West with the Night (19 page)

Know about her? Like Pegasus, she had been born into my hands. Her Thoroughbred blood had filtered through twenty generations of winners. Hers was the metal to match the metal of Wrack. Only there was the question of legs.

Wise Child, as a two-year-old, had been mishandled by her first trainer. Her tendons had been concussed — jarred too early against too hard a track. With all that fire in her heart, all that energy in her tidy bay body, she could barely carry a man on her back. Would it be possible in twelve weeks’ time to strengthen those willing but ailing legs — to build them up so that she could drive them a mile and three-quarters — and win?

Eric had thought not — but she was mine if I would have her.

Well, I would have her. It cost only work to try, but to watch Wrack, my own Wrack, sweep the field, bearing alien colours, would cost much more.

And so it had been settled. Wise Child of the gentle manner, the soft, kind eyes and the will to win (if only those legs could be strengthened again), had come into my care at Nakuru. Together we had worked and worried — Arab Ruta, myself, and the little bay filly; but at least we had been blessed with a world of our own to work in.

It was a world of absolutes. It held no intermediate shades, neither of sound nor of colour. There were no subtle strokes in the creation of Nakuru.

The shores of its lake are rich in silence, lonely with it, but the monotonous flats of sand and mud that circle the shallow water are relieved of dullness, not by only an occasional bird or a flock of birds or by a hundred birds; as long as the day lasts Nakuru is no lake at all, but a crucible of pink and crimson fire — each of its flames, its million flames, struck from the wings of a flamingo. Ten thousand birds of such exorbitant hue, caught in the scope of an eye, is a sight that loses credence in one’s own mind years afterward. But ten thousand flamingos on Lake Nakuru would be a number startling in its insignificance, and a hundred thousand would barely begin the count.

Menegai Crater overlooks the township and the lake. In the time of man it has breathed no brimstone, and barely a wisp of smoke. But in the annals of the Rift Valley which contains all this as a sea contains a coral atoll or a desert a dune, the time of man is too brief a period to deserve more than incidental recording. Tomorrow, next day, or next year, Menegai may become again the brazier over which some passing Deity will, for a casual aeon or so, warm his omnipotent hands. But until then, one can stand safely on its edge, watching the lake of pink and scarlet wings, so far below — the lake that seems to have stolen for the moment, at least, all the mountain’s fire.

This was the lavish background against which I worked my horses at Nakuru. My entrance with Arab Ruta and Wise Child on the flat shore each morning just after daylight must have been as anticlimactic as the spectacle of three mice crossing a stage gigantically set for the performance of a major Wagnerian opera. I used the shore because it was the only place soft and yielding enough for Wise Child’s sensitive legs.

My quarters were hardly so elaborate as the hut at Molo had been. By day I lived in a stable I had renovated for my own use, and by night I slept at the very top of the modest little grandstand, built, as was the race-course, by stolidly British members of the district, who, like all the others of our immutable clan, were allergic to the absence of horses.

And each time I had watched Wise Child test her tendons on the moist ground while flamingos rose and settled on the surface of the lake or sluggard hippopotami waddled into it, I had thought of Wrack — disdainful Wrack. How well I knew him!

But the twelve weeks had hurried on, the work had been done as skilfully as I could do it.

And now, at last, we are here. Now Eric fingers his glass and questions me hopefully, while the music of Muthaiga marches through our talk, and festive people clasp hands, revive old toasts — and make bets on tomorrow’s Leger.

One hundred pounds — two hundred pounds —

‘Has the filly a chance?’

‘Against Wrack? Of course not.’

‘Don’t be too sure …don’t be too sure. Why, I remember …’

Well, that’s what makes a horse-race.

Jockey: Sonny Bumpus.

What’s in a name? At least there’s no weight in this one. There’s an airy insolence in it. Who would be so heedless as to run a horse against such a happily cocksure combination as — Sonny Bumpus on Wise Child?

And if this were not enough to ponder, what about Arab Ruta? Arab Ruta, the mystic, the conjurer, the wizard of Njoro?

‘Ah-yey!’ he says, as he grooms the filly with inspired hands, ‘I will make these muscles like the muscles of a Murani ready for battle. I will make them tough as the bow of a Wandorobo. I will put my own strength into them!’ He spits contempt. ‘Wrack — I warn you! You are a colt, but God has given our filly the blade of a Nandi spear for a heart, and put the will of the wind in her lungs. You cannot win, Wrack. I, Arab Ruta, say so!’

