Macadoo of the Maury River (13 page)

I
still watched for Izzy every day, but I slowly eased into my work. I learned the sights and sounds and smells of Mrs. Maiden’s riding school and assisted children with all sorts of riding — beginner lessons on the flat, some jumping, trails, and the beginnings of what Mrs. Maiden called dressage.

And, Mrs. Maiden evaluated me for use with her vaulting team — first by longeing me, just as Poppa had done. Then she longed me at the walk in a circle with Ashley, an older, more advanced student who was the captain of the vaulting team.

Then Ashley rode without a saddle. Mrs. Maiden instructed her to swing around and ride facing backward. Then Ashley stretched out along my back, in just the same way Izzy had liked to watch birds and stars, though I had always made sure to stand still for Izzy.

Next, after mounting and sitting astride for four beats, Ashley moved from the basic seat into flag by pushing herself up on all fours, then stretching her right leg and left arm straight out in opposite directions. The handles of the surcingle, the point of her left knee, and the curve of my back supported her. From there she’d do a mill: a series of leg passes. Starting from a basic seat she’d swing her straight legs and pointed toes up over my neck and then over my croup, my croup and then my neck again, traveling “around the world,” while I traveled around and around Mrs. Maiden in the middle.

“He’s doing great, isn’t he? Oh, I love him. There’s so much room to move around on Mac. He doesn’t seem to mind whatever I do,” said Ashley.

“So far, so good,” Mrs. Maiden agreed. “Let’s throw something harder at him. You ready?”

“Ready!” said Ashley.

Mrs. Maiden asked me to trot, and Ashley returned to sitting face forward.

When Mrs. Maiden asked me to canter, I obeyed.

Then Ashley moved to kneeling then standing.

I could feel the smile on Ashley’s face and see it on Mrs. Maiden’s.

I proved that I was willing to carry two then three riders at once on my back, each of them standing and turning and lifting one another at the walk, trot, or canter. I caught glimpses of arms and legs turning and twirling behind me — on me — while Mrs. Maiden kept me moving at a steady pace.

Poppa would put a stop to this,
I thought.
Poppa would never go for all this standing and twirling on a horse.
But, Izzy? Izzy would love to know about a kind of riding made up of tricks and flips.

And I liked it, too.

I worked hard and tried to become a good vaulting horse, ever-solid and ever-present to the shifting weight and balance of my students. In vaulting, the aids came from Mrs. Maiden in the center of the circle, but I could never ever, even for a moment lose sight or lose touch with my riders. Listening to many people, I worked doubly hard, and I enjoyed it.

Naomi, the girl who had been so afraid of me at first, had slowly grown ever more confident and comfortable around the barn.

She hadn’t come near me since my first day at the Maury River Stables, when she was so scared. This time she bravely started to groom me. She circled the currycomb around the mud caked on my legs and stomach. Her heart, next to my cheek, beat faintly of fear, so I imagined myself a smaller horse.

Mrs. Maiden brought over a mounting block. “Here, hop aboard. You’ve brushed the bottom half, but we’ve got to get the dirt off the rest of him. Now, really brush him good up there. Otherwise, all that dirt will irritate his back once he’s tacked up.” Mrs. Maiden patted my shoulder.

Naomi brushed me clean, then Mrs. Maiden placed a large blanket and a thick pad over my back.

“Doesn’t that look comfortable? Now we’ll add the surcingle,” Mrs. Maiden said. She situated a wide leather girth made with sturdy handles on top.

As we walked from the barn to the riding ring, Naomi wanted to know all about me from Mrs. Maiden.

“When I walked into the field, all of the other geldings were running and racing, but Mac stood alone. He came right up to me like he wanted leave the field and ride, not play. Is he a sad horse?”

“Did you know I rescued this horse from an auction?” Mrs. Maiden said.

“Do you think maybe he feels like nobody wants him?”

