Black Alpenstock

pip pop

The world is empty of words. 

I'm on my way to the Name-Withheld Rodo, the colloquial name for the most-publicized rodeo this side of Nicholas Manor. The goal? To tame Black Alpenstock, the reason Name-Withheld has gotten its reputation without so much as a brand, both in the iron sense and the marketing sense. The people? Avant Dawood: All-around gentleman. Appealing in pictures for his fashion sense. Appealing in filmstrips for his dancing-limbs. Appealing in person for his charm. Quondam Pavlos: Former racing champ. Current owner of Name-Withheld, though his own name is as well known—that is, not. And myself, Journo Ceol: Observer, analyst, befriender of things remarkable, and alchemist of the same. It was I who arranged this venture, and it is I who naturally will profit the most. It's a living.

The world is empty of words.

Pavlos controls the barouche to offer a ride so smooth a chair would be jealous. Dawood watches. I watch Dawood. Neither is aware of the eyes in his back, and neither would care regardless. The horse drawing us is the one that produced Black Alpenstock. Its name has been lost to the ages. Pavlos made sure of that, making That Which Will Not Be Tamed an obselete nickname.

We arrive at the Rodeo, as much a misnomer as its prefix. It's just a big farm with a mean horse. Pavlos unhooks Tamed, attaches Alpenstock, and switches places with Dawood. Dawood takes the reins, careful not alert the horse of this fact.

Pavlos breaks the silence.

"Begin."

Dawood whips the reins, and immediately pulls them to stop the horse. The barouche jumps.

"Most horses understand speed. Alpenstock doesn't. It only knows stop and go. You'll need to teach it to go slow."

How does one teach a horse a concept so basic? I'm no teacher, so I'm at a loss. Dawood, though, is witty in more than the conversational sense.

"Motivation."

Pavlos looks at me. His expression tells me that I'd found a winner. He hands Dawood the carrot contraption ridiculed by most.

The next hour passes as quickly as five minutes would. Dawood had it all figured out before coming here, but he needs Pavlos's experience and resources.  The key, as it turns out, is to trick the horse into thinking that it's outrunning the carrot. Dawood practices his timing. He eventually gets fairly good at thrusting the carrot forward at a constant speed, then keeping that speed relative to the ground. That is, when Black Alpenstock runs forward, the carrot keeps moving at the same speed, but it flies over the horse's head because it's a carrot and carrots aren't really that fast. When the horse stops, the carrot catches up. Alpenstock catches on.

Pavlos is giving hints the whole time, helping to fine-tune Dawood's performance. Dawood repeatedly nails it. He smiles for the first time all day. We're done; it's time to go home. Pavlos takes the helm again.

The world is empty of words.

I look at the two of them. Their expressions are indifferent, matching the circumstances; the trick hasn't been made public yet. The best part is yet to come.