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OPAL DREAMING THE MARBLE HORSES By Jennifer Crane.
Opal Dreaming, The Marble Horses is book two in the Opal Dreaming series. Thirteen year old Erin loves horses and riding. After dreaming of the Bronze Age horses, she is starting to like history. Now curious about Ancient Greek horses, Erin again drifts into an opal dream. Agis, a teenage boy, travels alone from Sparta to Athens where Diodorus gives him work at the stables. Agis earns the trust of a vicious black stallion, but is targeted by the jealous, Tellus. When the stallion escapes, Agis is suspected and threatened with punishment of death or slavery. Will Agis keep his freedom and survive to fulfil his dream of riding a horse? When Erin wakes from her dream, she realises she can use what she has learnt about horses from the Ancient Greeks. The Marble Horses, the second book in the Opal Dreaming series, describes horse riding and care in the Ancient Greek period. Each book in the series highlights the significant changes in horse riding throughout history and provides practical riding and handling techniques. Read about Book One, Opal Dreaming The Bronze Horses. |
Read an extract from Chapter One, Bush Trail :
‘You go first,’ I said to Mum and drew my pony, Banjo-P, off to one side of the dirt track at the base of the steep hill.
The bush trail was an old, rough, and rarely used forestry road; just the way I liked it. It wound its way through the regrowth of native bloodwood, white cedar, and black wattle trees; all that remained after all the useful timber had been ruthlessly cut.
As Mum, riding her sixteen hands high, thoroughbred gelding, Max, passed us, Banjo-P fidgeted, impatient to follow his companion up the hill. He watched their upward progress with held his head high and his ears pricked forward. I had to keep a firm grip on the reins.
Max picked his way up the incline and I giggled at the sight of Mum’s broad, round rump in black jodhpurs atop Max’s even broader black rump.
‘That’s not their best angle is it Banjo-P?’ I laughed and patted his soft buckskin neck.
‘Are you coming?’ called Mum over her shoulder, as she urged Max higher up the slope and disappeared into the blue-green eucalypts enclosing the track. Her voice floated down with the warm, dry smell of gum leaves and wattle.
‘Yeah. Just get Max out of the way!’ I shouted in reply.
While Banjo-P only stood at fourteen hands high and wasn’t as strong as Max, I knew he loved this section of the trail. I readjusted my seat and shortened the reins in preparation, but Banjo-P mistook the signals and leapt forward. Thrown off balance, I immediately sat down in the saddle and eased the reins back to stop him.
‘Hang on there. Just wait a minute,’ I soothed and walked him forward a few steps to stand next to a banksia bush that was my starting point. I lined him up with the left side of tack so we got a safe, clear run up the slope and avoided the washed out ditch on the right.
‘It’s not as hard as you think,’ encouraged Mum from the top of the hill. ‘Put your weight forward and into your stirrups to free his back. Give him a loose rein, so he can stretch his neck. He will do all the work. Just go with the movement.’
‘I know. I know,’ I mumbled. ‘Like, we haven’t done this a million times before, hey Banjo-P?’
He danced on the spot and snorted, anxious to get going.
‘Mum still thinks I want her to go first because I’m scared. She just doesn’t get it, even after all the times we’ve ridden this hill. It’s our joke isn’t it boy,’ I added, gathered up the reins and squeezed my lower legs against his side.
Like an uncoiled spring, Banjo-P took control and leapt into a canter from the halt, bounding up the hill. At the same time, I leant into the forward seat and gave with the reins by moving my hands up his neck. The incline steepened and I shifted my weight further forward. To keep myself in position, I grabbed a handful of mane with one hand and held the reins loose with the other.
I could feel the pony’s hindquarters pushing under him, propelling us upward, as his forehand stretched with each climbing stride. His hooves dug into the uneven dirt surface and sprayed gravel out behind us. I looked up over Banjo-P’s head. Max, his ears forward, and Mum, with a look of mild concern on her face, stood at the top of the rise watching.
