Hippolyta, the Chestnut Horse

I peek through the cracks of the wooden barn. Figures of dark, light, chocolate coloured, and golden horses ponderously moved around in their stables. I cannot tell if they enjoy sleeping upright all night and listen to the sounds of crickets from the outdoors or if they desperately want to run around the open space around them. My eyes move to the last stable, and a small horse with a blonde mane, and chestnut coloured fur looks out the small window to her right. She stares for a long time, as if she sees something remarkable outside that makes her look with awe and attention. I stare at her for just as long, before we suddenly hear a loud POP an ear-shot distance away and I quickly turn my head just in time to see another horse fall to the ground and lie still. Seeing another animal fall like this is not unusual throughout my childhood; I grew up with them, loving and caring for them until one day, they never showed up again in their stables, and I slowly moved on gradually. I never approved of my father’s job, nor did I ever understand where all my animal friends had gone to, until that day, when I saw my father shoot one down himself. 

It was a bleak morning, when I rose up earlier than usual. I went down the crummy stairs of our run-down, two-story house and glanced out the window in my kitchen. I almost had gone to clean up the house for that day, before I spotted my father running through the tall grass to the other side of the barn. I had wondered what was so urgent that made him run so quickly, and how he was already out of my view when I stepped outside. Out of curiosity, I quietly tip toed out, making sure not to wake up my mother and my siblings. When I approached the barn, I crouched behind the wooden, brown fence, and looked through a small crack and saw my father and another man talking amongst themselves, and that man was holding a firearm. They chatted for a long time, and fortunately did not keep their voices down for anyone else to hear.  

“So, eh, it's your turn to shoot today,” I heard the man say to my father, holding out the firearm in front of him. 

Shoot? I never knew this side to my father. I had always heard from my mother that he was a man of justice, and wanted to bring peace for all. I never saw him do anything of that for anyone, but trusted my mother anyway, feeling proud of how a good man my father was. And now, I was just about to witness the truth; but, I did not know that back then. I stared at them for quite a bit until my eyes ached that whole afternoon. Whatever was about to happen was inevitable, yet they were still taking their time with leisure. Then, my father took that firearm dangling from the man’s hand, and turned around to face something absolutely horrid to my own eyes; Balor was standing in front of him, oblivious of what was happening. I had to do something then, but no words came out of my mouth when I wanted to object, holler out to my father to stop what he was doing. Nothing came out as if I was mute. I just watched him raise the firearm, poised in his hand with ease, and a sudden POP rang in the air. The bullet directly hit Balor’s head, just almost a centimeter above his eyes, and I felt as if the bullet had gone through me too. Without realizing, I quietly yelped with pain. 

“Didya hear somethin’ Howie?” 

“Ye ye, someone was here. They must’ve heard our plans,” my father growled a cacophonous sound that I’ve never heard before.

Still in shock, I ran away and into the barn, and climbed the haystacks to the very top, where no one could see me. Silently, I weeped for what may have seemed like hours, but I quickly returned home, and heaved myself into bed again. I have not told my father about that day, and that I caught him with that firearm. Although overtime, he did gradually open up to us about his new partnership with some small company, I never forgot about that morning. How he had shot Balor down with that smirk on his face. That priceless face. 

Anyway, I walk inside the barn to count up how many horses are left. Fourteen. It became a hobby of mine, to count how many horses are remaining, after finding out what my father was doing. I still wonder if mom knew about this, and how she kept lying to me, or maybe father really did not tell her. I still don’t really know. Mother calls from inside the house to have lunch, and I quickly leave the barn as I feel a ravenous appetite build up inside me. Breakfast is never satisfactory; bread and butter or jam from the local stores, and water from the sink. For lunch, mother whipped up some warm grilled cheese sandwiches, my favourite.

“Harper, you will have to start learning how to cook soon,” mother insists almost every day now. I do not understand. I do not want to stay at home. 

Mother shakes her head at me, as if she could read my mind. 

“You see, Harper, cooking and doing housework are the most important rules girls must know to do,” mother’s voice sweet talks me almost into obeying her words. 

“I don’t want to. I don’t see any reason-” 

CRASH! Before I could finish explaining to my mother, my older brother, Sam, comes hurrying in, panting out of breath, with his bare hands gripping tightly onto his legs. 

“T-t-the… h-horse... ran... o-out,” Sam says, trying to catch his breath. 

“Out? Where to?” I stop thinking about mother’s tormenting lectures and the grilled cheese sandwiches.

“E-everywhere. Some are headed out to town!” Oh no. No, no, no, no. 

“Well, everyone, stay calm, your father-”

I dash out of the house immediately, even though I hear mother’s wails and hollers from behind, telling me to come back. I do not know why I am running either. I guess I want to witness what happens and see if I can help out.   

“Come back ya here lil’ Hippolyta” my father shouts after the small mare with chestnut fur. She continues running free, and heads for the unclosed entrance near the front.

“Qwick! Someone, close those gates” father now hollers as I sprint behind the tall bush. I was a good runner when I was young. My younger brother, Andrew, and we always raced each other to the house when we went out to explore for any new things in town. I always beat him. Anyways, I saw Andrew approach me as I continued sprinting, and I guess I am still going to win him to that gate. I reach the gate a little earlier than Hippolyta, the chestnut horse, and I am going to close it. Then, as Hippolyta approaches, I stop.

I fling the gate wide open, and she runs into town, and neighs at me as if to say “Thank you.” I look out into town. I don’t think father will even be able to chase her. 

“Oh no, he got out?” my father shuts the gate now so other horses don’t come flying out either. I tell him I got here too late, and give him a half smile. He shakes his head, and hurries away, murmuring something to himself. 

   On my way back home, Sam rushes out to go with my father and find Hippolyta, the chestnut horse. 

“I want to come too,” I pleaded them.

“Naw, you stay home and cook dinner with ya mother. When we come back with that horse, we’ll feel betta’ with sum food” father turns away, and stops when Andrew walks up to him.

“Whaddya want, boy” father asks him delightfully.

“I will go with you in Harper’s stead,” I shoot him a very nasty look.

“Atta boy! C’mon!” They drive away and I am left home, with my nagging mother, trapped in the smallest kitchen for hours.

Hours later, I hear some trucks drive back with the horse inside one of them, probably. They probably already shot Hippolyta down when they found her hiding somewhere. Poor Hippolyta. She could have lived a better life.

At the dinner table, we eat so silently, not a pin drop could be heard. Just then, Andrew perks up and announces,

“That was exhausting. All thanks to that horse who would not stay still and keep moving around. Also Harper who let her go.” 

I stare at him with wide eyes and keep quiet. I do not want to admit I did anything.

“Really, Harper?”

I continue eating and stop suddenly. I bang my fist loud on the table and leave without a word. No one says anything for a while when I go to my room. I stare out the window. Out at the vast fields of grass. Out at the large openness within my grasp. I wonder if father had not shot Hippolyta, the chestnut horse, what she would be doing right now. Maybe she would have found a mate. And then they could have had two foals or three foals. At least, she could have decided that.