Free Blood and Salt by Barbara Sapergia Page A

story.
    He sees himself working at the anvil under his father’s eye, shaping a red-hot horseshoe with clanging hammer strikes.
    “Why does Viktor Dubrovsky hate me?” he asks, giving the shoe a whack.
    “Not so hard! Go too fast, you spoil it.” Mykola is tall and powerful and always seems in charge of himself and his life. Others may bluster or rage or brag or drink too much, but Mykola tries to live his life with care, like iron worked until it’s right.
    “Why does Halya’s father hate me? Why won’t you tell me?”
    “Don’t stop! Go too slow, you spoil it.” Mykola makes a show of checking the fire in the forge.
    “Why, Batko?” Taras strikes too hard and the shoe splits in two glowing red halves. Mykola grabs the tongs and puts the pieces back in the hot coals. Taras waits for an answer.
    “Because you’re my son.” He points to another shoe ready to be shaped. “Work on that one.” Taras pulls out the second shoe.
    “Why does he hate you?” Taras works more carefully now.
    “He thinks I’m a dangerous socialist. A revolutionary.”
    “And are you?” Taras gives his father a serious look.
    “Keep your eye on the shoe!” Mykola watches Taras shape the iron. When he’s satisfied with the work, he turns the question back to Taras. “What do you think?”
    Taras smiles. “No.”
    “So why ask?” He sees Taras lift the hammer. “Stop, that’s just right.” Mykola picks up the red-hot shoe, plunges it into a barrel of water. A cloud of steam rises. He pulls out the shoe. “There...beautiful.”
    “Batko, I love Halya Dubrovsky.”
    “Do you?” Mykola sighs. “Well, you’re young yet...things could change.”
    “They won’t. My love’s strong. Like iron.”
    “This iron’s been tested in fire. Have you?”
    Taras shrugs. “I’ve nearly finished training Radoski’s horse... I’m going to have a little money soon.”
    Mykola raises his eyebrows. “Wait until you have the pahn’s crowns in your hand. Then you can say you’ve got money.”
    “When I do, I’m going to marry Halya.”
    “Yes, well...we’ll see. Meeting at the reading hall tomorrow. I’d like you to be there.”
    Taras grins. “We’ll see.”
    Mykola gives his son a hard look but keeps his peace.
    Later Taras leads a black stallion out into the lane in front of the smithy. The animal’s Thoroughbred and Arabian lines show in his slim but strong build and arched neck. He moves like living smoke. Taras’s foot reaches for the left stirrup and he seems to float into the saddle. The signal to begin is an almost invisible forward movement of his body. They set off down the lane. Taras takes the horse through walk, trot, canter and gallop, smooth as butter. Brings him to a sudden stop, turns him in tight circles and resumes the walk.
    Beyond the village they climb a high green hill, and an old trail takes them into dense birch forest just coming into leaf. The horse drifts through the trees, birds sing all around them, and Taras wants the ride to go on and on. But Imperator belongs to the pahn, Radoski. Taras has been schooling the horse for a month, and soon he’ll have taught the stallion everything he can. Then he’ll have to give him back.
    Taras’s way of training depends on trust. A lot of what he knows came from Batko, who learned to train horses in the Austrian army, but some of it he figured out himself. Mostly he helps the horse not to be afraid. He learns what the horse needs and how it thinks – which is not the way a man thinks. He’s been working all this out since he was a child.
    He doesn’t want to give this horse back. The pahn will ruin him. So he won’t talk about the stallion’s speed. The pahn would think he should whip him to make him go fast. Taras has never hit a horse. He’d be ashamed to.
    Anyway, if Imperator ran flat out, Radoski could never stay in the saddle.
    Imperator. What a stupid name. Taras takes him through the gaits again and through another series of tight turns,