Chancey of the Maury River (5 page)

I wished that I could be so much more for this girl — more like Dam, even more like my younger self. How could I let Claire become attached to an old, broken gelding like me? I walked to the corner of my room. I thought surely she would know that my action was meant to separate us until I was again ready for companionship. Even the most inexperienced rider knows that a swift about-face is the clearest form of communication available to a horse. Most people would have understood my gesture to mean, “Leave me alone.”

I felt obligated to warn Claire of all that she could not yet see. I had often been noticed, but never mistaken for beautiful. Though my pupils studied under me for months, sometimes years, I was never loved as a child’s favorite. I had known horses and people, too many to count. Yet I had never saved a life of human nor beast. I had taught many girls and boys, but never did I carry a champion on my back.

In all my days at Monique’s as a school horse, I was a reliable worker but had a reputation of being difficult, even mean. Because my physical body looked so unlike the rest of my band and so unlike my mother, and because my albinism determined me a weaker individual, I was considered even worse than merely common.

And so I turned away from Claire now. I was not expelling her from my space nor my heart, but faced with my own feelings of embarrassment, I needed to escape from
me.
I turned away from everything that came with me to the Maury River Stables and from everything it would mean for me to leave the old Chancey behind.

When I turned from Claire, she did the same to me. Claire walked slowly to the opposite side of my room and, wedging herself as far into the corner as she could, said quietly, “Ch-Ch-Chancey, I thought we were f-f-friends.”

Characteristically, as I would learn over time, Claire didn’t give up or walk away. My ugliness — in both manner and physical state — had not scared off Claire. On the contrary, Claire had challenged me and decided to love me for everything she could see in me.

“Ch-Ch-Chancey.” She called my name again. “I’m n-not going anywhere. We’re supposed to be together. You’re my only real f-friend here.”

I did not move. I stood there in my new room, very much wanting to call out to Claire with my heart, yet unable to do so. I felt Claire approaching on my left side; she squeezed between me and the wall, fully certain that I would not harm her. Most people know that this can be a dangerous predicament; I’ve seen many get pinned this way, both mistakenly and with intent. I did not pin Claire, of course. Instead, I moved off the wall to give her space. Though I was unable, at that time, to recognize how much I needed to depend on someone, Claire recognized it for me.

“Ch-Chancey,” she said. “Mrs. Maiden said for me to let love come b-b-b-back; that goes for you too, p-pony.” Then Claire embraced me and whispered, “Don’t worry. I will n-never leave you.”

Age and experience had taught me by then that “never” is a word often wielded, seldom honored, by little girls. While I was, and still am, certain that the day will come when Claire in fact will leave me, her abiding devotion to me thawed me just enough. I reached my head to her chest, pressed her lightly, and closed my eyes. Claire kissed my cheek again, in the same ugly spot that previously had driven me to retreat from my shortcomings and from her. This time I did not turn away; I held my head to her heart and sighed a long sigh. Claire did the same. I decided that perhaps Mrs. Maiden was right: perhaps it was time to let love come back to me.

My days at the Maury River Stables settled into a familiar routine, not altogether unlike the way in which I had lived at Monique’s. On the surface, all seemed very much like the school horse’s life to which I had become accustomed. My mornings were devoted to eating and learning about my new home. The afternoons were reserved for Claire. And my nighttime hours allowed me time to reflect on each day. Aware that I had been given an extraordinary opportunity to start over late in my life, I was determined to belong, in a way that I had not at Monique’s.

At Monique’s, I had been unable to overcome my dam’s death. That loss grew, over time, into a resentfulness that would not loosen its grip. While Dam was alive, I had lived happily among the mares. The mares knew of Monique’s disappointment at my albinism, and they colluded with Dam to shield me from her rejection. As a colt, I felt protected by all of them. Had I remained with the mares, perhaps I would have found my way after all, for the mares loved me. I did not understand how different I really was until after Dam’s death, when I was taken from the mares and placed with the band of geldings.