He turns to me. He is solemn. ‘It is settled, Memsahib. Wrack will lose.’

I look up from the plaiting of Wise Child’s mane, and smile.

‘There are times, Ruta, when you sound like Kibii.’

With hesitance my smile is returned. Ruta is thoughtful, but unchastened. ‘No, Memsahib — it is only that I have the power to make truths of my beliefs. It is a thing only a Murani can do.’

We are in our stable at the race-track. Within two hours the Leger will be run. While Ruta grooms, I plait the silky mane and the blacksmith spreads out his tools to put on Wise Child’s aluminum racing plates. The filly stands quiet as a nodding kitten, but she is not asleep. She knows. She is thinking. Perhaps she is wondering, as I am, about those weakened tendons. She cannot feel them; it is not a matter of pain. It is only a question of how long they will take the strain of speed, the piston-pounding of hooves against the hard track, the long way from that excited start to that distant finish.

She straightens at the touch of the blacksmith’s hand, then yields a foot with graceful resignation. She will do whatever is asked of her, as she always has done. She turns her head, nudging me, speaking to me — do not worry; I will run. As long as these legs will bear me up, I will run. But have we long to wait?

Not long, Wise Child, not very long.

When the blacksmith is finished, I leave the stable, and, for a few minutes, inspect the course again — as if I had not already done it a dozen times. Other trainers, and owners, stand alone or in pairs about the paddock gates or lean on the white rails that enclose the oval track. Syces are busy, a jockey wearing the colours of Lady MacMillan’s stable scurries through the bustle — an important, a resplendent midget. Bookmakers tread on each other’s toes, on mine, on anybody’s, or stand flat-footed scowling at scraps of paper clutched like passports to El Dorado.

A cloud of people, growing darker, creeps over the course, across the grandstands, muffling in its billows the martial thunder of the K.A.R. Band.

To the north looms Mount Kenya, throne of the Kikuyu God, jewelled in sunlight, cushioned in the ermine of lasting snow. And, to the northeast, lying lower, like a couch of royal purple awaiting the leisure of this same prodigious God, spread the Aberdares. Under the shadow of such sovereign furnishings sprawl the ignoble stamping grounds of little people — the Indian Bazaar, the Somali Village, Nairobi itself in its microcosmic majesty. And the inhabitants of these, coloured as variously as unsorted beads, stream through the open gates of the race-course, paying for passage, eager for pleasure.

I have wondered sometimes if it is the beauty of a running-horse that brings so many people of so many kinds to such a makeshift amphitheatre as this is, or if it is the magnetism of a crowd, or if it is only the banal hope of making an easy shilling? Perhaps it is none of these. Perhaps it is the unrecognized expectation of holding for an instant what primordial sensations can be born again in the free strength of flashing flanks and driving hooves beating a challenge against the ground.

A keeper of an Indian duka — a Government clerk — a Lord Delamere — an Eric Gooch, all cogs of a kind, in a life of a kind, have made for themselves here, and everywhere, places where they can sit with folded arms and pay regular tribute to an animal so humble that he can be bought for a banknote.

Yet I wonder if he is ever bought? I wonder if the spirit of Camciscan, the sturdy integrity of Pegasus, the wise and courageous heart of Wise Child can ever be bought?

Is this too much to say of horses?

I remember the things they did; I remember this Saint Leger.

In the large talk of Continental sweepstakes, it is a trivial thing. It is not trivial to Wrack, to Wise Child, to the eight other horses who will leave the starting post; it is not trivial to me as I make the final preparations.

I feel the filly’s legs, a little puffy, but not feverish. I kneel down and strap the tendon boots on them, firmly, carefully. I slip on the light racing bridle with my blue-and-gold colours striping the forehead band; I put the martingale over her head, onto her neck.

Arab Ruta fixes the protective pad on her withers, the number cloth over that, and then the saddle. At last I tighten the girths. We do not talk very much. It is only a matter of minutes before the bell will ring calling the horses to the paddock.

Sonny Bumpus has had his instructions. The lean, dark haired boy has listened earnestly to every word. He is a grand horseman, honest as daylight.

