Macadoo of the Maury River (6 page)

In the first months of my life at Cedarmont, Izzy and I would remain in the field for hours, alone and together, surrounded by beauty enough to draw our grief out into the open mountain air, where mourning doves lamented with us. Walking together in my paddock made us grow stronger together.

“Walk on, Mac. Walk on,” Izzy would say. He knew when it was right to lead me down the shady side of our field toward the happier-sounding birds — cardinals, phoebes, bluebirds, and mockers — all reminding Izzy and me how good it felt to stand in the sunshine.

Sometimes, we would leave the field. “Walk on,” he’d say, and cluck for me to follow.

The boy loved to explore the meadow. He marveled at the changing nature of our mountain home. He showed me every little thing he recognized — delicate white Queen Anne’s lace, flowering blackberry vines, and raptors circling overhead.

On summer nights, when the sun and the flies were sleeping, I grazed the pasture, while Izzy gazed at the stars. Each night, my boy named the stars and their families.

“I like knowing each star’s name and its home in the sky,” he would say, and point out stars with names like Bear and Great Dog.

And once, I saw stars combining into the shape of a great horse. Izzy saw it, too. He rested his head on my withers. “Do you know Pegasus, Mac?” he wanted to know.

I nickered.

“Pegasus is a horse — a horse with wings!”

Izzy pointed up. “There! See?”

In our summer of horses and bears in the sky, Poppa tried to coax Izzy into riding — not me, for I was still a yearling. I weighed nearly one thousand pounds already, but a baby’s bones are too soft for work. Besides, just walking with Izzy, being near him, learning his voice, and letting him lead me was job enough for a colt.

But Izzy was not interested in riding lessons anyway. The earth around him fascinated him more than the thought of riding instruction.

I saw what his poppa could not see. Izzy never dreamed of winning ribbons or collecting trophies. Learning about all the creatures that lived on our splendid mountain was the calling of Izzy’s heart and mind.

Mamere had told me: “You are a Belgian, born to serve, to heal, and to bring a gentle peace.”

To be in Izzy’s service brought both of us peace. To be always within the sound of Izzy’s voice was my joy. Coming to him whenever he called. Moving with him out of the sun, into the shade, and back into the sun again. Standing next to him for as long as he cared to explore the world around him, for however long he remained helped him as well as me.

He and I were the same — motherless, now, and new to this place. Even in the absence of his words or tears, I knew the loss of his mother was the source of his suffering. His grief and mine bound us to each other.

O
ur carefree days of summer ended when Izzy started school. One morning after I had been at Cedarmont long enough for the moist, hot air of summer to turn dry and cool, long enough that I had grown some but not enough to reach my head over the fence where the maple branch hung nearly within reach, Poppa called me to him.

He told me, “You and Izzy have brought happiness back to Cedarmont. Watching him with you this past month, Macadoo, has given me something, too.” He turned his face to the sky. “You’ve been through a lot. So have I. So has Izzy.”

Poppa kissed me on my cheek.

“Look over there at the Allegheny Mountains”— then he swept his hand in a wide half circle to the east —“and here in our yard, you see the Blue Ridge Mountains. How lucky are we, eh? Tucked away on a little farm in the Shenandoah Valley, where every day we wake up to these mountains.”

Poppa led me through a different gate to a different pasture. “Here you are, boy,” he said. “No more quarantine for you. This is your new field. You’re ready to become part of our little herd now. You are home.”

I looked for colts and fillies to play King of the Field, but none rushed to the fence. I looked for other Belgians to play Chase and Find, but I saw no Belgians. Then something moved under the trees.

Poppa pointed to the back fence line. “See that mule up there? You’ll be in here with old Job.”

At the top of the field, I saw the back half of a horselike body, swishing its tailing. He kept grazing, and by the looks of him, he mostly liked to graze, not run.

Poppa pushed me forward. “Go on, Mac. Run! Play!”

Before, I had only imagined running through the distant Alberta mountains, as the reigning Draft King of Alberta, but now, at Cedarmont Farm, as far as I could see were soft mountains and grassy fields all around. And no one but an old mule to play with me.

After Poppa turned me out and left me in the new paddock, I ran straight to the back-field cedars to greet Job. I sidled up and pretended to nibble the grass. Though the trees were letting go of their leaves and the air was turning cooler, the pasture remained full with clover and fescue. I moved a bit closer to Job and flicked my tail right in time with his. He pinned his ears and hawed. “Go away!”

The mule showed me his backside and picked at red clover. “If I go away, will you come find me?”

“What?” Job snapped his tail. He lifted his back leg in midair and held it ready to strike.

I stepped aside. “We played this game in Alberta. I run away someplace in the field. You run after me.” I pranced around Job and shook out my mane. “Ready?”

With a mouthful of clover, he hawed again. “Go away, now!”

OK
I thought, so I galloped away, past the three oaks, all the way to the run-in. I hid out there and waited for Job. Inside, scraps of old hay were strewn about the floor, and brilliant spiderwebs spanned the ceiling. I flushed barn swallows, finches, and sparrows.

After a long while, I peered around the wall to spy on Job. He stood at the bottom of the paddock, pulling at overgrown grass from a dip in the ground.

