JOAN OF ITALIA
Chapter 11 A Horse of a Different Color
(Author's Note: I revised the end of this chapter slightly after Hannora pointed out that a five-foot wall would be too serious a challenge. Thank you, Hannora)
As she got ready for bed that night, Grace remarked "I'm putting on my sturdiest jeans tomorrow. They're taking me out to a farm near Naples to test my riding skills."
"If the tests don't work out, do they cancel their plans for you?" Luke asked from the bed, trying to sound concerned.
"Of course not. I just get more lessons." Then the implications of Luke's question got through to her. "Why should I fail? I've been riding horses for a year, and I was trained by an expert. THE expert, who created horses."
"No reason," sighed Luke, sorry that he had brought it up.
Grace glared at Luke -- which created an odd effect, because she was naked above the waist at the moment, which normally made her look very alluring. "You WANT me to fail, don't you?"
"I---"
"What's happened? You've been so supportive of me through all this! You've even offered to come with me. Now it sounds like you're getting cold feet -- and you want me to stay behind with you to warm your bed!"
"Warm my bed? Is this how are you regard our making love?"
Grace rarely got flustered, but that did it. "No! I didn't mean -- let's back up. What brought this on?"
Luke explained about Michel's Joan of Arc story. While he was telling Grace climbed in on her side of the bed, though her body language implied that she was still annoyed. Having an angry woman lying inches away, when you were near-naked and vulnerable, was a rather frightening experience, and Luke was tempted to get out and find somewhere else to sleep. But the room's sofa was too short, and the floor looked uncomfortable, and he could scarcely barge in on his sister and her husband, much less ask the landlady for a separate room in which to hide from his "wife". So Luke stood his ground, so to speak.
"You're letting yourself get upset by an amateur science fiction story?" demanded Grace.
"Don't sneer, Grace. Science fiction is a way of dealing with unusual ideas. Somebody -- call him God, call him the Temporal Computer -- called on Joan to risk her life for a cause, then abandoned her to a horrible death when she was no longer needed. Why can't it happen again with you? The Third World is a dangerous place. You could catch a disease, or get killed as an innocent bystander in somebody else's war. Remember that God let Joan catch Lyme Disease, and let Ryan Hunter's girlfriend get killed, after they had served Him faithfully."
"But I'll be on a mission. Wouldn't He need to keep me alive and safe to carry it out?"
"Depends what the real mission is. God sent Joan on a wild goose chase today, trying to find genealogical records that had been destroyed decades ago. Now Joan's back to Square 1, trying to figure what He really meant." Luke thought it over. "Suppose that helping the poor in general isn't the mission. Suppose that there is an important person in the famine area -- say, the next Gandhi, or somebody that could bring peace to the Middle East -- and your real mission is to keep him or her alive. And once the crisis is past, God doesn't need you."
"Now you're grasping at straws."
"Maybe."
"I still think going to the Third World is my calling. Not something God has imposed on me, but something in my nature." She hesitated. "It's weird -- my having faith in something and you being the skeptic. But I know that you're doing all this because you love me and don't want me to get hurt, so I'm not mad."
She rolled over and gave Luke a kiss. Then she rolled back, taking Luke with her, so that he ended up lying on top of her. Not the most subtle of invitations--
After a few minutes Luke felt that he could follow Grace anywhere, whatever the risk. But it passed in the cold light of day. Luke was in a volatile mood.
-----
Early the next morning two of Grace's instructors picked her up in a small Italian car and headed south. One was a sixtyish man who was usually addressed as Maestro, which sounded to Grace like an orchestral conductor but actually just meant the Master of a subject. He was dressed as impeccably as he was in the SEEDS office. The other was a thirtyish Frenchwoman named Madame Marque, and it was strange to see her decked out today in tight jeans.
Unless Joan's course into southern Italy yesterday, the teachers' route followed the western coastline. Grace was accustomed to the coastal plain of Maryland, but this terrain was more like America's Pacific coast, with hills and mountains coming all the way to the water. She had heard that Naples was built on steep hills, like San Francisco; one of its favorite songs was even named Funicoli, Funicola. Mount Vesuvius, the most famous volcano in history, was in the vicinity.
But as they approached the city, they turned off the autostrada onto a local road, then an unpaved dirt path.
They stopped at a farm nestled between two hills. Grace was surprised at its small size, but reminded herself that land was expensive in Europe and that a charity can't splurge on expenses. They passed fields planted with SEED's genetically engineered grain, then a corral of horses, and finally stopped at a smaller corral with one animal inside. Madame got out and started walking back along the driveway, while Grace stared at the horse.
"It looks old," she commented.
