Chancey of the Maury River (12 page)

The judge resumed her post. After a moment, the announcer started the class again. “Short Stirrup Over Eighteen-Inch Fences. Number one-eighty-six, Ann Hayden, riding Shasta Daisy.”

We waited for Daisy and Ann to enter the ring. Ann wouldn’t budge, but motioned for Mrs. Maiden. The child was understandably shaken up. She did not try to choke back her tears. “I want to get off now. I don’t want to jump,” she cried.

Mrs. Maiden spoke gently to her. “Are you sure? Take a deep breath. Trust Daisy; you’ll be fine. Can you do that?”

Ann opened her mouth and breathed. She looked at the show ring and patted Daisy’s neck. Daisy stood still and quiet; she did not dance or shift her weight at all. She waited for Ann to decide. Mrs. Maiden encouraged the girl to breathe in deep.

Finally, Ann said, “Okay. I’m okay.” She picked up the reins and clucked for Daisy to walk on.

Daisy did her job. She was, I believe, born for the purpose of taking little girls over little fences. Ann did not count, for on Daisy little girls need only to sit deep, look graceful, and trust. The pair took the two little jumps superbly, placing first in the class.

Though I stood beside Mrs. Maiden watching the event, I could only see the image in my mind of Claire sprawled on the ground and Mother kissing her face to wake her up. There was much noise around me, yet nothing could deafen to me the sound of Claire’s father saying, “The horse is dangerous. This horse needs to be sold.”

The words of Claire’s father and the image of Claire, whom I had hurt, began to tangle themselves together until the pain of the morning had woven itself into severe knots deep inside my gut. Reflexively, I began biting and kicking at my sides in an effort to disperse the knots and free myself from the memories of the morning. I needed to get home.

After the end of the jumper class, I began to dance around with enough fuss that Mrs. Maiden knew to take me back to the trailer. I could not watch the Pleasure class. I wanted to roll, not for the joy of rolling, but to break up what had become the constant cramping in my belly. Right there at Tamworth Springs, I badly wanted to roll and never get up. I did not give in. I waited at the trailer for my teammates’ return.

Though it may have appeared that I waited quietly, on the inside I twisted with pain and regret. Every second that passed was more horrific than the one that preceded it, for it brought no relief from the tangles, no relief from the guilt, and no relief from the certain knowledge that my future with Claire was in jeopardy.

When it came time to depart Tamworth Springs, I loaded easily into the trailer as is mostly my habit anyway. Daisy, Ann, Mrs. Maiden, and I drove back to our barn without Claire. In the trailer, Daisy tried to comfort me. “Don’t worry. Claire’s a tough little girl. I’ve known her a long time. She’ll hold no grudge against you.”

I appreciated Daisy’s sympathy, and it softened me toward her greatly, as I confess, I still held sourness in my heart concerning the flea-bitten Welsh.

Though I would have preferred that Macadoo, my friend and fieldmate, the Belgian who had traveled with me to Albemarle and who had helped me find my place among the geldings, be the one to see me in this state of vulnerability, I found myself in such desperate need of assurance that I willingly risked reaching out to Daisy.

“Daisy? What if the girl’s father is right? He said I am dangerous. He said I need to be sold.” I rumbled softly, feeling some relief at letting another know what had occurred in the show ring. I hoped I was not foolish to seek some affirmation from the mare.

Daisy moved closer to me. She offered no comforting exchange of breaths. Nor did we touch noses.

“You know you’ll never be a jumper of the caliber that I am. That’s a fact you have to face. The sooner you do face it, the better for you and for Claire. Claire should do her jumping with me. I’ve said that from the beginning.”

Her words stung like a hard rain striking into my eyes. I moved away from Daisy as far as the cramped trailer would allow. Had there been room to entirely turn away from Daisy, I would have shut the conversation down completely. I had, indeed, been an impulsive fool to reach out. Daisy had won; I had no energy to argue. Daisy and Claire’s father were right.

Then Daisy spoke again. “Chancey, I’ve got to face the facts, too. Claire’s father can’t see the truth right now. I couldn’t see it at first either. Gwen was right; Claire is your girl and you are her horse. You can’t give up on her now. If you think you will be sold because of what happened today, I think you are underestimating Claire and her mother. If you are willing to give up so easily, then you are not the horse everyone’s been trying to convince me that you are. And if they do sell you, then so be it. We will all go away one day.”

