Progress Report — Acriter et Fideliter
9700 words so far this week, and its only wednesday. But I promised I would go to be early today, and its 2451 hours. I grimace in despair.
Free sample! I had to put the Swiss Guard in my books. Damn, but I love those guys. Tough as nails, sharp dressers, guard the Pope.
When they came to the end of the carpet, the flower-festooned electric car was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was Yorvel was looking plump and ridiculous in the Gold-Purple-Scarlet livery of the Pope’s Swiss Guard, pole-arm in one hand, bridle in the other. He was trying to restrain a nervous, stamping steed, a red horse the hue of blood.
Rania said in a voice of limpid surprise, "But where is our car?"
Menelaus petted the nose of the huge horse, who gently nuzzled him, sniffing with large, delicate nostrils the gold and ebony costume, the wide lace collar, wherein bridegrooms of this era andrank were clad. "What? Pope arrives with forty-nine white horses and one red charger that I’ve owned for a year now, and you don’t recognize him?" He petted the long nose carefully. "There, my hayburning poop-factory. What does she know? She didn’t mean it. Born in a tin can in space, she was. No, no, don’t be wroth. Now, upsy daisy."
"What? Husband mine, your delirium is to have me, in all my fine and delicate satin, balance atop the spine of this outsized uncouth mammal? Am I an acrobat? Am I cavegirl, to be juggled and bounced atop a zoo creature? Where are the brakes? Where is the safety setting? The whole system of muscles and veins—I speak now as a lady who has more than dabbled in engineering—seems to be directly controlled by the organic brain of a horse, with no manual override or direct interface. As a motile arrangement, ungainly, and less responsive than having the caterers carry me in a punchbowl."
"My strong right arm is your safely, my horsemanship your control."
"I shall look ridiculous."
"History books’ll clean it up, Rainy. If you look good to me, hang the world."
"I say I will not have it."
"And I say you will. Who is to be the man in my house, eh?" And with no further ado, he took her in one arm and swung her into the saddle, where Res Ipsa, sensing her nervousness, danced and trembled. She emitted one short yelp of surprise, and clung to the mane; and the delighted crowd roared.
Yorvel meshed his fingers and bent, so that Menelaus could put his one good foot into the palm, and with much grunting and wide gestures, his elbow crushing the crown of Yorvel’s Swiss beret, Menelaus pulled himself awkwardly into the saddle behind his mussed bride. Her coronet was askew, and the trailing lace in her hair was tangled, but Rania sat with straight posture, and favored the crowd with a wave of her gloved hand.
“My master is a madman, and is too mad to know he is mad," murmured Yorvel from about the level of Menelaus’ knee. "Do you know what I had to do to spread your bribes? The Schweizergarde were snickering in their mustachios, sir! They never would have agreed to smuggle in your horse, except they are die-hard romantics. And you don’t treat your beast right: leaving him here in this heat with this caparison! And now you are going to double his load? He will buck you off, and you will fall on your royal buttocks, Master! The picture bugs will photograph it, and all the newsfeeds will show it, and add comic music as a soundtrack to the sidebar."
"Everyone needs a good laugh," grunted Menelaus, tearing the loose, huge collar from his neck and flinging it into the air. "Now we’re fixing to take our French leave of this crowd, and shin out. Res Ipsa! Gid-YAWP!"
And in a moment the steed, as the wind, flew past the pillar supporting a statue of winged independence, and his hoofbeats were the thunder. The bridal veils and white laces flowed behind, snapping bravely, shedding roses, and the bride clung tightly to her dark-faced, glittering-eyed groom. Perhaps she smiled, but her face was pressed to his chest. The crowd roared and parted, a frightened Red Sea.
The beast was as magnificent a steed as modern genetic meddling could make him: so it was astonishing, but not impossible, when he cleared the heads of the onlookers at the end of the lane, made it over the pilings into a rich man’s garden, danced in a cloud of dust first down the steep slope of the mountainous terrain, and then galloped madly up the further slope, leaping from rock to sliding rock as nimbly as a goat, mane and tail like flame.
All the photographers, both professional and merely curious, sent their bees flying after, but Quito was a city known for privacy, because the mountain winds often blew the tiny instruments astray. One or two bolder fellows, or more curious, followed the trail of dust few score yards down the slope, but gave up the chase as the sorrel’s long legs opened the distance on the uphill run, and the bride and groom were carried in a leap over the crest and out of sight. One man tried to follow on an antique petrol-powered motorcycle no doubt loaned to him from a collector, but he had not practiced the old skills, and he left his machine in a heap when it struck a rock; hoots and whistles greeted him as he climbed painfully back up slope.
The remaining members of the photography cadre, sitting atop their electric carriages with cameras and lens-tubes enough to equip a small astronomical observatory, exchanged lost shrugs and bewildered smiles. Meanwhile the mounted Swiss, the only men there truly able to see the horsemanship, good and bad, that Menelaus displayed, raised their swords and lances and shouted, "Acriter et Fideliter!"
About John C Wright
John C. Wright is a practicing philosopher, a retired attorney, newspaperman, and newspaper editor, and a published author of science fiction. Once a Houyhnhnm, he was expelled from the august ranks of purely rational beings when he fell in love; but retains an honorary title.