Mrs. Maiden stopped and looked at me. “He might. Maybe a little bit. You know, this is at least Mac’s fourth home in just a few years. He’s survived so much. I don’t know if he’s sad, but I imagine he’s a little unsure. What he needs is stability. When he figures out that’s what he has here, he’ll come around.”

The child tickled me under my chin. “Smile!” Naomi told me.

Inside the ring, before she mounted Naomi, tightened the surcingle’s buckle with Mrs. Maiden’s help.

“I know one thing, for sure. Every horse here is wanted and loved. Now, get your shoes off and hop aboard,” Mrs. Maiden said.

“How old is Mac in people years?” she asked.

Mrs. Maiden gave Naomi a leg up and hooked the longe line to my halter. “Well, every horse year is equal to three human years. I don’t have his papers so I can’t tell you for sure, but I think he’s about five. Maybe, four. So, Mac is the people equivalent of somewhere between twelve and fifteen.”

“I’m twelve!” she said. “Where I live now is my fourth home, too. Some families have been nice to me; some haven’t. Where I live now, my foster mom loves me, so don’t worry — everything will turn out all right for you, too, Mac.”

“I really get to ride in my socks?” Naomi asked.

“Yes. Now, relax and breathe. Seated like that, facing forward and sitting up with both hands on the surcingle bars, is your basic seat in vaulting. It’s called astride. Everything you learn will build from here. Eyes forward; ears on me. Raise your arms up alongside your ears. Palms out. I’ll control Mac.”

Like always in vaulting, Mrs. Maiden and I formed the course ourselves by creating a small working circle inside the big riding ring. Mrs. Maiden stood in the center, using a whip and a longe line to direct the pace at which I traced the circle. I only stopped moving at Mrs. Maiden’s request or if my rider lost balance, and even then, sometimes, Mrs. Maiden would crack the whip near my hindquarters to remind me to keep going.

Naomi started out at the walk. She lifted her arms straight out from her shoulders out to her sides.

“Are those your ears?” Mrs. Maiden asked.

The girl giggled.

Mrs. Maiden giggled, too. “Now, try to relax and feel Mac’s walk.”

Over the weeks, during our lessons, I kept one ear always on Mrs. Maiden and one ear always on Naomi, who took to vaulting like the Canada geese had taken to chasing me through my old paddock.

If Naomi turned to watch Mrs. Maiden explain something new, Mrs. Maiden corrected her. “Why are you looking at me? Listen and look ahead, always ahead. And point those toes; pretend like you’re a ballerina up there, Naomi.”

Week after week, we improved. As the days turned dark and short, my winter coat grew as long and thick as ever, and Naomi’s vaulting lessons moved indoors. She wore wool gloves, a down coat, and a grin on her face that I could feel even in the touch of her hands.

Naomi learned to move fluidly with all of her body, using all of mine for support. Her hands strong on the surcingle and her feet pressed into my dock made a push-up, a nice warm-up position to remind Naomi that she would need all her length and her strength. One leg extended long along my crest, a bent knee resting on my croup, and arms reaching head to tail were her favorite position — advanced move called special K.

For an hour each week, Naomi learned and practiced her compulsory moves, a basic set of positions that every vaulter must master, link together, and perform in order.

Scissors was the hardest for me and for the rider. In this trick, Naomi would press her weight into the surcingle handles, then swing herself into the air, crisscross her legs, and twist her body to land facing my tail. It took lots of hard landings for Naomi to develop enough strength to make the move look graceful and to soften her landings on my back.

By springtime, Naomi moved from trick to trick smoothly and with ease. Naomi and I had shed our coats — much of mine was shed on her and my other students as they groomed me — and she was vaulting all her movements at a trot, and trying some at the canter. Now Naomi wore her own special shoes with grips on the soles, made just for vaulting — a gift from her foster mother.

At last, Mrs. Maiden told her, “You’re ready to stand.”

During our lesson one morning, Naomi’s foster mother came out especially to watch us. Like always, Naomi curried and brushed me before our lesson. I was sorry that I had gotten so dirty on a day when we had an audience to impress, but the girl didn’t seem to mind. She was thinking about our routine.