Daisy leaned over the railing between us. “I know this, Chancey. In my lifetime, I have belonged with someone, and now he’s gone. But it was worth it.”

I rumbled to myself. I belonged with Claire; I could not deny that I belonged with Claire. I nipped at my belly, for the tangles would not relinquish their grip on me.

“Whatever happens, do not colic now,” Daisy urged me.

I knew she was right. For no matter what the future held, every moment with Claire had been worth it. Though I wanted to acknowledge Daisy’s kindness to me, I found myself unable to respond. My heart ached; the brick in my belly had increased in size. I could not reciprocate.

Daisy recognized my condition and did not require that I respond in kind. She leaned across the gate between us and blew on me. “Do not colic. Do you hear me? That little girl will need you when she recovers. Do not colic!” I knew that Daisy was correct: Claire needed me.

I do not pretend to have a medical understanding of how colic endangers horses. Nor am I well versed in its causes. I am well aware that colic is life-threatening. I know firsthand that it can arrive without warning, and that, even with ample warning, there are times when colic cannot be stopped. I can tell when it is imminent. Having colicked once in my life, I know what it is to face the possibility of such a painful death.

I was just a colt when my dam sustained a fatal injury; she had been defending
me
. A new mare had been introduced to our field and had challenged my presence there. Dam suffered greatly from a break in her shoulder. She could not have recovered. I know this now. Though I have lately heard of a horse that recovered from such a break, after surgery, it was not even a consideration those many years ago. I was a colt and I could not save Dam. Nothing could have saved Dam. My dam was resting in the field, stoically accepting her pain, waiting until they could come to take her away, as she knew they would. I stood vigil, protecting her as she had done for me so many times.

Dam knew that Monique would soon come to put an end to her suffering, and my dam was accepting — I think, grateful. The other mares visited Dam. One by one, each of them closed their eyes and whispered a final blessing across Dam’s face. Even as the last mountain breeze she would feel waltzed around us, I begged Dam not to leave me. I was just a colt.

My dam did not turn back once Monique arrived to take her from the field.

“Come on, Starry; let’s go now.” Monique spoke tenderly to Dam. I whinnied and paced the fence line, urging Dam to turn around. I stood at the gate calling for her to look at me once more, for I knew if she did, she would come back to me. Though in grave pain, Dam walked on with Monique as if she were only going to be shod and then return.

I cried out for Dam morning and night, all the while fasting from food and water, so badly did I wish her with me. I was presently seized with a pain tangled deeply in my bowels. The knot clenched its grip on me forcefully and repeatedly, until I too lay down, ready to accept the consequence. I was just a colt.

I yearned for my dam; I lay down in the spot where she had lain. The grass was still matted from her weight, and something of her smell lingered there, too. I closed my eyes and wished for Saddle Mountain to bend over me and swaddle me so tightly that I would disappear into it forever. But mountains do not bend.

I writhed in the wet grass until finally I heard, “Get up.” The mares had come to me, but they did not whisper their last blessings.

“Get up, Chancey. Get up and walk,” they ordered me.

By turns, the mares pushed me up to my feet and, in pairs, boxed me between them. The mares tended to me by forcing me to stand up and move about until the tangled knots passed through me. I soon drank and ate again. But I was not the same. I was just a colt when my dam left and I colicked. I had not expected to ever love or depend on another as I had my dam. But I had not yet met Claire.

Returning from Tamworth Springs, I fought against colic for the second time in my life. I badly needed relief from what had ahold of me, just as badly as I had needed relief as a colt. I told myself that I would roll just once, just once for a second of peace. I dropped to my forearms. No sooner had I given my mind over to this urge than did the sky open up with such a forceful rain and wind that I instinctively rose to seek shelter in the run-in. Finding it crowded with the other geldings, I moved on, for upon seeing me, Dante pinned back his ears and would not allow me to enter the shelter.

