“Master of the Hounds”
by Willa Frayser www.willafrayserstudio.com
by Carmel Rowley
Every night I pleaded, ‘tell me a story.’ I remember my grandmother teasing me and singing a silly little song. ‘Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell me a story before I go to bed. You promised me, you said, you would, you gotta give in ‘cause I’ve been good. Tell me a story before I go to bed.’
We laughed and she always began her stories in the same way. ‘I was just a girl – when I joined the Melbourne Hunt Club. I adored galloping across the Gippsland hills…’
‘On Merlin,’ I broke in.
‘Yes, on my wonderful ‘Merlin the Magician.’ Now settle down and listen.’ She placed her arm around my shoulders and drew me against her.
‘I was just a girl – on this particular day. The place was packed, horses of all sizes milled around a madly gossiping throng of people. The beautifully prepared thoroughbreds sidled and backed into one another, as new arrivals called to friends.
I have a vivid memory of the last time I hunted. It went badly! At the end of a fantastic run I watched in horror when the dogs pounced on the fox. The ecstatic master grabbed up the snarling vixen as I yelled, ‘no don’t kill her. Let it go, look, she’s feeding pups!’
Sobbing as the fox slumped dead, I screamed, ‘murderer, you’re a murderer.’ My ‘red faced’ friend Meg dragged me away and I vowed I would never hunt again.
Two years later, against my better judgement I agreed to accept Meg’s invitation to attend the winter solstice hunt. Being barely ten kilometres from home I decided to ride to the property. It was a crisp and clear morning; a pale winter sun warmed my near numb fingers as I held the reins.
Merlin knew we were in for an exciting day; he pranced sideways like a crab and shied at imaginary shadows hiding behind every tree. I nervously wondered how many would remember ‘that’ outburst.
Thankfully the riders were already moving off as I arrived. Meg was watching for me and we fell in behind and followed slowly.
The hounds were a frantic mass of white and brown bodies with ramrod tails pointing skywards. A few riders nodded at me and Meg gave a giggle. ‘They haven’t forgotten, you know.’ I cringed at the thought.
The next moment the pack burst into action as a reddish-brown body streaked across to the left. I felt Merlin tremble ready to gallop. Meg pointed to an open gateway at the bottom of the hill so we set off through this short cut to catch the field. This strategy brought us into the front group. The hounds were barely fifty metres from us.
A panel loomed in front of us and Merlin gathered himself for the jump. He flew over as lightly as a bird. I glanced across and smiled at Meg, who rode her mare Sophie with her hands down, her knees in and a seat I envied.
Away we went, Merlin was pulling lightly but his gallop was smooth and fluid. Meg was slightly ahead she gave a lead over the next panel and up the hill. Two more panels, a low stone wall and a purpose built low gate were taken in the Merlin’s stride. I was in heaven.
I came up beside Meg and we galloped neck and neck catching the other riders as we streamed over the next hill. The dogs were running quieter now, they were becoming tired. We thundered down into another valley, one hundred hooves digging up grass and dirt. We leapt a small dry creek bed and thick bush enveloped the field. The riders became scattered.
The fox knew what it was doing; he was keeping his lead easily, seeking sanctuary in the bush. The hounds lost the scent and dashed about noses to the ground giving an occasional yowl of annoyance. One old hound, tongue lolling, was working hard. He gave a deep yodelling cry and raced up between the trees, his tail waving knowingly. The others took up the call and the field followed.
I lost sight of Meg in the crush of riders, I pulled aside not wanting to have Merlin caught in the middle of the impatient bunch. The riders all disappeared from view their eagerness picking up the pace. When I reached the crest of the hill I didn’t realise the riders had all halted below me. The hounds were confused; it looked as if they had lost the scent for good.
Merlin was still blowing, so I calmed him, and turned back towards the trees. That was when I saw the fox! It was trotting to my right, and any minute the hounds would see him. I knew I couldn’t shout, instead I kicked Merlin into a gallop and rode straight at the fox sending him back down the hill to the trees. I wondered if he was a relative of that poor vixen two years ago. He disappeared just as the master shouted to me to stop galloping around.
The riders were all grumbling the day had been cut short. As the field straggled back to the house, some led their horses, others rode but all were wondering what happened to the fox.
Meg joined me as I was about to leave. ‘The master is furious with you? He said you foiled the scent… Why are you looking so smug?’
‘Am I?’ I smiled. ‘I was thinking about Mr Reynard’s retribution.’ I vowed I would never hunt again.
‘Did you Gran did you hunt again?’
‘Unfortunately, yes I did!’
‘So what happened?’
‘That’s another story… It’s time for bed.’
Copyright Carmel Rowley
“Master of the Hounds” – original watercolor created in 1983, prints are available. The photo was taken at a Thanksgiving Day hunt in Manakin-Sabot,
Virginia, 1982. www.willafrayserstudo.com
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