"Si," said the Maestro. "That's the idea. Hobbyists in advanced countries can afford the best mounts, la crème de la crème. But today you are to imagine yourself in a very poor country ridden with famine. People who owned good horses would have sold them off, to buy food or get transport to a more fertile land. You will be left with the less desirable ones."
"Capisco."
"Biene. To start, let me see you saddle the horse."
The corral had a gate, but Grace climbed over the fence, hoping that would look more macho. The horse shied away, as most intelligent beings did when they encountered Grace. Suppressing her irritation, Grace used the soothing techniques Diana had taught her, until it allowed her to put on the saddle and bridle. Finally she hoisted herself up on its back.
"Eccellente! And now, you are to follow this course," he said, handing her a map. "You are to pretend that you are travelling between two villages. Madame will follow you on her own horse, and observe." He nodded to the side, and Grace saw her teacher mounted on an animal of her own. So that was why the jeans. "Pretend that she is not there."
"Capisco," said Grace. It was just Italian for I understand, but to an American it aroused memories of THE GODFATHER, very incongruous in the current situation. She concentrated on the map, a professional local map with her course inked in. It ran near the country road but not on it; obviously she was supposed to go cross-country as if better paths did not exist. She turned her horse's head in the proper direction.
There were subtleties here: a foolish student would try to impress the instructors by galloping off, a speed that could not possibly be sustained. So Grace started off slowly, trying to get familiar with the new horse and size up its weaknesses and strengths.
The ground was uneven, and obviously had been chosen for that purpose. Grace had to constantly ride uphill and downhill, sometimes zigzagging to avoid to steep a grade. After about half an hour she stopped to check her map again and was dismayed how little area she had covered. This was going to be a long day. And yet she was careful to pace herself, giving her horse opportunities to rest and to relieve itself.
After about an hour and half the course evened out, and in fact became so devoid of problems that she was wondering why it was included. Another hour and a half later, she realized why: this was BORING, and it was supposed to be boring, to test her patience. Most girls, even the most enthusiastic equestriennes, might limit that time in the saddle to maybe two hours. This was work, not play.
Fortunately Grace had undergone worse, fleeing Arcadia on horseback last January, and riding a long journey in EdenWorld, and had discovered that the trick was to focus the mind on something pleasant. And so she thought back on last night's lovemaking with Luke. Madame, keeping an eye on her, might be startled at the erotic imagery going through Grace's head, but of course she couldn't read Grace's mind.
But thinking of the lovemaking also reminded Grace of the preceding argument. She had finally pacified Luke by saying the Third World job was her choice and not just a "mission" imposed from outside. But suppose that inner feeling had also been planted in her soul by G-d? That was no escaping that. But would G-d deliberately put a self-destructive course in her mind. She thought of how G-d as He usually presented Himself to her, Diana the Cowgirl. She could not attribute Machiavellian thoughts to Diana -- but Diana was only a façade for G-d, wasn't she? In Hebrew terms, a Shekinah, what God chose to show of Himself.
Have faith, Grace. It was something she rarely told herself to do.
The terrain finally became more interesting -- Grace would say, more irritating. There was a long slope uphill, and then Grace found a stone wall in her path.
She estimated it at roughly three feet tall (this being Europe, it was probably designed an even meter in height) . From her vantage point on top of the horse she could see over it easily, and noted a clear patch on the other side. Diana had taught her how to jump fences.
Grace backtracked several meters, so that her horse could be build up momentum for the jump. As she did so she spotted Madame watching her from her own mount, with a non-committal expression.
Grace turned back toward the wall and tried to plan out the jump. Then she turned her horse's head to the right and slowly headed downhill. She would circle around the wall instead.
-----
On reaching her destination, Grace was relieved to find that they had brought a horse van, so that they would not have to ride back to the farm. Grace's backside was aching and she suspected Madame's was too, thought she knew no polite way to ask (Madame, comment va votre cul?) Madame was making her report to the Maestro, in Italian.
The Maestro turned to Grace and switched to English. "You did well, except that you departed from your course at the end, and lost an hour."
"I know. I didn't want to risk my horse. It might be too old to make the jump, and if it got injured, it might have to be put down."
"In the Third World such risks might be necessary."
"Yeah, but we're not the Third World. We're in Europe doing a simulation. That wasn't worth risking a horse's life. Let me get on Madame's horse, and I'll prove to you that I can do it."
"No need, you argued it nicely. Very well, I will record this as a success. This evening we will enjoy ourselves in Napoli, and return to the farm tomorrow."
"There's another test?"
"Horses may not be available in a poor country," observed Madame. "Have you ever ridden a donkey? There are differences."
Putting my ass on an ass. Great.
TBC