There was one spot in my field, from which if I stood just so with my head held rather up, I could see the entire line of Saddle Mountain. Being that the spot is high on a hill in the far corner of my field, it took some effort to reach during the storm. It was there that I gave up. For the second time in my life, I then gave in to colic. Its grip was too tight; I could do nothing but roll and seek relief. Either the tangles would pass and I would live through the pain, or the tangles would win and I would die alone in the storm. I dropped to the ground and opened my belly to the sky. This time, there were no mares to tend to me. There was only the wind and the rain. Just as before, Saddle Mountain waited for the colic to run its course in me.

My mind began to create nonsense out of the wind. “Get up,” I heard. Certain that my mind had now joined my eyes in a state of decline, and this voice was mere evidence of a new impairment, I whinnied to drown out the voice.

“Get up! Get up!” I heard the demand again, only in a much louder and firmer tone than either the mares of my youth or than I supposed my own confused mind might urge.

Softer now, more like a whisper in my ear, it was the Belgian, Macadoo, who called to me. “Get up and walk, friend.” He pushed me up with his big head, and together we paced the hill in the pouring rain. Stu tried calling us in from the storm with grain buckets; Mac refused to leave my side, saying only, “I have been where you are, afraid and unsure of tomorrow. We will walk through the night together.”

Through the storm we walked; I fought off the urge to fall to the ground and roll. We could not see Saddle Mountain through the sheets of rain. The wind threw branches and sticks to our feet, but I did not drop. The rain quickly filled the dry ruts in the field, and new rivers rushed down all around us. At times, the field turned so thick with mud that we sank down to our fetlocks. Still, we kept moving. Mac would not let the colic win.

When the danger of colic had passed, Mac and I stood together under the row of cedars at the fence line, waiting for the morning. I felt thirsty; I grazed on the wet grass and it caused no cramping or pain. Mac detected that some anxiety still lingered.

“What is it, friend? Why are you afraid?” he asked.

“I am not afraid. I am not afraid of hunger or cold or being beaten. I am not afraid anything. I am an Appaloosa; have you forgotten?”

Mac nuzzled me as a mother would do. “Chancey, it’s me.” He asked the question again, “Why are you afraid?”

I considered resisting Mac, but thought the better of it, for the Belgian had saved my life. As surely as the mares had saved me when I colicked at Dam’s death, Mac had saved me when I colicked at the thought of losing Claire.

I decided to speak the truth. “I am old, Macadoo. I am old and have been called dangerous for all to hear by Claire’s father. He has even publicly called for my sale. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid to go back to that barn. I am afraid of Lynchville. I fear going blind; I fear I will forget the blue mountains.”

Mac tossed his head back and forth. “My friend, you are carrying a great burden. Why don’t you set it down now? There’s no need to clutch it any longer. Have you not noticed? You live among friends now. You are loved.”

I dropped my head to the ground, for the weight of these worries did, indeed, feel heavy. We grazed in silence under the stars. The force of the storm had moved farther south. From our hilltop we could appreciate its beauty as we watched it circle around the valley.

“Did you mean to hurt Claire?” Mac asked me.

“I am bound to Claire forever,” I answered. “I would never hurt Claire.”

“Do you enjoy jumping? Is that your purpose in life?”

I had never considered such a question. I ate some more grass; I was hungry. I knew not to eat too much until I could drink water and pass a normal stool.

I answered, “I love Claire, and Claire loves to jump. I’m not a jumper; it hurts me to jump. I love the open field. I can see better there, and my other senses can more easily help out. I love to teach. When a student is open, like Claire, I do love to teach. I love these blue mountains more than anything, besides Claire. Claire wants to be a teacher, you know.”

Mac tossed his head, then touched my neck. “Well, there you are, Old App. You must stop jumping right away. Do not spend another moment jumping, for every moment jumping takes you further away from your purpose of teaching and showing students the joys of riding in these mountains.”

I will admit that the burdens that had locked my stomach so tightly and forced me to the ground now vanished. I passed a very satisfying round of gas. Mac grazed beside me as if all had been happily resolved.

“Mac, what if the father is right? What if they sell me?” Mac looked up at me with a mouthful of grass. Our field was so wet from the storm that a foam of grassy residue had formed around his entire muzzle.