Chancey of the Maury River (17 page)

Joey begged us not to leave him. I promised we would return in the morning. Even as we cantered out of sight, Joey still called to me, “Come back! Hey, come back! There’s nothing down that way but a mean, spiteful llama. Come back, cousin! Come back!”

Before we could move into a gallop, an ugly, shaggy animal with a neck longer than any I’ve ever seen, and even longer eyelashes, came running up beside us. I guessed this was the llama of Joey’s warning. He did not appear to be mean, or spiteful, as Joey had suggested, just odd. I was most curious. As the fence line was still at my right, I was able to observe this striking animal more closely. Stu never changed his directions to me, so, lacking any perceptible shift in leg or hand, I continued to canter the fence line, with the long-necked animal and Tommy cantering along beside me. I felt the llama sizing me up with his eyes and nose. Had Stu given me room, I would like to have shown that llama the impressive speed that Appaloosas are capable of reaching. Though the llama spoke not a word, the air between us smelled of tension.

I hadn’t the chance to become too agitated, for Stu pulled me to halt. The llama halted as well. I was pleased when, at the end of the fence, Stu gave me my head to investigate. I am ashamed to say that after the long canter, I was shorter of breath than the llama, Stu, or Tommy.

Stu introduced us. “That’s a llama, Chancey. I don’t know his name. I don’t know his Latin name either. He belongs to Mrs. Pickett, too. We’ll give him another race tomorrow.”

I nodded to the llama. We stood face-to-face, yet the llama would not exchange breaths with me. I studied him carefully for some clue as to his rancid demeanor toward me.

This bushy fellow had no fine tail like mine, and really had practically no tail at all. Nor did he have any sort of mane. It struck me as especially odd that his ears stuck straight out to the sides horizontally, not elegantly tall, like mine. He was covered in a short, furry coat that made me so itchy my tail involuntarily flicked in a rhythm reserved only for the most persistent flies. Though he stood almost to my height, most of the llama’s height was in his neck. I deduced that he weighed considerably less than I. In response to my greeting, the llama batted his long lashes, then proceeded to spit in my face. Then he turned his full attention to Tommy. I decided that Joey was the more tolerable creature of the two.

In the barn that evening, as I recounted the day’s lesson to Gwen and Mac, I could see they were impressed with my advancement. Mac nodded toward the mares across from us. “See Princess?” Mac threw his head in her direction. “She came unglued at the llama on a trail ride last week. She nearly threw her rider and wouldn’t go a step farther. The entire riding party had to turn around and come home.”

Gwen leaned close to me and whispered through the bars separating our two rooms. “You won’t believe this, but Dante is scared of the donkey.”

I laughed. “He’s frightened of our cousin Joey?”

“Shhh, he might hear you,” warned Gwen. Then she continued, “It’s Joey’s voice that frightens Dante. He rears and bucks over there by Mrs. Pickett’s. He won’t go anywhere near Joey.”

I cut a glance at Dante, our boss, who was too busy kicking his room door to bother with listening to us. Gwen nudged me with her nose. “And don’t look at him either. Here, look at me.”

I was encouraged by our conversation that evening that my formal training was coming to an end, and soon I would begin to work with students in the therapeutic school. I confessed that I was nervous. My training had gone well, but had it really prepared me for the dynamic, real-life world of being a school horse again — and in such a highly specialized school?

My mentors assured me that I would never be alone; I would work with my students in partnership with many people and other horses. Mac or Gwen would always be in the ring with me. Not only would one of my two good friends be there, but Mrs. Maiden or Stu would handle me directly for the duration of each lesson, and for added comfort and protection of the students, specially trained volunteers called sidewalkers would join me as well.

Macadoo explained that sidewalkers were required to complete a training program just as the horses were. While Stu handled the training of horse partners, Mrs. Maiden coordinated the training of sidewalkers. Each therapeutic student would be assigned two sidewalkers per lesson. The sidewalkers would attend to my students’ equipment, teach them about grooming, and monitor things such as correct seat position and foot placement. Some students might require sidewalkers to hold them in the saddle and walk along the left and right side of me. Other students might need nothing more than praise and motivation. If I happened to spook — a highly unlikely scenario because therapeutic horses are dependable and unspookable — the sidewalkers would remove the rider, if necessary. If my student needed help steering, the sidewalkers would help steer. The sidewalkers would be there for whatever was needed during the lesson.

This was the first I had been told that I would work so closely with sidewalkers. My stomach rumbled. I wondered how well my sidewalkers would manage with my blind side, or if they would even welcome getting to know an old horse such as myself. My nervous stomach erupted into a very loose stool. I ignored my symptoms of anxiety; I did not share my concerns with Mac or Gwen, for I was determined to prove to myself and Mrs. Maiden that I was worthy of the therapeutic school. More than anything else, however, I wanted Claire to be proud of me. I wanted Claire, and Mother, too, to see that though I could not give Claire the championships she deserved, I was still a good, sound horse.

“Old App,” Mac said one night after my last training session with Stu, “we’ve saved some very special news until now. We’ve all been saving a surprise for you. I didn’t want to tell you until you had made it this far in your training program.” Mac moved from his window to the wall between our rooms. Gwen came closer, too.

It was difficult to speak privately in the barn, for we had to speak in whispers. We had much freer conversations when we were turned out in the field; we all looked forward to the springtime, when we would be outdoors more. I put my ear to the bars between us to hear Mac’s news.

“Your sidewalkers will be Claire and Mother.” I wasn’t sure I understood what Mac meant. Did he mean that I would not have to work with strangers? My family would be joining me in service to the therapeutic school? I leaned as close in to Mac as I could.

“What? Would you say it again, Mac?”

