#lowmax stud

There is no pool amongst Lowmax staff concerning the event: they have stopped seeing it as matter of if, but as when, and Archie is too well-liked (or at least, respected) for most to consider profiting from his misfortune. That, and there's always the chance they'll be asked to exercise him in his stead, and nobody's willing to tempt the forces of fate or justice (or irony) like that.

(... Nobody except Archie, that is, who continues to climb on board in the name of professionalism and laugh good humouredly when asked if he'd like to hear his last rites before he begins)

As far as secondary pursuits go, Canto is engaged in an unofficial but very specific game of bingo: each time he chomps, stomps, or otherwise inflicts surface damage upon a staff member, he can cross off a space. At this stage, he needs only Agatha or Yury for bingo, but experts are sceptical. Not on account of his aptitude: on account of the fact Yury has no business being anywhere near him, and Agatha has made it her business to not be anywhere near him.

(Agatha is shrewd like that)

Aside from murder, Canto likes romantic candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach at sunset, except not really; he's a horse (although he probably wouldn't object to dinner, less the candles) In truth, nobody's really sure what puts the wind up his proverbial skirt, so indifferent he seems to life. Jumping, we suppose, though does he enjoy it quite as much as the acrobatics he occasionally performs between fences? Impossible to say. There's his bingo game, obviously. The spot at the end of his paddock beneath the beech tree, perfect parts sun and shade. Handfuls of sweet oats. Uninterrupted snoozes. Choosing violence. Watermelon. Maybe those things. Maybe.

Anyway!

Archie & Canto will be competing together for the handful of years he's legally locked himself into on paper with the Wentwood people, their goal being to see their stallion progress from 1.40 courses to being successful at top level before retiring as a stud prospect. This is the official answer, at least. If you'd ever met the Wentwood syndicate partners, you'd understand what they really mean. We want you to make this horse make us as much money as possible. That's what they mean. They'd never say it, of course. Just like you'd never say it. But you know. And they know that you know. And you know that they know that you know.

It's hard to discern exactly where the stories come from. To separate straight facts from the fanciful, from the embellished, from conjecture. Historians in the area do tend to concede that the most prevalent stories each possess a measure of veracity, though they do so with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Bootlegger Maximillian 'Low Max' O'Leary, for example, did indeed exist and was known to have passed through the area in the Prohibition Era. Whether he was the seasonal inhabitant of Pemberton as claimed or threw lavish, star-studded parties in his hill-top hideaway, however, is still the subject of debate (some assert he inspired F. Scott Fitzgerald; others have it the other way around.) Captain Nathaniel Stanley Maxton, too, exists in the historical record, but the story of his defection toward the end of the American Revolutionary War in favour of running away with an American girl (romantic? or stupid?) (hotly debated) remains entirely unsubstantiated. There is no proof he settled the wild valley plain several miles north-east of Heartbreak Lake and dubbed it 'Low Maxton'; no proof he adopted a new identity and lived quietly with his love on this beautiful, isolated land, farming to eek out a living. On the other hand, Ludlow and Maxwell, enterprising orchardists of the early to mid 20th century, unquestionably worked the property. Apples, predominantly, with a small venture into pears and plums. So it is on paper, at least. Off-paper sources suggest Ludlow & Maxwell had their fingers in other more lucrative (and significantly less legal) pies- and that's not to say they began dabbling in cherries. Reportedly absconding suddenly and hastily at the tail end of the thirties, the facts and theories concerning the duo's moral characters, the truth behind their abrupt departure, and their subsequent total absence from the historical record are yet another set of murky waters for local history buffs to debate- with fiendish pleasure, generally, over coffee and cake at their monthly meeting (the first Thursday of every month, in the upstairs room of the Pemberton Public Library; new members welcome!)

A handful of Pemberton inhabitants bemoan the property went to the notoriously-private Foskett family rather than a preservation foundation, or a benefactor who'd see it restored and open to the public, but in truth, there's little of historical merit to see anymore: precious few of the original- original original- structures remain. The pillar at the end of the drive, however, is one of them. The bronze plaque near the bottom is scuffed and weathered; the rampant growth of wild grasses and meadow flowers at foot sees to making sure it goes unnoticed by most. Nevertheless, it quietly continues to declare the age of the property. Lowmax: pre-dating the airplane, the American Civil War, the telephone, the telegraph, electric light. Age after age, two centuries and then some, keeping staunch watch over the horses and humans dwelling in the valley alongside the mountains and forests that stood long before it, and will stand long after it-