Calvino Read online

  HORSE DIARIES

  #1: Elska

  #2: Bell’s Star

  #3: Koda

  #4: Maestoso Petra

  #5: Golden Sun

  #6: Yatimah

  #7: Risky Chance

  #8: Black Cloud

  #9: Tennessee Rose

  #10: Darcy

  #11 Special Edition: Jingle Bells

  #12: Luna

  #13 Special Edition: Cinders

  #14: Calvino

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Whitney Robinson

  Cover art and interior illustrations copyright © 2017 by Ruth Sanderson

  Photograph copyright © this page by Makarova Viktoria/Shutterstock

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhousekids.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Sanderson, Whitney, author. | Sanderson, Ruth, illustrator.

  Title: Calvino / Whitney Sanderson ; illustrated by Ruth Sanderson.

  Description: New York : Random House, [2017] | Series: Horse diaries ; #14 | Summary: In 1570s Spain, Calvino, an Andalusian horse, is purchased from the Moreno estate in Seville to join King Philip’s stable in Cordoba. | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015039786 (print) | LCCN 2016019876 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-101-93779-2 (trade paperback) | ISBN 978-1-101-93780-8 (hardcover library binding) | ISBN 978-1-101-93781-5 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Andalusian horse—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Andalusian horse—Fiction. | Horses—Fiction. | Spain—History—16th century—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ10.3.S217 Cal 2017 (print) | LCC PZ10.3.S217 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9781101937815

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

  ep

  In memory of Thor, my golden sun horse

  —W.S.

  For Whitney

  —R.S.

  Contents

  Cover

  Horse Diaries

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1: Southern Spain, 1570s

  Chapter 2: Master Moreno

  Chapter 3: Doma Vaquera

  Chapter 4: Iron on Iron

  Chapter 5: The Goodwill of Angels

  Chapter 6: The Horse Master

  Chapter 7: A Gilded Cage

  Chapter 8: Desbocado

  Chapter 9: A Dance of Hearts

  Chapter 10: Games of War

  Chapter 11: The Hour of Truth

  Chapter 12: A Horse of Kings

  Appendix

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  “Oh! if people knew what a comfort to

  horses a light hand is…”

  —from Black Beauty, by Anna Sewel

  When I was a foal, the bulls were only dim black shapes moving across the horizon. Sometimes the ground trembled under my hooves from their distant stampedes. Sometimes my nostrils caught a whiff of their earthy scent. But they were as far away as the steppes blooming with wild flowers or the mountains rising blue and hazy beyond the neatly kept orchards and whitewashed stone buildings of the Moreno estate.

  By late spring, the bulls were driven to their summer pastures in the mountains, and I forgot them. There was so much to explore in the vineyards, fields, and orchards surrounding the manor house and its stone stable.

  Rasula and I could wander freely, for there were no fences. On our flanks we bore the brand of the Moreno estate, shaped like the curb bit that was still unknown to me. No thief could pass unnoticed through these provinces, where only a few landowners lived within a day’s journey of each other, and every man knew his neighbors’ brands as well as his own.

  My dam was a favored pet of the family, Master Moreno’s wedding gift to his wife, Ana Sofia. With her lacy dappled coat and silken mane flowing nearly to the ground, Rasula charmed all who met her. The master often spoke of his dos bellas damas, or two beautiful ladies.

  My sire, for whom I was named, was the master’s own mount. He was like a great thundercloud on the horizon, sweeping closer only when the master came home from working beside his vaqueros in the mountains. His hooves seemed to shake the very leaves of the fruit trees that were the Moreno family’s silver. The bulls, with their sleek coal-colored coats, were their black gold—more famous even than the estate’s wine and oranges.

  When the master returned, he would lean down and sweep his elder son, Joaquin, into the saddle before him and hand him the reins so he could play at being a real vaquero. Rico, the shy younger brother, clung to Ana Sofia’s skirts and hid his face when the master called to him in his booming voice.

  There was always a fiesta in celebration of the master’s return, with a roaring bonfire and people dancing and drinking sherry late into the night. It was also a time for the men to show off their favorite horses. In Andalusia, a vaquero’s stallion was prized above all else he possessed.

  The men rode across planks of wood to show off their mounts’ high, prancing steps. The horses’ necks arched against their bits, nearly touching their powerful chests. Everyone laughed when I strutted in among them and took my own turn clattering over the boards.

  In the afternoons, Ana Sofia and her friends sat on the shaded portico, sipping cups of thick chocolate and waving their fans to stir the humid air. I often scrambled up the slippery stone steps to receive my share of treats and attention. When Ana Sofia laughed, it sounded like the jingle of the silver bells she had sewn onto her fan.

  The ladies called me una pepita dulce—a sweet nugget—and fed me strawberries. I was as much a pet as the nightingale that Ana Sofia kept in a golden cage on the porch. I often heard the bird’s lovely, sad song floating across the yard at night.

