* DISCLAIMER: i made the decision to discontinue this series a while back. there were supposed to be three parts, but i ended up only finishing two due to a lack of inspiration. i hope you enjoy the story for what it is, though!
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| The Boy |
Morning fog drifts throughout Lurgashall, West Sussex. Doves faintly coo in the dense forest. The sound of the rushing river nearby gives life to the rural landscape. The pathway is hugged by trees on both sides, weeping willows and broadleaf evergreens bending over the gravel as if to greet passersby. The sky is a silky shade of periwinkle, and the sun gently grapples to peek out from behind a sheet of looming stratus clouds. Squirrels and hares race through the thicket to rustle and stir up insects. The crickets will soon chirp and wake the rest of the sleeping nature around them.
Distant footsteps crunch rock fragments with each stride, the approaching noise startling the birds as they scatter away to their homes nestled in the slim branches above. A boy whom the townsfolk know as Harry is the product of the sound. His intriguing and mysterious presence always makes itself known, even to placid wildlife. Unless he's with his father, of course. In those moments, he's a silent shadow in the background of the older man's domineering limelight.
As the steps grow louder, creatures turn their heads to observe the boy's blue, melancholy aura that walks the timeworn path every dawn. He holds a metal bucket filled to the brim with fresh water from the stream. It's heavy but no challenge for his strong arms. He ventures down the winding trail, disrupting the pebbles with each clunky trudge of his steel-toed boots. Atop his head is a cowboy-esque hat made of straw, and his freshly showered hair, damp and curly, makes an appearance underneath as it dries with assistance from the crisp breeze. His long legs are clad in light-wash jeans, and his upper half is covered with a cream-colored button-up. He leaves it open over a trusty white tank top, the fabric sticking to his perspiring chest. Humidity is starting to make its presence known, and he wishes autumn would arrive faster. He despises summer for his repressive reasons.
Harry is not a cowboy by any means. He's what people would instead consider a rancher. His father had once told him that there was a significant difference. A rancher doesn't wrangle cattle or compete in barrel racing. They don't herd sheep or wear chaps. Nor do they own a lasso or race horses for profit. No, Harry takes care of the horses. He nurtures them by feeding, grooming, and riding them across the village fields. He speaks to them when he locks the stable up at night, telling them about the newest baby born in tiny Lurgashall or the fawn he saw grazing in the pasture.
He works at his father's ranch. It provides services such as horseback riding and equestrian lessons. His father handles the latter, having grown up in the village his entire life and acquiring decades of experience. On the other hand, Harry helps with the guided horse tours by visiting the picturesque countryside a few times daily with a group of locals or tourists. They travel the paths overrun with blossoming flowers and satiny grass matted down by hoof prints. Farthest out on the tour, they stop at beautifully eroded rock formations on the hill and soak in the expanse of the sky.
