September, somewhere in Pennsylvania
A loud chorus of cicadas seemed to get louder and louder as I came off Karl’s shiny horse van onto a cracked cement pad and looked around at the expanse of overgrown green brambles and vines that crowded an old paint-chipped bank barn. The ominous sound reminded me of the Florida night when my mother was killed. I felt the stone in my belly.
I don’t like this place.
I stood for a moment, taking it in.
“He’s kind of fragile looking, don’t you think?” Tom sneered. He curled his lip while he lit a cigarette with the humid, late August afternoon hanging heavily around us. If my new owner, Mr. Smith, a friend of Karl Arnaquer’s lawyer, noticed how rude his neighbor was, he didn’t acknowledge it.
Tom shook his head in disgust. “Why would anyone want a thin-skinned Thoroughbred when they could have a real horse like my Belgians, Buddy and Pete?” He tilted his head and squinted, his narrow, icy blue eyes coldly appraising me. His grease-stained fingernails, muck-covered work boots and sour, unwashed smell contrasted starkly with Mr. Smith’s polished leather shoes, crisp, clean button-down shirt with a wet patch beginning to show under his arms and clean smell I couldn’t identify — a little bit like horse shampoo.
“It’s a shame I only get out from the city on weekends, I’d love to spend more time at the farm getting to know Raja. Thanks, Tom, I appreciate your willingness to care for him along with your drafts, and I’m looking forward to enjoying the countryside with him when he’s had time off to heal.”
“Come on, now,” Tom growled, roughly leading me toward a rusty gate that guarded a big weed-filled field.
On edge, I skittered sideways to avoid stepping on the purple thistles bursting out of the cracks in the cement. Tom snatched my lead shank and gave it a jerk, growling again, “See here, now.”
I took a step forward and let him lead me across the cracked concrete barnyard littered with peeling red paint and broken glass, past a forest of thistles and burdocks camouflaging the neglected, but once glorious, old bank barn. A big wooden door, pockmarked with holes used by generations of raccoons and squirrels, hung precariously from broken hinges, barely hiding the cobwebbed interior crammed full of old, rusty farm equipment. He strode purposefully through a brown puddle as if to make a point, while Mr. Smith tiptoed behind, trying to avoid stepping in the mud.
Tom opened the gate, and led me into the field. He took off my halter and smacked my hindquarters with the lead shank.
“Yah!”
I stood for a moment, glancing at Mr. Smith, who looked kind, but unsure. He looked back at me, admiringly. “He’s beautiful, you have to admit. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Keats. Welcome, Raja,” he smiled shyly.
Tom rolled his eyes as he took a drag of his cigarette, holding it with his thumb and forefinger before flicking it into a patch of thistles by the gate.
“Yeah, whatever,” he grunted.
First, a good roll — it felt great. The last time I had been turned out in anything other than a small paddock was at Michelle’s. Six months seemed a lifetime ago. After the roll, I trotted over to meet Buddy and Pete.
Whoa! They’re giants! Are they really horses?
Long, blond manes spilled, disorganized, over their light brown coats, while their feathery fetlocks topped massive hooves. We sniffed noses for a few minutes, then they squealed, spun around and tried to kick me.
Great. They not just big; they’re territorial.
“You pleasure horses don’t know about real work,” scoffed Buddy. “Pete and I have been the champion pulling-horse team at the state fair three years in a row. We can pull ten times the logs you could. Pete and I don’t talk to sissy horses.”
Torture. I’m being tortured.
Mosquitoes, deerflies, greenheads, ticks, and big bomber horseflies bit me; gnats and bot flies annoyed me; ground bees, hornets, wasps, and yellow jackets stung me. No fly masks or fly sheets, not even fly spray here.
“What’s your problem, sissy horse?” Buddy and Pete taunted. They stood head-to-tail swishing flies off each other, not seeming to mind them with their thick, draft horse coats and long manes. Welts and bites covered my body; sharp, itchy pricks. When the flies were really bad, especially at dusk or after a big rain, I learned to roll in the mud. It helped a little, but not much. My hooves began to crack and my feet got so sore that I had to walk on my toes. After walking around with two shoes clinking from loose nails for weeks, my shoes fell off, one by one.
November, somewhere in Pennsylvania
Giant flocks of geese honked loudly overhead, sometimes landing in our field to rest for the night before heading on, hurriedly, in the morning. Tom’s chainsaw whined and complained in a high-pitched growl as he sawed, split and stacked a pile of wood next to the barn. Squirrels rushed around anxiously getting ready.
Ready for what?
Winter! They’re getting ready for winter.