  Those were golden afternoons, but often restlessness struck like a spark inside me. Once I strayed too far from my dam’s dappled warmth and found myself lost in the orchard at dusk.

  The mist had settled so thickly that I did not know from which direction I had come. Ana Sofia’s chickens had stopped their clucking, and the coo of the doves that roosted in the trees had ceased. A pungent, oily smell filled my nostrils, overpowering the delicate sweetness of the orange blossoms.

  I was not afraid, because I’d never had anything to fear.

  The mist swirled away to reveal a strange animal crouched between the trees. It had a snub-nosed face and eyes that glowed like embers. Its tufted ears and thick tail were tipped with black, as if they’d been singed with soot. Clenched in its jaws was the limp body of Ana Sofia’s favorite speckled hen.

  I felt torn between two instincts: one to charge the animal, and the other to flee. It was normally the watchdog Oro’s job to protect the hens. But he was not in sight, so I had to defend the Moreno flock.

  I reared up on my hind
legs to make myself appear larger than I was. The animal dropped the hen and slashed the air with claws like giant thorns. I struck out with one foreleg, then the other, my small, sharp hooves flashing high.

  The animal turned and bolted into the mist. I reared again and kicked out my hind legs in triumph. My first foe vanquished!

  Calvino? I heard my dam’s distant call.

  Here I am! I bellowed back, and waited for her to find me. With her dapple-gray fur, she appeared as if the mist itself were taking shape.

  There was an animal! I cried, cantering in circles around her. It was big like Oro, and covered in stripes. It had one of the chickens in its teeth, but I chased it away. Now the chicken has gone to sleep.

  Rasula lowered her head to sniff the hen, which was lying motionless in the grass.

  It is not asleep, she said. The animal you saw was a lynx, and it has killed Ana Sofia’s good hen. It has been a long time since I have seen a lynx—they usually stay in the mountains. I will tell Oro to keep a closer watch.

  I can guard as well as any dog, I said, puffing out my chest with pride.

  Yes, you were very brave, said my dam, rumbling with amusement.

  Tired from my adventure, I flopped down in the grass. The mist had cleared and the moon cast its peaceful light over the hacienda. The hens began to cluck again, Oro darted like a watchful shadow around the edges of the orchard, and order was restored to my small world.

  Golden dust filled my eyes and nose and settled on my sweating back. Ahead of me, Rasula’s hindquarters swayed as she trotted through the wheat. With each circle around the field, she trampled the cut stalks and separated them from the ripe heads of grain.

  My own small hooves barely made a dent in the straw. It tangled around my legs and threatened to send me sprawling.

  Remember, a proud step makes for light work. My dam’s sweet neigh floated back to me through the haze.

  Rasula never seemed to trip or tire. Her ears swiveled back to listen to young Joaquin, who stood in the center of the field holding a braided leather whip. Were it not for this instrument, and the sting I knew it contained, my legs would wander where they pleased instead of wading through this sea of prickly stalks.

  But what if it were possible to separate the whip from the boy? My trot slowed as my mind raced, and the whip flicked across my hindquarters.

  Instead of quickening my pace, I whirled to face the boy and charged at him with flattened ears. Joaquin let out a shout of surprise and dropped the whip. He made a dash for the field’s edge and found refuge in the branches of an orange tree.

  Rasula whinnied anxiously from the field, but I paid no heed. I galloped and bucked in triumph around the tree where I had trapped my quarry.

  An unripe orange hit me on the head. Another struck my rump. I skittered to a halt and turned to face my adversary with new respect.

  One of the hired hands, Fausto, walked by on his way to tend the orchard. “What are you doing in that tree, young Master Joaquin?” he inquired.

  “He charged me!” cried the boy, pointing to where I stood—just outside the range of flying oranges.

  Fausto looked at me doubtfully. “That’s just a foal, son, not a fighting bull.”

  Joaquin kicked the tree trunk with the heel of his boots. “I don’t see why I have to work in the fields, anyway,” he muttered. “I want to ride out to the cattle with Papá.”

  The worker’s sun-browned face crinkled with laughter. “If you can’t manage an unruly colt, you wouldn’t last long in a herd of wild cattle. I guess your father will take you out to the steppes when he thinks you are old enough to handle a garrocha pole.”

  The boy tossed a green orange sulkily from hand to hand. Fausto gave me a friendly slap on the rump and continued on his way.

  Joaquin climbed down from the tree, eyeing me warily. I was a naughty colt, but not a vicious one, and my point had been made. I trotted back to the wheat field with a light step, ready to work again—but now there could be no doubt that it was my generosity of spirit, and not fear of punish-ment, that kept me trotting in circles around the boy and his whip.

  My dam scolded me with a sharp nip on the crest of my neck. Poor Rasula. I had inherited the dapples of her coat, but not the goodness of her nature.