None of the geldings at Monique’s were inclined to protect me. They considered my introduction into their field a direct threat and used all available means to make it clear that my place with them was at the bottom. There I remained for my entire life.

I began my new life at the Maury River Stables on the bottom as well. I had no ambition to secure the top spot in my new home; nor did I wish to live as an outcast any longer. I resolved to find my own place as a member of this band of horses.

I observed that the Maury River Stables was a small operation, with only twenty horses, as opposed to the fifty or so at Monique’s. I found the facility adequate, providing everything necessary to enjoy a good quality of life. There was one large, simply built barn, which encircled a small indoor riding ring. Six rooms lined each side of the barn; every room, though small, offered a splendid view of the blue mountains. Saddle Mountain could be seen from the window in my room, for which I was grateful. There was also an indoor wash stall, a cross-tie stall for grooming and shodding, and a tack room. Plenty of barn swallows made their home inside the barn, which Monique would never have allowed. I rather liked the presence of swallows and found their acrobatic performances mesmerizing to watch, especially on days when I was forced to remain indoors.

Outdoors, as at Monique’s, all the horses were divided into fields by their gender. The social complexities of geldings and mares are too burdensome for most people to manage successfully, and thus we are more easily managed if segregated. Each field had its own hierarchy of order, and the reasoning behind segregating new horses upon their arrival was to slowly allow the others to acclimate to the idea of opening up to include a newcomer. Right away, I learned that because it was small and tight-knit, the Maury River Stables was a tough band to join, especially for an older horse.

Claire, Mother, and Mrs. Maiden had welcomed me with such enthusiasm that it seemed as if they had been expecting my arrival. Among the horses I encountered some resistance, for all newcomers must endure a period of testing before some place is made. As the mare and gelding fields shared a fence, it was easy enough for the mares to pester me, and they all did, save an old Hanoverian by the name of Gwen, who appeared nearer my age than the other mares. A striking blood bay, Gwen possessed the athletic conditioning of a Thoroughbred and the imposing stature of a draft horse. I thought she represented the warmblood breeds quite regally. Though I could tell that her position with the mares was not what it once was, Gwen still maintained a strong presence among them.

The mares did not introduce themselves, but repeatedly commented, within earshot, on my wretched condition. No doubt they knew that I could hear them, and though they never addressed me directly, I understood that their insults were intended to discourage me. “Look at him; you can see his ribs.” Daisy curled her lip as if my smell repulsed her, too. “Why is Mrs. Maiden bothering with him anyway? Horses like him never win at hunter shows or horse trials, and who wants an Appaloosa without spots?”

I find that Welsh cobs, like Daisy, especially the flea-bitten ones, are particularly disdainful of my breed.

A petite Arab, whose name I learned was appropriately Princess, chimed right in with Daisy. “Daisy, you give him much too much credit. He’s not a horse. He’s a pony, and an ugly one at that!”

“What could Claire possibly see in him?” Daisy asked. She threw her head high in the air.

The gentle Hanoverian swiftly came to my defense. Though I suspected, quite accurately I would later discover, that Gwen had lost her high placement in the mare field to Daisy some years ago, she still carried a great deal of influence with all of the mares, including Daisy.

Gwen wasted no time scolding Daisy. “Princess, I would never expect you to understand. But Daisy, I’m surprised at you. Haven’t you been paying attention to Mrs. Maiden? Chancey’s been brought here for a reason. Could it be that you’re a bit jealous because Claire is spending all her time with Chancey and not you? God made a horse for everyone, and mark my words, Chancey and Claire have found each other, and not by accident. Now, both of you go about your business and leave the old App alone.”

Gwen’s rebuke quieted Daisy and Princess, but not before Daisy got in a good air kick at Gwen’s barrel, obviously missing the old mare on purpose. With a soft nicker, I offered my thanks to Gwen and hoped that her intervention in my defense would bring no injury upon her from the mares.

