Dante of the Maury River (16 page)

You’d think Charlie might have learned his lesson from observing his compatriots, but no. He had to go and show everybody all about being a daredevil. He snatched some hay right out from under me, and I bit the fool right out of his neck. Nah, I take that back. Wiping the fool off Charlie is one impossible thing, for sure.

Here’s the surprise. Mrs. Maiden cut me no slack. None at all. In her estimation, the problem resided with one horse and one horse only. Yours truly, Dante’s Inferno.

“Dante doesn’t know how to befriend horses,” she explained to her students. “He only knows how to compete with them.”

Maybe she was right, too. I resented the riffraff, and they me. I was fast learning that living in a herd of horses of all sizes and breeds was about as difficult an endeavor as I had ever attempted.

At that point in time, I wasn’t in training for anything. My main job was to eat grass, Mrs. Maiden having been advised by the Thoroughbred retirement program that some benefit might be gained from letting me stand around in a pasture for another few months. Even though John had been training me in the basic aids at Riverside, the conventional wisdom said that what I needed most was to work on my ground manners and get accustomed to my new life as a regular-old, nothing-special horse.

If the geldings presented a challenge for me, well, so did the people. Not including Ashley, Mrs. Maiden’s students complained, up and down, right and left, that I bullied and bossed every horse and human who stepped into the field.

I didn’t see my actions early on exactly as bullying. When a horse has a known and understandable fear of sharp edges, pokers, pointers, sticks, and the like, it seems downright foolish, if not mean, to enter his stall with a pitchfork in your hand, angled directly at him.

Yes, such a travesty happened once, maybe twice, and, yes, I reared up, showed my whites, and stomped a fierce beat until the little pitchfork-carrying culprit left me alone. And that turned into me scaring Mrs. Maiden’s students? An injustice.

My saving grace was Ashley. She came out to visit every day. During her school week, we’d have an hour or two of dwindling daylight. On the days without school, she’d spend the sun with me.

I can honestly say I had never met a soul as kind to me as Ashley. Not to take a thing away from Filipia. My jockey was as good as grain, on all occasions, but she had a bit of a temper and was predisposed toward getting frustrated with herself. And when that little gal got annoyed with Gary, she could kick a wall with the best of them. More than once, we kicked the tarnation out of a wall together.

At the Maury River Stables, nobody else seemed all that interested in kicking walls, but what other means of communication did I have for letting Mrs. Maiden know when grain was running late, the hay tasted dry, or my bedding needed changing?

Saddle Mountain knows how I tested Ashley with my bad habits, and kicking was the least bothersome. When I’d spook and bolt away from her or screech to a halt, Ashley never broke toward me in anger. I even thought things were going well until I overheard Mrs. Maiden tell Ashley otherwise.

“I have never given up on a horse before, but if Dante can’t start to get along with the other horses and learn to behave no matter who handles him, I’ll have no choice but to surrender him back to Riverside.”

Ashley dropped her head. “I was hoping we might try to get him ready for the first summer show at Tamworth Springs.”

Mrs. Maiden put her hands on her hips. Her voice went up way high. “You’re not even riding him yet, Ashley. Way too early to even think of showing him. Any student of mine ought to be able to muck the stall of any horse in this barn without feeling scared while they’re in there. Talk to me about showing him when you can easily pick his feet, safely get him tacked up, and quietly lead him to the ring.”

Ashley pleaded with me to try harder. “Can you even understand me? I promise to help you, but you have to want to change, too. The other kids are scared of you. Napoleon’s the only horse who likes you. I love you, too, but that’s not enough.”

The question of the day proved not to be can a racehorse change, but could
this
racehorse change?

Well, maybe. If you’ve got forever and a day, but I didn’t have that kind of time.

I
needed some help and fast. An expert. A mentor. That kind of horse wasn’t grazing in my field. Sure, Napoleon had a strong résumé of experience with Mrs. Maiden and the Maury River Stables, but he didn’t have the look of eagles. By that, I mean the Shetland was most concerned with the moment in front of him and the hay at his feet. I needed to find an equine with a longer, deeper perspective. One who understood what it meant to look out along the distant mountains and tap into the wisdom of the bloodlines and knowingness of the ages. A horse like me.

Alongside the western edge of my field was the mare field, which shared a fence line with the geldings. Mostly boarded horses lived there, the exceptions being two school horses belonging to Mrs. Maiden: Gwen and Daisy.

Anybody could see that Gwen, a blood bay Hanoverian with three white socks, had a strong maternal instinct toward every horse and every rider. I wondered if she might not be growing tired of keeping things in order. Little fights over hay and water tended to break out regularly among the mares. Though quite regal in appearance, Gwen seemed more interested in teaching and mentoring than enforcing a strong rule of order.

Whereas Gwen’s second in command, a little old flea-bitten gray Welsh cob named Daisy who stood at least two hands smaller than Gwen, was acknowledged to be both the oldest and wisest among all of us.