Banjo-P’s strong, flowing momentum slowed to a laboured movement. His front legs struggled to find a solid grip that would allow his hind legs to jump forward. Just as his strength seemed to be expended and the effort too much – when I felt we were about to tumble backwards – he grunted with the strain and his strong hind legs, scrambling the last few metres in loose gravel, pushed us onto the crest. He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he had just achieved. Max nudged him with his muzzle in congratulations.
‘Told you you could do it,’ said Mum.
‘Sure, Mum.’ I laughed and babbled from the excitement of the ascent. ‘That’s so much fun. Banjo-P did it all. I just went along for the ride, so to speak. Can we go back down the hill? That’s even more fun.’ I glanced at the extreme gradient falling away from us.
‘Not this time. Max isn’t ready for that yet. He still gets these long legs of his tangled. We’ll take the easy way down.’
We followed the trail as it traversed the hillside, and rode in silence to take in the awesome view of the valley below. Then our descent meandered through the cool forest. The horses walked on a loose rein; comfortable companions side by side.
‘Max is enjoying this,’ I said.
‘He’s settling nicely.’ Mum reached forward to stroke Max between the ears. ‘This work is still new to him after the racetrack. But with all the flat work we’ve done in the arena, he’s starting to understand what I want him to do, and I know his moods better.’
Max had been lightly, but unsuccessfully, raced and didn't have any basic training on the flat when he was given to Mum. He’d found a good home here, many ex-racehorses weren’t so lucky. But, he had never been ridden for pleasure, so Mum took her time teaching him the basic leg aids by repeating transitions from walk to trot and to canter, and back to the halt. He had a gentle nature, but sometimes became confused with his lessons and tried to buck. I would watch Mum stop what they were doing, talk to him quietly until he calmed down, and then try the transition again. When he got it right, Mum praised him, patting him between the ears − he liked that. He was then happy to practice the new transition and appeared to try harder.
‘Does that really help, knowing the horse’s moods?’ I asked. Still mounted, I manoeuvred Banjo-P next to the wooden gate to our back paddock, leaned down to unlock it, and swung it open.
‘Of course it does. They can have bad days when you can’t do anything with them – just like I have with you.’
‘Hey,’ I interrupted.
Mum thought for a minute. ‘When I was your age…’
‘That’s such a long, long, long time ago,’ I said.
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ said Mum as she rode through the opening. ‘I had one horse, Monarch, a beautiful chestnut Standardbred gelding with four white stockings and a white blaze. You’ve seen the photos of him. We knew each other’s moods so well. We had great fun together.’
I walked Banjo-P through and then pressed my near-side leg behind his girth to ask him to step sideways so I could close the gate. We had been doing this trick since I first started trail riding him about six years ago, when I was seven. ‘Like me and Banjo-P,’ I said and lent down to refasten the latch.
‘Just the same,’ continued Mum. ‘Anyway, one time I was in a bad mood, like you are sometimes, so I thought a ride would help me feel better. I didn’t talk to Monarch or pat him like I normally did and he could sense my grumpiness. About two hundred metres from the paddock, he refused to cross the creek. It was as if he was saying, “Hey, lose the bad attitude or get off, because I'm not going any further”. We had a huge fight.’
‘What did you do?’ I could picture the scene. I’d been stuck lots of times when my pony refused to cross a creek. It’s embarrassing, especially when your friends were on the other side waiting for you.
‘I got off and led Monarch home.’ Mum shrugged her shoulders. ‘The next day, I felt better and Monarch took me straight through the creek with no argument. He taught me something that day.’
‘What?’
‘Not to ride when I was angry. It’s not fair on the horse. With Max, when he twitches his ears and I feel his muscles tense, then I know he has had enough. So I try to finish the ride when he has done something right and then reward him. It helps build the partnership.’
‘Okay. I get that,’ I said and had to stop Banjo-P from racing back to the stable like we normally did when Mum wasn’t with us.