I suddenly realized. The trees turned orange and brown and then surrendered their withered leaves to the cold wind that rushed impatiently across our big open field. Buddy and Pete, coats thick and fuzzy, huddled next to each other. My coat stayed fine and thin. I seemed to always be shivering. It was freezing.
One grey, woodsmoke-scented day, I was huddled next to a big oak tree trying to shelter from the bitter wind. Something white drifted in front of me and landed on my nose. Then another one twirled gracefully to the ground. A few more followed and soon there were hundreds of them. I looked up.
The sky is falling! Whoa! What’s happening?
Cold, pieces of sky fell until they covered the ground. I stood still, watching and snorting, wondering what to do. Finally, I ran over to Pete and Buddy.
“Haven’t you ever seen snow, you thin-skinned ninny?” Buddy scoffed cuttingly, rolling his eyes at Pete.
I wasn’t just cold. I was hungry and I was thirsty, so thirsty. My mane and tail were heavy from the burdocks tangled in them. Just grazing was a huge effort for not much reward, pawing through four inches of snow for an hour for only a couple of withered blades of grass. At first, I loved rolling in the light, fluffy snow, but after a few days it got crusty and the snow packed into hard ice balls in my hooves, making it almost impossible to walk. I tiptoed for an hour down to the stream only to find it frozen solid. Walking back up the hill, I slipped, falling to my knees.
I don’t want to get up. I just want to go to sleep.
But I got up and walked slowly, dejectedly, to the gate where I stood for hours, head down and hind end into the wind until Tom brought us a round bale of dusty hay and filled a tub with dirty water. Pinning their ears, Pete and Buddy bared their teeth and warned me to stay away from their hay and water.
I could feel myself growing thinner and weaker. Just walking across the snow-crusted field was a huge effort. I couldn’t imagine running or racing. That was another life, a dream of a life. All I wanted was food, shelter from the cold wind, and a friend.
I really just want to curl up and go to sleep, forever.
My mother’s words circled around in my head, mocking me, “You have greatness in you — it’s your destiny. Always remember that.”
Then I remembered her other words, “When life is hard, never, ever, give up.”
OK, I decided. Like my old buddy Max, I could be tough and dig deep, too.
March, somewhere in Pennsylvania
Thousands of birds passed high overhead, endless rivers of black dots. The sun lingered longer, teasing us with moments of gentle, caressing warmth. The geese came back, this time heading north more leisurely, stopping for a few days to feast on the tender new shoots growing in the field across the road.
One golden day, with the sun lighting up the delicate light green buds on the trees, Mr. Smith brought out an old, stiff, cracked leather saddle — no saddle pad — and a nylon bridle with a big, heavy straight bit.
“Hello, Raja, are you ready to go for a ride? I think your leg must be better now.” He took a while to put the tack on, as if he was trying to remember how it went. The leather felt stiff and one of the pieces was backward. The bit was too high in my mouth but he didn’t notice. The saddle slipped with the loose girth, but Mr. Smith didn’t seem to know that he needed to tighten it to keep the saddle secure.
“Whoa, buddy, steady. Stand.” He led me to a fence, climbed up and awkwardly got on. I jigged a little.
“Whoa, Raja, steady.”
Seeming nervous, he took a strong hold of the reins. I remembered my mother’s words and tried to be kind, even though it was uncomfortable with him bouncing on my back and the loose saddle pinching my withers. We started down the dirt road lining my field.
It feels so good to get out of that field!
May, somewhere in Pennsylvania
Oo-wah-hoo-oo-oo, echoed the mourning doves as the smells of rich, dark earth, newly mown grass and manure spreading on the fields tickled my nose on warm afternoons. The light green buds on the trees unfolded into leafy canopies as spring greened and deepened into summer. We made a jolly threesome: me, Mr. Smith, and Scrapple, his hyper springer spaniel, sniffing bushes and chasing squirrels as we went out into the golden afternoons with the cicadas and crickets singing us along.
August, somewhere in Pennsylvania
Late one muggy, grey August afternoon a year after I had first come to live in his field, Mr. Smith and Scrapple came out ready to go for their ride. Fat, dark clouds rumbled in the distance as the heavy air warned of approaching bad weather.
“What do you think, Raja? Can we beat the storm?” Mr. Smith looked up at the late August sky.“I think we can make it in time. We’ll just go for a short one today.”
We went our normal route around the neighbors’ corn field, across the stream, and into the big hay field. As we walked home through the woods, the sky grew darker and darker, almost black. Thunder belched in the distance as the wind swirled around us, picking up and dropping leaves. The trees started swaying and bowing, suddenly restless. I had a strange sense about the afternoon, as though the day was slightly off.