Princess did not let pass the offense that had been directed at her, however. She grabbed Gwen by the neck and bit the Hanoverian with an unbridled wrath; Gwen did not squeal, as most would have. She tore herself away from Princess and tore a slice of her own neck off in the process. Daisy pushed Princess into the corner of the fence. Princess had minutes earlier been Daisy’s sidekick, but she had overstepped by punishing Gwen without Daisy’s authorization. Princess pleaded with the Welsh, “Please, Daisy, no.”

Daisy’s ears lay flat against her head. I could tell, as could Princess I’m sure, that a severe punishment was about to be handed down. Daisy snorted and kicked until Princess walked farther into the corner. Now docile, Princess once more begged Daisy’s forgiveness, for she knew what was coming.

“Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step out.”

Daisy paid her no mind; she was making a point to all of us who were watching about just who exactly remained in charge of the mare field. The transgression was serious. Either Princess would take her punishment or challenge Daisy for the field.

Daisy lined Princess up against the fence and delivered a series of rapid-fire kicks to the Arab’s belly. She did not stop when Princess began squealing. She did not stop when Princess began bleeding and would not have stopped except that Claire ran out into the mare field crying for Daisy to leave Princess alone. Daisy pinned her ears at Princess, showed all of her teeth, and chased Princess away.

I’ll not deceive myself by asserting that geldings are any easier to join with than mares, for they are not. The rules have been much the same in whatever pasture I have ever been placed, though, granted, the new situations that I’ve found myself in have been few. Regardless, all horses know the rules well.

In the gelding field, I assumed my proper position and challenged no one for a higher spot. Mealtimes presented an excellent opportunity for me to establish that I posed no threat to the status quo. At first, I did not approach the hay ring at all, but waited for the others to finish eating, then gleaned what I could. Under normal circumstances, I would have expected to lose weight right away by forgoing hay, but as I had arrived at the Maury River Stables several hundred pounds underweight, the small amount of hay I was denied did not contribute to further weight loss. In fact, I began gaining weight straightaway due to the reintroduction of grain to my daily intake. I stayed away from the hay ring for as many days as necessary to establish my deference to all in the field. I was particularly mindful of the homage due to Dante, the black Thoroughbred in charge of my field.

Many benefits are afforded to the top horse. The field is yours, so you have first choice as to where you will stand, graze, and sleep as well as who you will run with. The boss is the first to be fed, can eat as much as he wants, is the first to come into the barn, and so on. I knew I did not have the strength or desire to challenge Dante or even the short, fat Shetland pony, Napoleon, for a higher field placement. Thus I stayed back at feeding time, allowing Dante to have first rights to hay placed in the ring for all of us. After a good period of showing deference and respect in our field, I finally made a friend in Macadoo.

Despite his intimidating size, Mac is the most trusted and beloved of all the horses at the Maury River Stables. Mac is a purebred Belgian draft, a blond sorrel to be exact. Except for a missing piece of his right ear, a slight flaw to be sure, Mac is a near-perfect example of a Belgian. The Belgians are prized for their considerable height and girth. Indicative of his gentle nature, Mac, who weighed close to two thousand pounds, allowed Claire, who weighed all of seventy pounds, to effortlessly navigate him. Claire liked to call Mac her “big boy.” At nearly eighteen hands high, Mac more resembled a tractor than a boy.

Mac towered over Dante and could have, if he were of such a mind, brought Dante down with but a series of well-placed kicks, such as Daisy had delivered to Princess. Mac is frightfully intimidating and he sounds so as well, before you come to know him. At the canter, the ground quakes beneath his feet. I have observed his approach to cause people and horses to flee, for fear of getting trampled. Once you have been blessed to know and understand Mac’s nature, the sound of his joyful hooves galloping toward you more likely impels you to greet him with equal delight. Indeed, Mac is generous in spirit and eager to be of service to all in need. So gentle and calm is Mac that he is the lead horse in Mrs. Maiden’s therapeutic riding school. Mac’s friendship eased my transition into the Maury River Stables.