Chapter One: Project “Karst” – Upcoming Horse Fiction

Chapter One

A hooded figure scrambled up the riverbank. 

The dawn shadows of dense trees greeted the entity. Roosting starlings burst into flight, swooping over a gothic bridge nearby. The span’s withered stones were perched neatly between the two halves of Karst College’s grounds. A river ran beneath and split the land down the middle. One half held the academic buildings and the other half, the stables. 

A loud splash echoed below. 

The tinny pat of hooves on rock rang out as the hooded figure, on foot, found a place to hide within the woods. 

Clumps of black mane rose and fell in rhythm with each stride that carried horse and rider onto the scene. They were opposites– a tiny pea of a woman sat atop seventeen hands of horsepower.

The birds continued to dip and dive, eventually rising to meet the first rays of morning just as the pair overcame the riverbank’s rocky climb. They slid onto the cobbled road at the top, dripping yet cautious of disturbing the march of those just arriving. The twin spires of Karst College looked over the scene from a distance, proud peaks and hammerbeam trusses signaling students home. 

A string of surprised gasps and expletives filled the air as students walking along the road took note of the dark horse and rider for the first time. 

The cloaked entity remained hidden and unknown to those passing nearby. 

A sharp whip of the horse’s tail let frigid water droplets fly. 

“Sorry!” The rider called, blowing out puffs of hot breath as she overtook passersby flinching at the spray of cold water. Whatever sweaty lather had been worked up by the dawn’s schooling had been washed away by the river. Steam rose off the horse’s back which only seemed to add to the fog still hiding the morning.

 The rider nudged her mount up and over the bridge, careful to give plenty of room between herself and the packs of students crossing. 

The first day of the academic year had arrived, and the freshmen, ever eager, were up early to explore the grounds. It wasn’t just the all-seeing spires or gothic features that called to students; Karst had an unlucky history and its origin story seemed to bring in more applicants than its superior education. 

An appropriate unlucky number thirteen was printed in bright white on a lone black lamppost beside the bridge. A few freshmen questioned the painted number. They posited that it must mean something. Something dark. Significant to Karst’s history. Legendary – like the internet said. 

  The path beside led down a slight incline and into the quieter part of the river, a still pool, where a large jumping bank sat. The rider turned there and made sure to avoid the youth who were still gawking and concocting theories, phones out. Taking pictures. 

  The thirteen stood for jump number thirteen on Karst’s cross-country course, but the students didn’t know that as they snapped self-important photos to post to Instagram. They would be the one to solve the mystery the internet claimed was real. 

A white flag on the left and a red flag on the other side of the jumping bank indicated that riders approached the jump the right way. It started with a leap out of the water and up a vertical stone wall about three feet high. A flat dirt landing pad up top allowed a horse enough space to place all four feet on solid ground before popping back down three feet on the other side and back into the river. 

The hollows of the dark bay’s ears focused on the obstacle. Feeling her mount’s anticipation beneath her, the rider swiveled in the saddle to make sure no one was walking behind so that she could turn a small circle and pick up speed.

A few displaced pebbles sprayed along the base of the bridge as the horse collected on his haunches like a spring and hopped off into a light canter. Each stride forward was balanced as they splashed into the river again, his knees springing high at the added weight of moving through water. 

Three strides to takeoff.
Two. 

At one, the petite rider tipped forward and gave him enough rein to pop up the bank. The dark bay giant lifted his body, stretched his front legs up and over the stone wall portion in a graceful upwards arc, but, this time, his powerful hind end didn’t follow. 

Something hooked his back leg just below the water.  

From behind a black walnut tree, the hooded lurker waited and watched.