I have explained the strategy over and over: ‘Lie two or three lengths behind Wrack for the first couple of furlongs — until the filly gets warmed up. Steady her round the first bend; if her legs are still standing after that, let her go on the far stretch. Get the lead — keep it. She’s willing and fast. She’ll stay forever. If Wrack challenges, don’t worry — so long as her legs can take the drive she’ll never quit. If they fail — well — it won’t be your fault, but whatever happens don’t use your whip. If you do, she’ll stop in her tracks.’

That’s all. That’s all there can be. A bell rings and I nod to Ruta. He takes Wise Child’s reins in his hands and leads her slowly toward the paddock. The small fleck of sweat on her flanks is the only indication that she shares with us our anxiety, our unmentioned fears, and our quiet hopes.

It is only coincidence that in the paddock she falls in line behind Wrack, giving me a chance to compare them closely. I do not even bother about the others — Lady MacMillan’s entries, one of Delamere’s, a couple entered by Spencer Tryon, one of the best of trainers. They are all good horses, but I admit none as a threat. Wise Child has but two threats — Wrack, and her own weak tendons.

Wrack is triumphant in advance of victory. He is a beautiful colt, sleek as speed itself, dancing like a boxer on quick, eager feet, flaunting his bright body in front of the steady and demure Wise Child. I look at him and take credit for that impressive form, but allow myself the comfort of small malice at the sight of too much sweat streaming from his chestnut coat — a coat that looks as if it might be otherwise a bit too dry under the touch of experienced fingers. Has Wrack been over trained since he left me? Has someone been too anxious? Or am I smothering reason with a wish …

I recognize Wrack’s owner a few yards down the rail — at the elbow of the colt’s new trainer. We nod to each other all around, with about the same warmth one might expect of so many robots. I can’t help it. I’ll be doubly damned if I will try to help it.

Eric Gooch touches my shoulder. ‘I couldn’t resist,’ he says; ‘the filly looks so good I’ve placed a bet on her for myself — and another for you. I won’t have to mortgage the old homestead if she loses, but we’ll both be a little richer if she wins. Will she?’

‘Her legs are weak as oat straws, but she’ll try.’

‘Wrack’s the horse!’ A dogmatic gentleman next to me hurries off to place his bet on Wrack. I wince a little, but the man’s no fool.

Comments are being made on the splendid condition of Wise Child, but the filly is as deaf to flattery as a hitching post. She’s deaf to everything. She circles round the paddock before the critical gaze of five hundred pairs of eyes. She moves modestly, even shyly, as if her being there at all is a matter she can only hope will be regarded as an excusable error.

Suddenly the crowd mumbles and shifts, the paddock opening is cleared, and the lead horse — a black stallion — prances in pompous style toward the track. In a few minutes it will all be over.

Eric and I hurry through the grandstand into Delamere’s box. We wait; we watch; we brace ourselves against the wooden ledge.

The horses canter briskly past the stands. Wise Child, with Sonny riding feather light, trips like a shy schoolgirl behind the others. She is without ego, but she can afford vanity. There’s not a prettier one in the field — nor one more thoughtful. I strain forward, trying foolishly to make her aware of me, to make her feel somehow that the burden of her secret is a little shared — the secret of those smartly bound legs that may have to yield so soon.

‘She’s in wonderful shape!’

Eric is radiant, but there’s no answer from me. I unbuckle my binocular case and find that my hands are shaking. She won’t win; she can’t win. I know Wrack’s form. I try to be casual, nodding to my friends, fumbling my program as if I could really read it. But the pages are blank. I read nothing. I stand staring down at the little group of horses with humourless anxiety, not as if this were just a race held under the African sun in a noisy settlement between Lake Victoria and the Indian Ocean, but as if this were the greatest race of all time, held on the greatest course, with the world looking over my shoulder.

Incongruously the band blares out the nerve-tightening notes of ‘Mandalay’ and some of the crowd beat the floor boards in heavy time. I wish the band would stop — and I love bands. I wish people would stop humming that dreary tune — and I love the tune. I can see perfectly well without glasses, but I lift the binoculars to my eyes and watch.

They’re at the post — some of them eager, some of them stubborn, some of them not quite sure. Atop their gleaming backs the jockeys look like gaudy baubles, secured with strings. They bob up and down, they rise, lean forward, then settle again. A horse rears, or whirls, striking plumes of dust from the track until the bright marionette he carries is swallowed in it, but appears again, transformed now — stubbornly human now, controlling, guiding, watching.