‘You know, Xenophon wrote nearly 2400 years ago, to never deal with your horse when you are in fit of passion,’ said Mum.
‘Who is Xenophon and what does that mean?’ As soon as I asked, I wished I hadn’t.
‘It means don’t handle your horse when you’re angry, like I just said. They sense and react to your emotions. And Xenophon was a Greek military commander in the Athenian Cavalry in the fourth century BC. He wrote one of the first horse manuals called 'Peri hippikes', which means 'On Horsemanship.’ A lot of what he wrote about, we still do today.’
‘You go first,’ I said to Mum and drew my pony, Banjo-P, off to one side of the dirt track at the base of the steep hill.
The bush trail was an old, rough, and rarely used forestry road; just the way I liked it. It wound its way through the regrowth of native bloodwood, white cedar, and black wattle trees; all that remained after all the useful timber had been ruthlessly cut.
As Mum, riding her sixteen hands high, thoroughbred gelding, Max, passed us, Banjo-P fidgeted, impatient to follow his companion up the hill. He watched their upward progress with held his head high and his ears pricked forward. I had to keep a firm grip on the reins.
Max picked his way up the incline and I giggled at the sight of Mum’s broad, round rump in black jodhpurs atop Max’s even broader black rump.
‘That’s not their best angle is it Banjo-P?’ I laughed and patted his soft buckskin neck.
‘Are you coming?’ called Mum over her shoulder, as she urged Max higher up the slope and disappeared into the blue-green eucalypts enclosing the track. Her voice floated down with the warm, dry smell of gum leaves and wattle.
‘Yeah. Just get Max out of the way!’ I shouted in reply.
While Banjo-P only stood at fourteen hands high and wasn’t as strong as Max, I knew he loved this section of the trail. I readjusted my seat and shortened the reins in preparation, but Banjo-P mistook the signals and leapt forward. Thrown off balance, I immediately sat down in the saddle and eased the reins back to stop him.
‘Hang on there. Just wait a minute,’ I soothed and walked him forward a few steps to stand next to a banksia bush that was my starting point. I lined him up with the left side of tack so we got a safe, clear run up the slope and avoided the washed out ditch on the right.
‘It’s not as hard as you think,’ encouraged Mum from the top of the hill. ‘Put your weight forward and into your stirrups to free his back. Give him a loose rein, so he can stretch his neck. He will do all the work. Just go with the movement.’
‘I know. I know,’ I mumbled. ‘Like, we haven’t done this a million times before, hey Banjo-P?’
He danced on the spot and snorted, anxious to get going.
‘Mum still thinks I want her to go first because I’m scared. She just doesn’t get it, even after all the times we’ve ridden this hill. It’s our joke isn’t it boy,’ I added, gathered up the reins and squeezed my lower legs against his side.
Like an uncoiled spring, Banjo-P took control and leapt into a canter from the halt, bounding up the hill. At the same time, I leant into the forward seat and gave with the reins by moving my hands up his neck. The incline steepened and I shifted my weight further forward. To keep myself in position, I grabbed a handful of mane with one hand and held the reins loose with the other.
I could feel the pony’s hindquarters pushing under him, propelling us upward, as his forehand stretched with each climbing stride. His hooves dug into the uneven dirt surface and sprayed gravel out behind us. I looked up over Banjo-P’s head. Max, his ears forward, and Mum, with a look of mild concern on her face, stood at the top of the rise watching.
Banjo-P’s strong, flowing momentum slowed to a laboured movement. His front legs struggled to find a solid grip that would allow his hind legs to jump forward. Just as his strength seemed to be expended and the effort too much – when I felt we were about to tumble backwards – he grunted with the strain and his strong hind legs, scrambling the last few metres in loose gravel, pushed us onto the crest. He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he had just achieved. Max nudged him with his muzzle in congratulations.
‘Told you you could do it,’ said Mum.
