author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

Notes from the author:

The oppressed tend to know more about their oppressors than their oppressors know about them. It’s unavoidable. Douglas Adams, in the novel Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency, puts it like this: “It is difficult to be sat on all day, every day, by some other creature, without forming an opinion about them. On the other hand, it is perfectly possible to sit all day, every day, on top of another creature and not have the slightest thought about them whatsoever.” Of course, there he was referring to a literal horse and rider, but still, the metaphor stands.

The Blockhead Theory of Horses holds that a well-trained horse is more or less a flesh-and-blood machine. It does not act on its own, but responds instead to its rider’s input. Nudge a flank to change its trajectory. Sit back or lean forward to change its velocity. And so forth.

The Royal Stablemaster’s Theory of Blockheads held that blockheads shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a horse, regardless of whether the horse was well-trained. (Blockheads themselves were by definition untrainable.) This theory had served Lucinda well in carrying out her duties, which included acquiring horses for the Royal Stables, training them, and protecting them from ill treatment. And generally the king had supported her. If Lucinda determined that this courtier or that courier was a blockhead, the king would refuse them access to the stables. “I yield to your judgment in these matters, Lucinda,” the king would say. “You’re the expert, after all.”

But lately he’d been listening to experts in other matters, and it was only a matter of time before their advice would collide with that of the Royal Stablemaster. There was a war on, after all, and the king could hardly be expected to jeopardize his kingdom’s future for the sake of a horse’s happiness.

“I’m sorry, Lucinda,” he said, “but I’ve been offered a chance to end this war instantly, tomorrow, with no further loss of life. What sort of king would I be if I refused for the sake of a horse?”

Lucinda sighed. “And how does a horse figure into that chance, Your Majesty?”

The king fidgeted with his crown, turning it around and around in his hands, as he often did when anxiety intersected with informality. He knew Lucinda would like no part of this plan. But it was a good plan. “The Royal Coven,” he said. “They’re brilliant. You see...”

He explained that the witches had enchanted a drum such that all who heard its beat should, so long as they were human, succumb to sorcerous slumber. This sleep would endure until the next new moon, during which time the sleepers would require neither food nor drink. They would awaken no worse for their nap, but rather refreshed and vigorous as after a good night’s rest.

“It’s three weeks until the next new moon,” the king pointed out. “Plenty of time for us to take our pick of high-ranking prisoners and give ourselves leverage in the ensuing negotiations. Peace will be all but assured.”

This plan held obvious implications for a human drummer. The witches had therefore created a living scarecrow to ride in with the drum among the enemy. It must ride, for a walking scarecrow would not spread the sleep fast enough to outpace news of the enchantment. The attacking generals must not be allowed time to devise a response.

“So all we need is a horse to carry our man of straw. A reliable, well-trained horse.”

“A blockhead’s horse, you mean.” Lucinda scowled. “Why not create a straw horse for your straw man to ride? Why not create a straw centaur to be both mount and drummer?”

“These are all very good ideas,” said the king diplomatically, “and I will inform the Royal Coven to begin considering them immediately. But straw automatons take time to create, and require precise alignments of the heavens. Certain phases of the moon, you see. And while we wait, more soldiers would die, more outlying villages burn. The straw rider is ready to mount up tonight, Lucinda. It could end the bloodshed tonight.”

Lucinda threw up her hands in exasperated surrender. “All right, fine, I see there’s no use arguing. I’ll ready Mule for the journey. He’s no automaton himself, to thoughtlessly and automatically obey, but he’s biddable and unimaginative enough. With him, your plan at least stands a chance.”

Mule was a biddable pony, if a bit of a plodder. But the scarecrow had the odor of sorcery, and that made Mule nervous. And a nervous Mule wanted comforting. A human rider who knew Mule well, like Lucinda herself,would have been able to provide that comfort, dismounting from time to time to give him apples and gentle caresses and to sing to him in a tuneless way. But the scarecrow could only do what the witches had created it to do. And while the witches were kind people and well-inclined toward all creatures in theory, they lacked practical knowledge of horses and their needs. They had not thought to give the scarecrow the sort of empathy and awareness that would allow it to detect and console its mount’s nervousness.

The scarecrow’s directions were to begin beating the drum within a half mile of the enemy encampment and to continue beating the drum during the time it took to circle the encampment seven times. But during the third circle, Mule’s ever growing anxiety simply became too much to bear. If there was no comfort to be had at the hands of their rider, Mule knew they could find it in the Royal Stables among the familiar smells of the herd and at the hands of the stablehands and stablemaster. Resolved, Mule ignored the scarecrow’s directions and headed for home. And there was nothing the scarecrow could do about it. Its instructions held no contingency plans. It just kept beating on that drum.

When the spell finally directed it to stop drumming, the scarecrow was lying on its back at the entrance to the Royal Stables. It had been lying there since the low ceiling of the stable entrance had scraped it off Mule’s back. By then, the drum had sent the entire palace and two-thirds of the royal city to sleep.

Lucinda had guessed something of the sort might happen, so she’d taken herself several miles south for the night for a long-due visit with her cousin. Upon her return the next morning, Lucinda surveyed the sleeping city, nodded grimly, and hitched a solid team of four to a spare supply wagon. Those horses were made no less anxious than Mule had been by the ambient magic, but they had Lucinda with them to keep telling them, in the ways that horses understand, that everything was all right. And she kept telling them that all the way into the heart of the enemy camp.

Three weeks later, the new moon rose, and the sleeping city awoke. The king sat up from the floor of his chambers where the drum had caught him dressing for bed. He blinked in the dawn light streaming through the window and realized that Lucinda was with him.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “if you are awake now, so too should be those high-ranking prisoners you hoped for.”

And that was how the Royal Stablemaster won the war.

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