Chancey of the Maury River (4 page)

Mrs. Maiden motioned for Claire to come nearer. “Come here; I’ll show you why.”

Claire, eager to know why I ought to have to wear a fly mask in March, ran to Mrs. Maiden’s side.

“Look at Chancey’s eyes,” Mrs. Maiden instructed. “What color are they?”

“B-blue,” answered Claire, not yet making the connection.

“Yes, they’re blue. They’re blue, just exactly like yours are blue.” It gave me immediate pleasure to know that the girl and I shared something already. Mrs. Maiden continued the lesson. “Now, look at the skin on Chancey’s muzzle. What color is it?”

“P-pink!” Claire was enjoying this lesson very much, I could tell.

“Yes, his skin is pink. And his coat is all white, isn’t it? These things tell us something about Chancey; he’s an albino, or a partial albino, anyway. You’ll hear some people say there is no such thing as a true albino horse. Others will say Chancey can’t be albino because his eyes are blue, not pink. But none of that matters to us. His eyes are blue, his skin is pink, and that tells us that the sun is harder on him than all of the other horses we know. A fly mask will keep the sun from damaging his eyes any further.”

“D-does he have to wear the f-fly mask all the time?” Claire wanted to know.

“While he’s with us he will, even on cloudy days, except at night. Run into the tack room now and find him one.” Mrs. Maiden dispatched Claire, again, to the tack room. Claire ran off and came straight back with a dusty fly mask, torn at the clasp. She rose to the tip of her toes to adjust the fly mask over my poll. My eyes relaxed. I felt Claire’s two hands fasten the fly mask under my neck. She leaned her face into my shoulder and inhaled.

“He smells good,” Claire said, while Mrs. Maiden examined me for more cuts and scrapes.

“He smells like a horse, Claire.”

Mrs. Maiden didn’t look up from behind me. I still felt embarrassed by the condition of my feet, all four cracked and overgrown. Only one shoe remained intact, as I had thrown the others in my effort to widen the hole in Monique’s fence.

“I love how horses smell,” Claire told her with such pride that I forgot my distress at Mrs. Maiden spending so much time examining every part of me. Claire breathed me in again. Unable to help myself, I inhaled Claire’s hair, too. She smelled like a girl.

Mrs. Maiden laughed. “He likes you! Now, grab the currycomb and see if you can get some of this caked mud off of Chancey’s other side. Don’t rub his face; it’s chafed from wearing his halter too tight. And be careful of his legs; they’re covered in cuts. We’ll tend to his wounds after we clean him up.”

I doubted if my great Appaloosa ancestors would have ever wanted to be pampered in this way, but I decided that I quite liked it. Claire did as Mrs. Maiden asked of her, brushing all of me that she could reach and paying special attention to go around my wounds.

“I can’t reach all of him. I’m too short,” Claire said matter-of-factly, but without complaint.

“Well, then go get a mounting block so you can reach his withers.” That was my first indication that Mrs. Maiden doesn’t believe in the word
can’t.

The two of them spent an entire morning and most of the afternoon cleaning and bathing me. They soaked my legs in a salt bath of warm water; the moist heat of the water-and-salt combination soothed me. I believe I dozed off with two of my four legs knee-deep in buckets.

Daisy and some of the other mares checked on my progress throughout the day, but no one introduced themselves. I followed the barn protocol set by the mares and stood silently in the round pen enjoying every treatment given me by Mrs. Maiden and Claire.

After the leg soak and a good warm bath, Claire rubbed me down with a towel. The little girl was so serious and devoted to the work of caring for me that I dared not flinch or kick, though her small hands quite tickled. I did flick her with my tail, thinking perhaps she might respond, as flies often do, by at least moving from one place to another. Claire, being a little girl, not a fly, did not move and seemed to delight in the feeling of my tail snapping against her, so I continued.