“I warmed up on the barrel, Macadoo. I’m ready. Are you?” she asked me.

I am ready.
I told her with my stillness.
I am ready.

A high-noon sun and a daylight moon framed the riding ring, giving Saddle Mountain clarity and brilliance. The mountain gave me confidence. I relied on Saddle Mountain to be there for me every day; it told me I was home. Naomi could rely on me that way. I imagined myself wide and broad, gentle and strong like a mountain in this child’s service.

Mrs. Maiden clipped the longe line to me, and with a flick of the whip in the air, I started to trot. Naomi ran along beside me, grabbed hold of the surcingle, and mounted on her own. She moved silently from basic seat to flag to mill. She sat for four beats, then swung up into scissors and landed backward so softly that I didn’t wobble or jerk my head at all. The scissors return done in reverse brought her back to sitting astride. From there, she hopped up onto her shins, then to her feet, and then Naomi pressed up to standing. She raised her arms high and stood tall on my back.

For ten strides, she balanced on my back, high up off the ground while I trotted a circle. She drew upon all of the strength in her legs and her torso and her back. With her back straight and her chin up and a slight bend in her knees, she shone.

“Ready to show off your special dismount?” Mrs. Maiden asked her.

She prepared for the last move, a flank: starting with a handstand into side seat, with both legs on the inside.

From side seat, Naomi returned to sitting astride, leaned backward, lifted her legs, and somersaulted off of my back. She landed firmly, confidently, on her feet. I halted beside her and nickered.

Naomi wasn’t afraid of me anymore. She had used my size and my power to help her become a star. She even became the captain of the vaulting team after Ashley started leasing Dante. And, when the day came that she left the Maury River Stables, finally to return to her first home, she was a stronger girl.

“Thank you,” she whispered to me that day. “I never thought I could ride a horse without being afraid, but I can. I love you, Mac.”

My strength had helped Naomi find hers.

I
wouldn’t say I forgot Izzy, not at all. I was surrounded by nature and creatures that Izzy loved and that he had taught me to love, too. In daytime, I noticed birds that Izzy had first shown me — the tiny phoebe, who called out her name, “Phee-bee! Phee-bee!” At nighttime, surrounded by moon and sky and stars, I could always make out Pegasus. And, I saw that Izzy was right: Mira Stella left the night sky for a very long time. I searched the sky for her every evening until the sun rose. And then I went to work, again.

I started training for a new job at The Maury River Stables, too. Mrs. Maiden told me that I could work in the therapeutic riding school.

“I had to test you a bit first,” Mrs. Maiden said. “In the therapeutic program, your special job will be to accept each student for who they are and what they present to the lesson. You’ll learn to sense even the smallest hopes that each student brings to our barn and learn how to make those hopes grow even brighter.”

My friend, Gwen, also worked in the therapeutic school.

“Mrs. Maiden says you change people’s lives in the therapeutic school. Is that true?” I asked Gwen one day at our regular meeting place, the high corner where the mare and gelding fields joined.

She flicked me with her tail. “The therapeutic school isn’t that different from the lessons you teach now. Sometimes, we even teach vaulting in the therapeutic program. We always attend to whoever sits in the saddle, whatever their needs are. Besides, all horses changes lives, Macadoo.”

“By working hard?”

“Partly.”

“How else?”

The Hanoverian reached out to me. “Leave yesterday behind. Today you are here, Macadoo. Let today be your joy and you will bring joy to all those you serve.”

Mrs. Maiden’s barn manager, a gentle man named Stu, prepared me for the therapeutic school. He showed me shiny objects; he rolled twine across my shoulders and withers — all to teach me still and quiet manners.

Stu took me on solitary rides around Saddle Mountain to get me used to the unpredictable world around me, but I already knew all the sights and sounds of the mountains. Stu and Mrs. Maiden didn’t understand: I had grown up with the splendid mountains. With Izzy. And Poppa, Molly, and Job. My training for the therapeutic school had started all the way back at Cedarmont.