THIRTEEN

UNDER PENALTY OF TORTURE I COULD NOT HAVE DESCRIBED one moment of that trip, not one moment. I was so excited that all I could recall was climbing into Mr. Stead’s buggy alongside Grandmother, then hearing the word “whoa” and being handed down in front of a mansion the like of which I’d never seen.

My mouth hung open as a servant led us past it and into a carriage house as grand as any church. A full two stories on the inside, it was strikingly clad in alternating ribbons of brick and stone. Thick golden sunlight streamed through a row of high windows, burnishing the wooden posts that divided the stately box stalls. That put me in mind of the boxed pews at King’s Chapel. A similar sort of holy hush did blanket the place. Along the central aisle, the horses, notably all black bays or dark chestnuts, pressed against their half doors and craned their necks with interest toward the doubly large stall at the front. That’s where the servant pointed us before disappearing.

“Harland!” A man pacing beside that stall broke the silence with his holler. “The foal isn’t coming. It’s been stuck like this for almost an hour. Why isn’t it coming?” He was as well appointed as his stable, even without his black waistcoat, which was neatly folded over the stall door. His linen shirt stood snowy white against a gray silk vest, and his cuffs and collar had been starched to perfection. At the moment, however, that perfect appearance was creased with anxiety. “Look!” he said.

We all peered over the high door to see a round-bellied chestnut mare lying on her side, obviously in distress. A pair of tiny white hooves stuck out past her limp tail.

Mr. Stead responded with his typical calm. “Let’s see what we have here,” he said as he donned his apron and rolled up his sleeves. In an instant he was kneeling waist deep in the spotless straw bedding. He tugged on the two hooves, testing them a bit, then pushed against them. “I suspect,” he said as he leaned his weight into the mare, “that the foal’s head is turned back on its body and that’s what’s blocking the birthing.” He grunted with the effort. His knees slid on the straw. “I’m just going to … push … the front legs back in … and … maneuver them a bit. Hopefully the head will slip around and come forward like it’s supposed to.”

The mare, looking as fragile as a deer in this awkward situation, suddenly snorted in alarm. She began scrambling violently, sending straw and dust swirling through the air.

“Here now,” Mr. Stead scolded. He threw his arms across her hindquarters in a vain attempt to keep her from flailing. “Mr. Lauber, get in here and sit on her head.”

Mr. Lauber rushed into the stall too fast, alarming the mare all the more. She tried to get to her feet. He charged at her head several times, tentatively grabbing for her halter, desperate to avoid the sharp hooves.

“Hold her down!” Mr. Stead ordered.

“I’m trying,” the man cried.

The mare managed to right her front end. She was about to stand up. “Miss Selby!” Mr. Stead shouted, and I was inside and at the mare’s head before he could finish his request: “I need you.”

Taking a sure grip on the mare’s halter, close to her ears, I leaned my weight against it. She fell back with a soft thud. Before she could arise, I carefully straddled her neck, stroking her cheek and crooning to her at the same time. There was so much fear in her eyes. I wanted to make it go away.

“Well done,” Mr. Stead murmured under his breath. He was concentrating on the twisted foal hidden inside the huge belly. “Steady now.”

Entranced, I watched him return to his rhythm of pushing, then gently pulling, twisting a little this way and a little that. The strain showed on his face. I glanced at Grandmother, who was watching over the top of the high stall door. Her lips were moving, in prayer, I suppose, but otherwise she was silent. Twenty or even thirty minutes must have passed before Mr. Stead abruptly sat back on his heels and heaved a sigh of despair.

“What? What is it?” Mr. Lauber stood over him, his voice fraught with worry.

“The foal’s body is too dry. I can’t get it out I fear it’s dead.”

“Dead?” the owner echoed. “It can’t be. That’s a thousand-dollar stud fee I’m out.”

“You could be out more,” Mr. Stead said wearily, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. “If I can’t find a way to get the foal’s body out, you’ll lose Queenie, too. And even if I can get it out, there’s no telling what damage has already been done to her, which means you’ll lose her anyway.”

“That’s not acceptable.” Mr. Lauber stubbornly crossed his arms as if he were arguing the price of hay, rather than the ebbing life of a fine broodmare. “You’re just going to have to keep trying. Keep trying, I say!”

Nodding, Mr. Stead reached back inside the mare. His face grew taut with concentration as his fingers puzzled their way around the foal. The mare had given up struggling, and I slid off her neck. I was afraid she’d given up living. Kneeling beside her, I kept stroking her damp cheek, praying that she’d manage to hang on, praying that her foal somehow managed to be born alive. The stable fell quiet again. Every living thing, human and animal alike, seemed to be focusing on this one birth. The only sounds that disturbed the silence were the determined grunts and groans of Mr. Stead, the accompanying rustle of straw beneath his knees, and the occasional nervous cough of Mr. Lauber. Far, far away in the distance I heard a ship’s whistle. It seemed odd that people were traveling elsewhere, going on with their lives, when everything of importance was happening right here.