From the first day of my arrival at the Maury River Stables, Claire came to care for me every day, forgoing her own riding lessons to nurse me. She changed my bandages, gave me fresh water, and convinced Mrs. Maiden to move me into a spare room in the barn, where I would be out of the sun. Not once had Claire brought out any tack — no saddle, bridle, or girth had come anywhere near me. Most girls her age would have lost interest after a day or so, preferring to return to the company of the other girls. Claire — she committed to stay with me for as long as I needed. She sensed that I needed plenty of time to heal. I sensed that Claire needed time, too.

Since our first meeting, Claire had not spoken of her family conflict nor the sorrow that filled her. Only once, in fact, did Claire speak of her father at all.

“I’m sorry you d-didn’t get to meet my d-dad today, Ch-Ch-Chancey. He had to go b-b-back to work for a meeting. You’ll meet him soon; I p-promise.”

I rumbled my contentment at the manner in which Claire was brushing my back.

“He d-d-d-doesn’t like horses as much as Mother and I d-do. I th-think because he’s a-, he’s a-, he’s afraid. I d-don’t, I d-don’t see him that much anymore.”

Whenever Claire tripped in her words, it seemed to help if she breathed more deeply and slowed down not her mouth, but her mind. I was glad when she leaned onto me and sighed out a long sigh. I sighed out a long sigh, too. I rumbled again. Claire set the brush down, and we leaned and sighed until Claire was breathing evenly.

Had Claire’s wound been open to the bone, as was the one she was so gently tending on my leg, I don’t know that it could have been any deeper. Yet Claire’s wound could not be seen. I was moved to befriend Claire for as long as she needed.

We stood together in my room through the early days of spring, watching as the redbud and dogwood, barren among the cedar and pine all winter, once again bloomed, reminding us both why we loved the blue mountains so in springtime. During our time together, while Claire gazed out of my window and into the blue mountains, I began to think of my dam.

Having lost her so early in life had impacted me severely. Not only did my heart suffer, but I lost my protector. Dam admired my lack of pigment, and it hurt her deeply to see Monique reject me. I was gelded hastily to ensure that my albinism could not further dilute the Appaloosa breed. I clung to my dam and at her death, withdrew into myself. Monique could have sold me then, but I believe we were both clinging to Dam, each in our own way.

My reflective afternoons with Claire stirred in me long-dormant memories. I remembered standing close to Dam’s barrel, grazing between her feet. She would push her nose under my neck to invite me to try clover or dandelions. In this same way, she steered me from the buttercup patches in our field that grew despite Monique’s effort to keep them down.

While Claire applied a healing salve to my cuts and scrapes, I wrapped my neck around her and ever so lightly touched my nose to her chest. She smiled. Then the sadness clouded her face again, and she resumed her care for me.

I repeated this action of reaching out to Claire, each time softly touching her chest with my nose. Every time, it worked. The touching of my nose to her made the smile appear, and I could feel her breath release. I moved closer to her and leaned gently against her shoulder with my neck draped around her neck. She laughed.

Claire leaned backward into me, and we stood together for such a time that I was greatly content never to move. Claire brought her hand to my cheek. “You’re a good, good pony.” She did not trip in her words.

Claire reached down for the currycomb; I mimicked my dam’s action and pushed my nose under Claire’s arm, telling her that I preferred to play. Claire laughed. She reached for the hoof pick, and again I dissuaded her, as my dam had once dissuaded me from poisonous plants. Claire laughed again. I observed that when she laughed, her face held that joy only briefly. Always the grief returned, pulling Claire back into its well.

I touched her neck with my head and the joy returned, this time in a smile. I continued with this pattern until I had proven it true that Claire’s bereavement could be healed with a regular, steady application of healing touch. I resolved that during our time together, I would apply frequent doses of touch in an effort to repel the sorrow and keep her spirit elastic and soft. I would recall how my dam had nuzzled me and repeat the same with Claire by wrapping my neck around hers and blowing into her nose. Always we stood this way in my room, rain or shine.