  Joaquin had taken up his whip and was striding toward me with a dangerous glint in his eyes. However, his vengeance was interrupted by the sight of a horse and rider galloping across the broad stretch of grassland between the estate and the mountains.

  I recognized Tito, the master’s most trusted vaquero, and his stallion, Amadeo. The pair drew to a halt when they reached the edge of the wheat field, and Tito dismounted.

  “Where is your mother?” he asked Joaquin, his voice grave. Amadeo’s ribs were heaving, and lines of sweat ran down his roan coat.

  “In the house, preparing for the fiesta,” Joaquin replied. “Papá promised I could go with him to the horse fair this year. But Rico has to stay home with Mamá,” he added smugly.

  The vaquero said nothing, only rested his hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder, then hurried toward the house. Joaquin trotted at Tito’s heels, peppering him with questions.

  Amadeo stood where Tito had left him, catching his breath. I noticed a dark red blossom staining his chest.

  Amadeo, you’ve been gored! said my dam, tossing her head with concern.

  Only grazed, replied the stallion, shifting uncomfortably from hoof to hoof. There was a stampede at the mountain pass. One of the bulls turned on us. I’m afraid…Calvino and the master were killed, Rasula.

  No! That cannot be. My dam backed up a few steps, shaking her head. Then she spun on her haunches and galloped away into the orchard.

  I trailed after her but stopped at the edge of the field and let out an anxious whinny. From deep in the orange grove, I heard my dam’s ringing reply. But I knew she was not calling for me.

  I remembered the magnificent pale gray stallion and the man sitting so tall and proud on his back. Could they really be still and lifeless now, like the chicken crushed in the jaws of the lynx?

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a figure emerge from the house. It was Joaquin. He ran across the carefully kept lawn to the tangled meadow beyond. He fell to his knees and began ripping the wild flowers from the ground—delicate blooms of lavender, tough yellow gorse, spiny prickly pear—and flung them in all directions. Then he sat crouched in the grass like a wild animal, not making a sound.

  A soft cry made my ears flicker back. Little Rico was clinging to a stone pillar of the portico. He called his brother’s name but did not leave the shelter of the house. He clutched at the climbing ivy as if he feared the wind might carry him off if he let go.

  It was strange—I hardly knew the master, or my own sire. They spent most of their time tending the cattle in the mountains or traveling to distant cities. But somehow their presence had remained at the hacienda, creating a sense of safety and abundance.

  Now that feeling was gone. The whitewashed manor house looked small against the looming mountains. The grapes and oranges seemed to wilt on their stems.

  Tito and the other vaqueros brought the master’s body home for burial. My sire had been laid to rest on the open steppes. Rasula pulled the cart with the master’s coffin to the church in Seville. I was tied up inside the stone stable so I would not follow her.

  When the family returned from the funeral, Joaquin broke away and ran into the barn. He sat in the straw beside me, his head buried in his arms. I reached out my nose to touch his dark hair.

  A shadow fell across the doorway. It was Tito, holding a pair of spurs with a star-shaped rowel. Joaquin stood up quickly, swiping at his tear-streaked face.

  Tito handed the spurs to Joaquin. “These belonged to your father,” he said. “Now they are yours.” The boy slowly fastened the leather straps over his boots. Then he stood up straight, his chin jutting now instead of quivering.

  “Go inside to your mother,” said Tito. “She needs both
of her sons with her.”

  The heavy spurs, too wide for Joaquin’s boots, dragged on the ground and left their impression in the dirt. They were a man’s spurs, but there was no time for the young Master Moreno to grow into them.

  The visitors who came to see Ana Sofia now were dressed in black. There were no bonfires, no music, no hot chocolate and gossip on the porch. There was no more of Ana Sofia’s silver-bell laughter.

  In the fall, Rasula was shut into the stable so I could be weaned from her. She called for me, but I had taken my nourishment from grass instead of milk for months. It was little Rico who stole outside at night to calm her quivering neighs.

  Joaquin had grown into an angry, flint-eyed boy since his father’s death. He did a man’s work on the estate, picking oranges and stacking straw alongside the hired hands. But sometimes, when no one was looking, I saw him throw rocks to knock the doves’ nests out of the trees.

  In December, the ground frosted over and the whole world sparkled. The next day a multitude of dots appeared like grains of black pepper spilling down the mountain slopes. As they grew nearer, they became a churning sea of cattle. Men on horseback galloped alongside them.

  The vibration of their hooves on the ground stirred something in my blood. Before I knew it, I was racing out to meet the herd. A huge black bull ran at the front. His neck and chest were so heavy with muscle that his hindquarters seemed to belong to a different animal.

  He spotted me, let out a bellow, and swung away from the pack, bearing down on me with breathtaking speed.

  I ducked to the side by instinct rather than thought. The bull’s horns caught in my tail, jerking a few strands loose. Then the rest of the herd overtook us, and the bull galloped on, snorting and shaking his massive head.