’s right, speaking of which, I can’t clearly tell whether they’re a man or a woman. If they’re a man, they wouldn’t have such gentle eyes; if they’re a woman, they wouldn’t be so brave.

My Keeper is the gentlest, bravest human in the world.

‘Keeper’ is just the word 主人 (owner), made to sound more imperious.

You know what the worst thing is? This can’t even be cla.s.sified as filler.

Filler needs to be devoid of all development, and there’s plenty of development of character here. For a horse.