When I tend to my two horses before bed-time, I am always reminded of the things I cannot do.
I am not able to drive a car; I cannot even be trusted on a bicycle. These tasks are beyond me. Yet I have looked after the pair of horses for as long as I am able to remember, and neither they nor I are yet to come to any harm.
That is not to say that I don't sometimes complain about having to organise them before I can organise myself - night after night, without fail, I must check that their box is draught-proof and escape-proof, and I need to be sure that the two of them - particularly Eidos - are serene. If anything frightens them, I clamber bitterly from my bed-clothes, swearing.
One horse at a time, I put my hand in front of their noses, and the air blowing from the nostrils tells me how quickly they are breathing; I then do what I can to restore normality. Talking to them, my voice is flat and gentle, though I am startled and displeased.
This took the longest time to learn - keeping the voice steady and the body immobile, even when suffering with the hallucinations which are caused by being woken suddenly. These ghosts of the night have to be temporarily suspended, for fear of disquieting the horses.
Calm belying inner turmoil must ensue, poker-face denying the horrors itching just below the skin.
It takes practice to do it properly but is worth getting right, for when I take the horses out the next day, they are well-rested and tend not to take me on the aimless magical mystery tours characteristic of an equine shaken from its natural state.
Jittery, scared horses do not make for a fun outing. Once, when Eidos was spooked, after I had learned to communicate with him unambiguously, he told me about a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, who lived across a body of water, and insisted that I should meet her, no matter what the cost.