Gwen repeated Mac’s news. “It’s true, Chancey. Claire and her mother have been training with Mrs. Maiden while you’ve been training with Stu. I heard Claire say you weren’t getting away from her so easily. They’re going to volunteer with the therapeutic program, too. You three will be a new team. How do you like that?”

I nickered softly to Mac, then exchanged breaths with Gwen. Mac walked over to his window; I walked to mine and pushed it open with my nose. At that time, I was blessed that the vision in my right eye still allowed me a clear and fine view of the moon hanging full between Saddle Mountain’s pommel and cantle, throwing off rays nearly equal to early morning sun. Mac and I did not speak; we stood in our stalls, both looking up at Saddle Mountain. I had worried about the sidewalkers for nothing.

By spring, Claire, Mother, and I were prepared to teach in the therapeutic riding school, together.

By the first day of spring, Claire, Mother, and I were working in the Maury River Stables Therapeutic Riding School. Three times weekly after Claire’s school day had ended she, Mother, and I taught a lesson as a team. Though Claire was at that time only eleven, she had completed the required training and was considered a junior volunteer able to serve alongside Mother.

Our charges in the therapeutic school ranged in age from the very young, of perhaps five years of age, to much older, closer to the age of Mother. I found satisfaction and purpose in this work and felt that my entire life had prepared me to teach in this way.

My therapeutic students always greeted me with affection and treated me with the greatest respect. They often brought me drawings and paintings for my room; some gave me cookies and treats. Others, I was told, included me in their bedtime prayers, and it was for this that I was most thankful. To be so loved at such an advanced age as mine was a great motivator. Their devotion humbled me.

I returned their love fully and generously. Whether I was hot or cold, whether I was in pain or enjoying a respite free from pain, I welcomed every therapeutic student, every time.

Why some students attended the therapeutic school and others did not was not always immediately evident to me. True, for many of my therapeutic students, a physical impediment blocked their technical mastery, but that was truly the case with all my students, whether in the therapeutic school or not. Take Mother, for example: a deformity in her back impeded her technical mastery, and an unexamined fear in her mind kept her from pushing herself further. Yet Mother was not enrolled in therapeutic school as a student but as a sidewalker volunteer with Claire.

I gathered from Gwen and Mac that the therapeutic riding school served people of all ages who were in some manner wounded. Perhaps they had no use of their legs, which was easy enough to discern since in those situations, a chair with wheels carried them up a special ramp built to the height of a horse’s back so that all transfers were made laterally. This removed the danger that could be caused by lifting a student up and over onto my back. Other students brought wounds that were more difficult to detect because there was no outward evidence.

I quickly observed that the most noticeable difference in most of my therapeutic students was that they possessed an uncommon openness and willingness in their hearts. I will take heart and loving-kindness over technical ability any day of the week — for a rider with an open heart allows the fullest possible joining up, whether galloping over the Maury River, slowly walking a figure eight, or merely standing in my room watching the blue mountains.

Before I started this work, Mac told me we could not play favorites in this job. I suspected Mac spoke from having learned from experience that such strong attachments eventually cause a degree of brokenness in the heart. I, however, am not ashamed to disclose that there were a couple of students to whom I was particularly partial.

One student, a girl named Kenzie, I learned after three lessons together, could not see out of either eye. At first, I had thought perhaps Mrs. Maiden had mistakenly placed Kenzie in the wrong program. She moved with such confidence and grace in the saddle and on the ground and with a heart as open and kind as any girl, save my Claire. I adored Kenzie; she was like a blast of spring, arrived in the dead of winter. Her blindness did not prevent her from placing her full trust in me or Claire and Mother, her sidewalkers.

Claire and Mother kept us moving as a team by acting as Kenzie’s eyes and, of course, compensating for my own left eye. They guided us around the ring and over poles, or around a spiral of cones set up for bending practice. Truthfully, Kenzie had little need of sidewalkers in a traditional sense. Claire and Mother gave Kenzie no physical support. Nor did they make actual contact with Kenzie or me. They jogged or walked alongside me and used their voices more than anything — Claire instructing us and Mother encouraging us.

“A little more leg, Kenzie. Now close your hands around the reins, but don’t pull back on them. Sit down and relax,” Claire would say.

After trotting circles in our corners without breaking, Mother would applaud us both. “Beautiful, Kenzie! Beautiful, Chancey! Now enjoy this straightaway — you’re doing great!”

Mrs. Maiden always kept the therapeutic horses on a lead line, for precautionary measures. After only a few lessons, Kenzie became such a proficient rider that Mrs. Maiden hardly worked at all. I listened for Kenzie’s directions, and Mrs. Maiden kept the lead line slack. I certainly would have indulged Kenzie a bit more than my other students if she had squeezed her hands too tightly around the reins. Yet she held the reins with a light touch as if they were robin eggs in her palms. If, because of her blindness, Kenzie had fallen on my neck a bit more than my sighted students, I would gladly have tolerated her weight. But she kept her center of gravity fully aligned with mine.

Kenzie rode with an open heart. Like me, she used her ears, her nose, and every nerve in her body to work for her eyes. My role with Kenzie was simply to respond to her touch, her voice, and her feelings. When Kenzie brushed my body, I made a quiet, low sound of contentment so she could feel that I enjoyed her manner of grooming me. If Kenzie wrapped her arms around me for affection, I wrapped my neck around her in kind, so that she could feel my affection, too. In the saddle, I paid close attention to the directions of Claire and Mother as they instructed Kenzie which aids to deliver, so that at the slightest detection of effort on her part, I obliged. Kenzie showed me that eyes are but one way to see the world. She comforted me a great deal, and every time I spent an hour or two with Kenzie, my fear of losing my own sight lessened.