Claire preferred, I think, to talk to me of happy things, for then she did not fall in her speech. She told me of her dream of one day becoming a teacher. I nickered my approval, for I could tell that Claire’s kindness and enthusiasm would serve her well in that occupation. I wished that I had been given a bit more of both kindness and enthusiasm myself. Claire described for me how she was learning to make music with a violin. She promised to play for me one day. I listened to all she had to say.

As is the case with true companions, Claire did not speak only of herself. Claire was interested in me. She asked me about life at Monique’s. She inquired about my dam and wondered how I was feeling about my new home. We continued in this way of grooming and listening, but not working, each afternoon for quite some time.

Most days, Claire’s mother drove her out to the barn after school just so Claire and I could spend an hour or two with each other. Claire’s mother welcomed me warmly at our first meeting. “Chancey,” she asked me, “are you the pony who has stolen my little girl’s heart?

“Well, I’m Claire’s mother.” She kissed me on the soft spot between my ear and poll. She did not give her own name, and as I had only heard her referred to as “Claire’s mother” by Mrs. Maiden or “Mother” by Claire herself, I simply considered her to be “Mother,” as did Claire.

The two of them quickly made up for all that I had ever longed for in my life. Mrs. Maiden accused them of spoiling me, for Claire and Mother brought me not only carrots and apples but also oatmeal cookies saved from Claire’s lunch at school.

“Listen, Claire!” Mrs. Maiden once reprimanded. “You don’t need to feed Chancey all the time.”

Claire drew her hand down the side of my body. “But Mrs. Maiden, his ribs are st-st-still showing. Ch-Chancey needs to put some weight back on, doesn’t he? I’ll stop giving him t-treats when he’s healthy again. Okay?” Mrs. Maiden retreated and did not again scold Claire for spoiling me. After that, my treats improved in both quantity and quality.

Claire talked Mother into buying me a most satisfying treat called stud biscuits, which aren’t really biscuits at all, nor am I a stud. The little balls of molasses, barley, oats, and I believe a bit of corn, too, were pure decadence for a horse who had subsisted on grass and water for entirely too long.

Mother seemed infinitely content to watch Claire with me. She often brought a book to read or a writing tablet to occupy her time while she waited. Mother always sat some distance away, taking up neither book nor pen, but watching us. I watched Mother, too, keeping one ear always on Claire and the other turned toward Mother. Claire noticed my curiosity and confided in me, “Mother had a bad horse accident last year. She’s kind of afraid now, Chancey. Don’t worry, though; she’ll fall in love with you, too. You’ll see.”

I had only a moment to wonder if the petition I had uttered in my old field, only a few weeks before, might actually have just been answered.

Claire threw her arms around me. “Oh, Chancey, I love you! I think you have come here just for me, just like Mrs. Maiden said. You’re the most beautiful pony I have ever known.”

Had words been available to me, I would not have corrected her that by nearly a hand I am, indeed, considered to be a horse, not a pony. The girl’s heart pressed full into mine and for just an instant I felt as beautiful as I was bred to be.

Claire’s sweet hand touched the raw marks on my cheek that had been cut into my face by my halter. In that instant, I remembered how ragged I had become. I supposed I had long ago earned my reputation for being hard to catch without a halter. In my alone days at Monique’s, my halter had been left on me much too tightly. Had it been loosened by just a notch, preferably two or even better by three, I should not have minded its constant presence on my face. After a while, my cheeks had begun to sting, far worse than the sting of a horsefly or bee. When I had tried to break free of the halter by rubbing my face against the cedar posts and low tree branches, I expect the rubbing also contributed to the rough shape of my face.

Again Claire touched the worst of the injuries on my cheek. “How could anyone leave such a beautiful pony all alone?” she asked. Claire kissed my wound. I felt evermore aware of my condition and ashamed of how pitiful I must have appeared to Claire. Not knowing quite what to do in this situation, I pulled my neck out of Claire’s hold and turned my back to her. In this second, I realized how many times in my life I had simply turned away when I felt afraid or confused.