Mr. Stead’s face suddenly broke into a satisfied grin. “Aha!” he shouted. Using both hands, he pulled, long and slowly, on the two little hooves, and this time a small head with a wide white blaze followed. The pale sack that covered the foal ripped at the point of the hooves and, as the tiny bundle continued emerging from the mare, the sack fell around its shoulders in a gauzy shawl. With one final pull, the foal—a colt—plopped into the straw, a motionless lump. Queenie nickered weakly. The small body didn’t answer.

Mr. Stead murmured, “I’m sorry.”

I looked up to see tears streaming down Mr. Lauber’s stricken face.

“You haven’t all given up, have you?” Grandmother rapped on the stall door. “Give him a good rub, now. Go on, you’ll see.” She waggled a finger at us. “And pray.”

I repeated my prayer more urgently— Please, God, please let this colt live—as Mr. Stead took a towel from his satchel and began rubbing the spindly chest, the ribbed sides, the limp neck. He lifted the head onto his lap and gently wiped out the nostrils and the mouth. Bending over, he blew air into the still body. Nothing. He blew again, and again. Still nothing. He glanced helplessly at Grandmother, who waggled a finger a second time, and he returned to rubbing the foal’s sides.

All at once, a shiver rippled the colt’s damp body. His eyelids fluttered and he sucked in a little gulp of air. Feebly, he tried to raise his head. Queenie nickered. With an enormous effort, she righted her front end, arced her head toward her tail, and sniffed at her newborn.

Mr. Lauber’s face was even wetter now. “You did it!” he exclaimed. “You did it!”

Slowly climbing to his feet, Mr. Stead smiled. “It wasn’t all my doing,” he said humbly. “I don’t make claims to raise the dead.”

The two men quietly exited the stall and joined Grandmother in admiring the newborn. I eased into the corner, awestruck. The perfectly miniature horse was chestnut, with a silvery muzzle and impossibly long legs. The tips of his fuzzy ears curled toward each other like parentheses.

“What a handsome little fellow,” Grandmother said. “I anoint him ‘David’ for he is ‘comely in appearance.’”

To my immense surprise, Mr. Lauber agreed. “I like that,” he said. “His mother’s Queenie, so it’s only fitting she have a king for a son. King David it is, then.”

Although she seemed far too weak for it, Queenie managed to stand. Rocking unsteadily, she began inspecting her colt. She nuzzled his damp back, his ears, his face. Her breath ruffled the fringe of curly mane on his neck. Even though she was trembling as much as he was, she licked him from one end to the other, then began nudging him to stand.

Having no more substance than a sprite, David popped to his spindly legs. He tottered a mad step or two and collapsed in a heap. Queenie whinnied. Her concern was immediately echoed by the whinnies of the other horses in the barn. I wanted to rush over to help him, but Mr. Stead, who must have read my mind, kept me to my place by quietly saying, “He’ll learn it. You watch and see.”

So the four of us kept watching, with me digging my nails into my palm at each of David’s tumbling failures. After a while, it seemed that his mother lost interest. She nosed through her hay a little, then stood with her back to us, splay-legged and dozing. David clambered to his feet again, swayed wildly, and crumpled in the straw.

We had to do something! I looked up at Mr. Stead and found, to my blushing surprise, that he’d been watching me. “Why isn’t she helping him?” I asked across the stall.

“Because this is something he has to learn to do on his own,” he replied. “God gave him strong legs to stand on; he just has to learn how to use them.”

“Father, is anything wrong?” A young female voice sounded from the end of the carriage house. “What are you watching?”

“Shh!” Mr. Lauber hushed his daughter. “Queenie’s had her colt.” He motioned for her to join us.

She arrived without a sound of footsteps, which oddly reminded me of my mother’s silent comings and goings. The girl was strikingly pretty, with the porcelain complexion of a china doll, and maybe a year or two older than me. But with no more than a glance over the stall door, she announced, “Mother wants to know—”

“Shh!” Mr. Lauber shot a warning look at her.

The command came because David had again made it to his feet and was managing to keep his balance this time. He bravely took a step, wobbled, took another one, and was still standing. His mother pricked her ears and nickered encouragement. He answered in a high-pitched whinny. With innocent determination, he lifted first one spider leg and then another, rushing the sequence until he was tottering … right in front of me.

Holding my breath, I slid down the wall to crouch at his level. His bulging eyes tried to follow the motion. I smiled. With his whiskery chin and bobbling head, he reminded me of a little old man who’d been drenched by an unexpected rainstorm. I extended my hand. Inquisitively he stretched his skinny neck. His damp muzzle tickled my palm. When his lips parted, I felt his rubbery gums bumping against my skin. Such a look of surprise came over him that he jumped back, shook his head, and nearly fell over. I had to stifle a laugh. Queenie nickered again, and this time he found his way directly to her side. Almost by accident, though I suspect it was more by God’s hand, he found his mother’s teat and began suckling.

Mr. Lauber spoke to Mr. Stead. “Thank you, Harland,” he said, before returning his misty gaze to the mare and foal.

Mr. Stead nodded. Looking back at the new pair, he smiled and said, “My pleasure.”