‘Sure, Mum.’ I laughed and babbled from the excitement of the ascent. ‘That’s so much fun. Banjo-P did it all. I just went along for the ride, so to speak. Can we go back down the hill? That’s even more fun.’ I glanced at the extreme gradient falling away from us.
‘Not this time. Max isn’t ready for that yet. He still gets these long legs of his tangled. We’ll take the easy way down.’
We followed the trail as it traversed the hillside, and rode in silence to take in the awesome view of the valley below. Then our descent meandered through the cool forest. The horses walked on a loose rein; comfortable companions side by side.
‘Max is enjoying this,’ I said.
‘He’s settling nicely.’ Mum reached forward to stroke Max between the ears. ‘This work is still new to him after the racetrack. But with all the flat work we’ve done in the arena, he’s starting to understand what I want him to do, and I know his moods better.’
Max had been lightly, but unsuccessfully, raced and didn't have any basic training on the flat when he was given to Mum. He’d found a good home here, many ex-racehorses weren’t so lucky. But, he had never been ridden for pleasure, so Mum took her time teaching him the basic leg aids by repeating transitions from walk to trot and to canter, and back to the halt. He had a gentle nature, but sometimes became confused with his lessons and tried to buck. I would watch Mum stop what they were doing, talk to him quietly until he calmed down, and then try the transition again. When he got it right, Mum praised him, patting him between the ears − he liked that. He was then happy to practice the new transition and appeared to try harder.
‘Does that really help, knowing the horse’s moods?’ I asked. Still mounted, I manoeuvred Banjo-P next to the wooden gate to our back paddock, leaned down to unlock it, and swung it open.
‘Of course it does. They can have bad days when you can’t do anything with them – just like I have with you.’
‘Hey,’ I interrupted.
Mum thought for a minute. ‘When I was your age…’
‘That’s such a long, long, long time ago,’ I said.
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ said Mum as she rode through the opening. ‘I had one horse, Monarch, a beautiful chestnut Standardbred gelding with four white stockings and a white blaze. You’ve seen the photos of him. We knew each other’s moods so well. We had great fun together.’
I walked Banjo-P through and then pressed my near-side leg behind his girth to ask him to step sideways so I could close the gate. We had been doing this trick since I first started trail riding him about six years ago, when I was seven. ‘Like me and Banjo-P,’ I said and lent down to refasten the latch.
‘Just the same,’ continued Mum. ‘Anyway, one time I was in a bad mood, like you are sometimes, so I thought a ride would help me feel better. I didn’t talk to Monarch or pat him like I normally did and he could sense my grumpiness. About two hundred metres from the paddock, he refused to cross the creek. It was as if he was saying, “Hey, lose the bad attitude or get off, because I'm not going any further”. We had a huge fight.’
‘What did you do?’ I could picture the scene. I’d been stuck lots of times when my pony refused to cross a creek. It’s embarrassing, especially when your friends were on the other side waiting for you.
‘I got off and led Monarch home.’ Mum shrugged her shoulders. ‘The next day, I felt better and Monarch took me straight through the creek with no argument. He taught me something that day.’
‘What?’
‘Not to ride when I was angry. It’s not fair on the horse. With Max, when he twitches his ears and I feel his muscles tense, then I know he has had enough. So I try to finish the ride when he has done something right and then reward him. It helps build the partnership.’
‘Okay. I get that,’ I said and had to stop Banjo-P from racing back to the stable like we normally did when Mum wasn’t with us.
‘You know, Xenophon wrote nearly 2400 years ago, to never deal with your horse when you are in fit of passion,’ said Mum.
‘Who is Xenophon and what does that mean?’ As soon as I asked, I wished I hadn’t.
‘It means don’t handle your horse when you’re angry, like I just said. They sense and react to your emotions. And Xenophon was a Greek military commander in the Athenian Cavalry in the fourth century BC. He wrote one of the first horse manuals called 'Peri hippikes', which means 'On Horsemanship.’ A lot of what he wrote about, we still do today.’