This mule knows how to play!
I thought.
He wants me come find him!

I charged straight for Job, then I slowed to an easy run, and reared beside him. Job flattened his ears and let out a piercing screech.

Job kicked out with his back feet, so I did, too. “Again!” I urged him. “Ready?”

The mule kicked, again, this time from his side, but he missed me. “See those four ducks?” he said. “Go play with them!”

I turned and charged toward the four white ducks visiting from the neighboring pond. “Hello, ducks! Macadoo, King of the Drafts, is coming your way!”

So, while I raced the birds and the breeze, Job watched over the field. “You, go play with your birds,” Job would often say. “I’ll stand guard.” When I needed rest, he guarded me. And once, after I had spent a tiring morning flushing swallows from the run-in, leading ducks around the paddock, and avoiding the geese under the trees, Job showed his compassion as the true king of our field — a different sort of king than my father.

“Go to the north corner, near where I have been standing all morning,” he told me. “There are a few blackberries still, and I have kept your birds away.”

We grazed the bushes together, and Job let me be King of the Ducks. “Strictly ceremonial title,” he said. “This is still my field.”

I asked my mule one day, “Have you ever walked through those mountains?”

He lifted his head as if remembering would take him there. “Many times” was all he said. He pushed his muzzle into me and nudged me toward the freshest hay.

The last of the monarch butterflies lit upon my poll and fiddled with my ear. I remembered my father’s message to me, but I still didn’t understand it.

“Job, do you think Izzy and Poppa will ever forget us?” I asked him.

“Do you know how long I’ve lived here?” He answered me before I could guess. “Twenty years. I am part of Cedarmont like that mountain is part of Cedarmont.”

I grazed beside him for a long time, thinking about what he said and what my father had said, too.

“I only met my father once,” I blurted out.

“Well, that makes you fortunate. Most of us never know our sires. My mother, though, was beautiful. A bay quarter horse, fifteen hands. I loved her dearly.”

“My father told me that we used to help people build cities. We used to clear mountains and help men win wars. He told me we are near the end of our usefulness. That we will be forgotten.”

Job walked to a new grazing spot. He showed me a patch of clover blossoms. “There
are
enough cities. Mountains should keep their trees, and peace is better than war. No, your father was mistaken. Our work today is more important than ever in our history.”

“Can you tell me more about our important work, Job? I want to know everything,” I said.

“In time, son. Your most important work today is to grow strong and stay gentle. The rest, you will learn in time.”

I nuzzled the mule and whickered low. And I wished that my father had known a mule like Job.

D
uring the fall at Cedarmont, we grazed in the field during the warmth of day and came inside for evening grain. Job had introduced me to the third of our group, a gigantic mule, even bigger than I, named Molly. Her stall was across the aisle from Job’s and mine, but she rarely spoke to either of us. Not in the barn. Not from her field, where she grazed by herself.

“Molly.” Job had tried to get her attention that first night in the barn. “The colt is one of us now.”

The mule slowly finished eating, then turned toward the front of her stall and spoke to me. “Every horse should be so lucky to live at a place like ours — at least, for a short time. Tell me, do you love Cedarmont?” she asked.

“I love Job. I love Poppa and the splendid mountains. And I love Izzy most of all.”

“Then, I should say you love Cedarmont,” Molly rumbled. “Every day, we must be grateful — much more so than Poppa or even Izzy — for Job and I and especially you, know how quickly our luck could change.” Then she turned away and went back to licking her grain bucket.

She was so bossy and tall, as tall as Mamere, and I was a little glad that I had Job in my field and not her.

Through the wide hole in our shared wall, Job told me, “Her mother was a Rocky Mountain mare, and her father . . . her father was an American mammoth jack! That’s why she’s so big.”

“Well, I’ll grow bigger than her!” I kicked the wall hard. “I’m a Belgian!”

Job turned his backside to me and leaned against the wall to scratch himself. “I meant, she’s big for a mule, son.”

He set a mouthful of grain between our two stalls. I gobbled it up. He put his face close, and I puffed a breath over him.

“Macadoo,” Job said. “I have seen the horse in Molly, and it is grand.” He nickered.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“And I see the mule in you! Consider that a compliment.” Job scratched himself again. “Not to worry, Macadoo. You and Molly’ll become friends, just like you and Izzy and you and I. Molly knows everything about this place. I’ve learned new plants, new trees, and when Molly and I go up into the mountains together, I feel young again. You could learn something from her, too, you know.”

I turned away from Job.
What could I learn from a cranky mule that I hadn’t already learned from Mamere?

“You might be interested in this, Job said. “Molly knows how to unlatch her stall door. That could come in handy, don’t you think?”

I ignored Job and sniffed at my door.

“Now, tell me about your dam, Macadoo. Tell me what she’s like.”

“Even though we are apart now, I know she is still with me. Mamere was a broodmare. She saved me from the kill sale, and I saved her, too. My dam is beautiful and strong. You would like her, I think.”

I looked across the aisle. Molly had her whole entire head buried in her grain bucket, licking for the very last morsel. What could I possibly learn from her?