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shouldered；　pink…lipped；　pretty　boy　who’d　e　from　the　palace；　and　was　able

to　infer　that　Head　Illuminator　Master　Osman　was　behind　this　contest。　Master

Osman；　　without　　a　　doubt；　　knows　　my　　talent　　and　　likes　　me　　the　　best　　of　　all　　the

masters。

So；　as　I　gazed　at　the　empty　page；　the　stance；　look　and　demeanor　of　a　horse

that　would　please　both　the　Sultan　and　Master　Osman　came　to　life　before　my

eyes。　The　horse　ought　to　be　lively；　but　serious；　like　the　horses　Master　Osman

made　ten　years　ago；　and　it　should　be　rearing；　in　the　way　that　always　pleased

Our　Sultan；　so　that　both　of　them　would　concur　on　the　horse’s　beauty。　How

many　gold　pieces　are　they　offering；　I　wonder？　How　would　Mir　Musavvir　make

this　picture？　How　would　Bihzad？

Suddenly；　the　beast　entered　my　thoughts　with　such　speed；　that　by　the　time

I　understood　what　it　was；　my　damnable　hand　grabbed　the　brush　and　began　to

draw　a　miraculous　horse　beyond　anyone’s　conception；　starting　from　the　raised

left　foreleg。　After　quickly　joining　the　leg　to　the　body；　I　made　two　arcs　swiftly；

pleasurably　and　confidently—had　you　seen　them；　you　would’ve　said　this　artist

is　no　illustrator；　but　a　calligrapher。　I　was　gazing　at　my　hand　with　awe；　while　it

moved　as　if　it　belonged　to　another。　These　spectacular　arcs　became　the　horse’s

ample　stomach；　solid　chest　and　swanlike　neck。　The　illustration　might’ve　been

considered　　plete。　　Oh；　　the　　talent　　of　　which　　I　　am　　possessed！　　Meanwhile；　　I

looked　to　see　that　my　hand　had　traced　out　the　nose　and　open　mouth　of　the

strong　and　joyful　horse　and　laid　down　the　intelligent　forehead　and　ears。　Next；

once　　again；　　look　　Mother；　　how　　beautiful；　　I　　merrily　　drew　　another　　arc　　as　　if

scripting　a　letter；　and　I　was　moved　to　the　verge　of　laughter。　I　swooped　down　in

a　　perfect　　arc　　from　　the　　neck　　of　　my　　rearing　　horse　　to　　its　　saddle。　　My　　hand

occupied　　itself　　with　　the　　saddle　　as　　I　　proudly　　regarded　　my　　horse；　　now　　ing

into　being；　with　a　robust；　rounded　body　not　unlike　my　own：　Everyone　will　be

stunned　by　this　horse。　I　thought　about　the　sweet　ments　Our　Sultan　would

make　when　I　won　the　prize；　He’d　present　me　with　a　purse　of　gold　coins；　and　I

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had　the　urge　to　laugh　again　as　I　imagined　how　I’d　count　them　at　home。　Just

then；　my　hand；　which　I　gazed　at　out　of　the　corner　of　my　eye；　finished　with　the

saddle　and　took　my　brush　to　the　inkwell　and　back　before　I　began　the　horse’s

rump　with　a　chuckle　as　though　I’d　told　a　joke。　I　briskly　outlined　the　tail。　How

gentle　and　curvaceous　I　made　the　rear　end；　lovingly　wishing　to　cup　it　in　my

hands　like　the　gentle　butt　of　a　boy　I　was　about　to　violate。　As　I　smiled；　my　clever

hand　finished　with　the　hind　legs；　and　my　brush　stopped：　This　was　the　finest

rearing　　horse　　the　　world　　had　　ever　　known。　　I　　was　　overe　　with　　joy；　　happily

thinking　about　how　much　they　would　like　my　horse；　how　they　would　declare