Daisy had lived at the Maury River Stables her entire life, and so had her dam. She carried herself as proudly as any Thoroughbred I’d ever met, and that intrigued me. I calculated that she could teach me what I needed to know, but I suspected there would be an extensive price to pay.

Upon my honor, I truly wanted to do right by Ashley, and Mrs. Maiden, too, but I didn’t know how to start. Anyway, I wasn’t about to go groveling to a pony by asking for help.

The truth is I didn’t know how to befriend a mare or a gelding. People were a might easier, especially if they were ones like Filipia and John, with their stories and songs, and hearts as full of shadows and light as mine. That’s why I liked them, I supposed, but never had I lived with a horse or pony who really understood me, not even Marey.

I caught a whiff of new grass, overlooked up to that point. The Welsh stuck her muzzle through the fence slat on my side and pulled at the sweet clump. Our eyes met, and for just a flash, I caught a possibility that the Maury River Stables might could be a different sort of place, where I might could become a different sort of horse.

“Do you care to share, or do you plan on taking all that for yourself?” is what came out of my mouth. Not the finest offer of friendship, but there it was.

Daisy didn’t even acknowledge me or say anything. A powerful urge was building in me to try something new, like make a friend, but I had nothing. Daisy returned to grazing on the mare side.

T
urns out Daisy herself took care of initiating a conversation during our next visit at the fence line. Every mare I’ve ever met thinks she knows what’s best for me. Daisy was no different.

One evening after Ashley and I had worked together under saddle, Daisy called me over.

“Dante, a word,” she said.

Of course, the Welsh was in no way the boss of me, but if I had learned a lick of a lesson about anything, I figured after my initial display of poor manners, I ought to at least give some sort of tribute to this pony. I didn’t intend on obliging her every little demand, but no harm in pretending to listen. I made my way toward her, stopping along to nab assorted grasslings and sproutlings.

She stomped her foot for me to hurry up. “This is no trivial matter. You and I’ve got business to discuss. If you don’t care to give Mrs. Maiden and the children your best effort, you’d best move on to your next stop. And I hate to imagine where that might be.”

I admit; she startled me. I grabbed a mouthful of clover and sidled up to the fence. She laid into me in a way that no horse had ever done, nor has done since. Soon as I reached her, that bossy pony turned on the forehand and proceeded to kick the tarnation out of the fence planks. The boards shook and rattled all down and up the line. Every gelding and every mare lifted their heads to look at me. Somebody whinnied. Not a one of them went back to grazing.

“I’d rather your hind end was the recipient instead of an innocent wooden board. You should be ashamed, and I’m certain your dam would be if she had any notion of the mean and angry horse you’ve become.”

My muzzle dropped agape.

“Shut your hay hole, Dante. I watched Ashley try to ride you today, and that was the last time you will act out or put a student of ours in danger. Do you hear me?”

I was stunned. “I love Ashley. I’d never hurt her.”

“Are you really blind to your own reckless arrogance?” Daisy was screaming at me. “You reared up. Twice. The second time she came off. Then you refused to let her mount again. The child left our barn in tears.”

I had to defend myself. “First of all, she had a crop in her hand, okay? I do not like pointy things. Second of all, Ashley cries all the time. Especially when she’s mad.”

Daisy slammed on the fence so fast and so hard that the top board cracked. I knew better than to run away. For one, everybody was watching. If I bolted, they might think I was scared of a Welsh pony.

When finished, Daisy had another question for me. “Why are you even here?”

I didn’t need to think too hard about my answer. “For Ashley.”

“Then grow up and be a horse. Stop acting like a wean. Your grain may run late, but it will always come. Some hay flakes taste better than others. People use pointy things: needles, pitchforks, hoof picks, and, yes, even spurs. My advice? Search your heart and decide who you are and who you want to be, Dante.”

The boarded horses whickered. Even Napoleon nickered. So. Everybody agreed with Daisy. Well, truly, if that wasn’t like the fog lifting.

I let out a big sigh. I had a choice to make. One: walk away with my pride intact and my head held high and risk losing another second chance. Or two: take the mare’s advice and search my heart and try to make it work at the Maury River Stables.

N
ot a gelding nor a mare spoke to me for a whole night and day after Daisy scolded me. When I went toward the hay, they scattered. The water tub? Same. All the school and boarded horses turned their backsides to me.

I got what I had been asking for. They were leaving me alone, isolating me socially. Letting me know that I wasn’t really part of the Maury River Stables. And they wanted nothing to do with me.

Daisy waited until evening turnout, after Mrs. Maiden had closed the place down and after the moon had come full up. She whickered softly for me to come over to her. “You could be a great horse,” she said. “You have what it takes. I can teach you, and I will. And if you agree to follow what I say, you could be a leader like me.”