I spooked at a rotten log lying across the path in the woods and felt Mr. Smith slip a little to the side before recovering his balance.
I wish he would learn to do up the girth tighter!
Scrapple raced ahead of us after a rabbit, burning off nervous energy. A branch snapped and a crow’s hoarse rasping caw above us seemed to ring out a warning: “Storm’s coming! Danger! Danger! Go home!”
I had an odd sense of foreboding.
Something’s going to happen. I can feel it in my bones.
I froze, rooted to the ground, head up and ears flicking back and forth.
“Come on, Raja, what are you seeing? Let’s get home before the rain starts.”
Mr. Smith gave me a nudge with his heels. I stopped again, looking around, then walked on. When we reached the corn field at the edge of the woods, Mr. Smith’s farm came into view. I breathed a big sigh of relief and started to walk faster.
We’re almost home.
At that exact moment, a long yellow streak scorched the sky, striking the big oak tree in the middle of my field. The tree splintered and crashed loudly to the ground.
LIGHTNING!
My heart began to pound and a roar filled my ears.
Run! Escape!
I shot off across the hay field. Running blindly, I forgot Mr. Smith. I forgot everything except the need to escape! I dodged to the left to avoid stepping in a groundhog hole and felt a movement on my back, then a heavy weight sliding to the side and dragging on the ground behind me. I ran faster through the thick wall of rain, my heart pumping wildly as if being chased by a demon. Another crack of lightning lit up the sky. The fence was directly in front of me. With barely enough time, I rocked back on my hocks and jumped. The weight hit the fence post, breaking it along with the saddle.
Free! I’m free. The weight is gone.
As I ran to the next field, I gradually regained my senses.
Where is Mr. Smith?
I turned and saw Scrapple in the distance next to a broken fence post, sniffing at a heap of clothes on the ground and I trotted back to see what he was doing.
It’s Mr. Smith! He isn’t moving.
Not knowing what to do, Scrapple and I waited next to Mr. Smith. It seemed like hours we stood in the rain with Scrapple persistently licking Mr. Smith’s face, trying to wake him up.
Wake up. Wake UP!
As I was thinking about sheltering under the cherry trees to go to sleep, a flash of headlights, then Tom’s voice came through the wet darkness.
“There you are. I’ve been lookin’ all over.” He stepped out of his old, red, dented pickup truck.
“Oh LORD! What have you done to him?!” He knelt down and put his hand on Mr. Smith’s neck. “He’s breathing, thank goodness. I wonder how long he’s been lying here?” He wearily pulled out his cell phone. “Mike? It’s Tom. Hey, you need to come right away. Got a man down. Fell off a horse and hit his head. He’s unconscious. What’s that? The Smith farm. You know, Mr. Smith, that city lawyer who bought the old Miller place? Yeah, that’s it. I’ll be here in the back field. Hurry, looks serious.”
Soon the night was filled with loud wailing sounds and flashing lights and vehicles and busy-looking people fussing around Mr. Smith, putting him into a van. I stood watching and waiting, confused.
I couldn’t remember what had happened.
The next day, Tom caught me, roughly throwing on a stiff rope halter and leading me out of the field, then tugging me up the ramp of his old, rusty stock trailer.
I don’t like this. It’s time to stand up for myself.
I reared and pinned my ears.
What makes you think I’ll go anywhere with you?
He tugged harder, clipping the chain lead shank over my nose and yanking it sharply three times. “Come on, now,” he growled, “get on the trailer. I don’t have time for any guff. I’ll use the winch if I have to, you stupid Thoroughbred.”
I reared again, striking out with my foreleg. Then I felt a prick in my neck and saw Tom throw a plastic tube and needle onto the ground. Clipping my halter to a cable, he started to turn a handle on his truck and drag me into the trailer. It hurt if I pulled back. Besides, I was too sleepy to fight. I was so tired, I could barely stand. Who was that trying to get me in the trailer? Did I know him?
I got on the trailer, weaving unsteadily. A round sweaty face and cold narrow slits of eyes came closer, then faded away, out of focus, like a bad dream. I didn’t know where we were going, but as the trailer lurched and banged down the road and I struggled to stay awake, I knew that this wasn’t going to be good.
Strange visions flitted into my head: my mother; Princess Ayesha, smiling through her tears in the winner’s circle; Bob, Pedro, Michelle, Oakley, Speedy.
Where are you? Take me home. Help me!
I despaired as the dreams floated in and out. I just wanted this dream to end.
But it wasn’t a dream. This was real.