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A Wild Pick-Me-Up

I am with some people who are visiting. We’ve brought them to this outdoor exhibition of a re-enactment of some war preceding the Civil War (of 1861-). I’ve been here before, and enjoyed the show. There’s a lot of marching, playing of the trumpet and drums. My guests seem to be enjoying the ‘jeux’.

Some kind of conflict breaks out on the field. My back is turned away from the foray (fray) as I converse with someone. Then I hear fast thundering hooves, and before I know it, am swept up off the ground by a rider on the right side of the sweating, frothy horse. He holds me straight up, my feet a few inches above the ground. I’m aware the earth underneath me is a shallow embankment (the horse is at a lower level). My laced boot is caught in the seam of my dress. I struggle to free my foot, thinking I can push myself away from this madman. The horse continues to race along the bank, and I imagine myself getting away and running along the bank from the sheer velocity of the situation, and gradually slowing down to a stop. I’m breathless.

The rider is dressed in brown woollens, is wearing a farmer’s hat – guess he’s a commoner, has high black leather boots fit into well-worn stirrups. My dress in medium blue cotton is gathered at the waist, with a black fitted waistcoat over a light-coloured blouse. I have a simple white cotton colonist hat with frills, (covering) dark wavy hair, am a young woman. My button and laced-up boots are Victorian in style. I’m a commoner too.

I shifted from being a modern-day middle-aged woman to this ‘commoner’ the moment the rider snatched me up from where I was standing. Is he trying to save me? Or is this a game, or contest? Or simply an exhibition of skill? I am not strung over the horse, but am held with the rider’s one strong arm around my mid-rift, above my waist, bound, squished against his right leg, my head held against him as well. My left hand reaches down to untangle the hem of my dress as we gallop wildly at full speed, while my right hand is grasping, hanging on in fear of falling. All I can think about is getting away from horse and rider. The dark (not black) horse’s heavy breathing as he gallops resounds in my ears and the smell of wet leather harness leaves an acrid taste in my mouth.

victorian
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