HORSE MAN

THE GIRL on the brown horse saluted and left the ring on a long rein. The judge, seated in a horse trailer parked at the end of the ring, spoke briefly to her scribe. Beyond the yellow rope, the spectators looked toward the entrance for the next competitor.

But the sand stretched empty. Blue paper covers of programs flashed in the sun as two dozen people opened them at once, turning to page six.

The next rider should be number twenty-eight, James MacLiesh. Horse, Ghazal. Owner, MacLiesh Farm. Time of Test, ten-fifteen.

It’s ten-fifteen now.

The scribe shuffled through her papers, then rose from her lawn chair and came down the ramp. There were no loudspeakers. Arenas were widely spaced throughout the meadows, and the emphasis was on concentration.

“Number twenty-eight is scratched,” the scribe called. “Is number seventeen ready to go?”

A shirt-sleeved girl doing canter transitions on a fat white mare shouted from the warm-up area, “No, I’m not!”

“Okay, you don’t have to go until your time,” the scribe assured her. “Would someone be willing to run back to the kitchen and get us a couple of sodas?”

James sighed and turned away. A morbid impulse had brought him to this ring at just this time, and now he regretted it. The white horse made him think of Ghazal—clumsy, stupid Ghazal, who had stepped on himself last week while landing from a jump. He’d torn off a shoe and cut the bulb of his hoof. He needed at least three weeks’ rest, and he was scratched from this, the two-day dressage show toward which James had been working since early spring.

Sigh. He looked around for his cousin Gloria, who had come with him today.

When he found her, her back was turned, and she was taking a picture.

James had come because he couldn’t stay away, but Gloria was working; photographing riders who might buy the pictures, getting material for the local papers, and taking pictures for herself, to swell her portfolio and sharpen her eye.

There were hundreds of pictures to take: bright polo bandages on the flashing legs of horses; foam spattered on sweat-dark chests; bits and buckles twinkling in the sun, the glow of clean leather; chestnut, black, bay, and silver hides; the precise touch of a blunt chrome spur to a horse’s rib; the flick of the wrist deploying the long dressage whip; a jaw yielding softly, a jaw clenched hard; the pricked ears and bright eyes of distraction, the back-turned ears and dreaming, serious eyes of a horse who paid attention. Horses made ugly by their riders, made beautiful by their riders.

James saw, and ached to be here. Now he was nothing—a small, insubstantial person walking on the ground. He had no horse to make him important. Nothing to talk about, nothing to do. Acquaintances riding past seemed not to see him, and he didn’t bring himself to their attention.

His own sneakers caught his eye. He looked down at them glumly. Sneakers, not boots; symbolic—

The camera was now pointed at him. He jerked up his head in sharp indignation, but too late.

“I’m going to call it ‘Grounded,’” said Gloria. “Poor James!”

James gave her a long glare that she didn’t see. But he thought, too, of how he must have looked, and after a moment he hoisted his mouth into a near smile and followed the movements of Gloria’s camera, alertly if blankly. He would keep his self-pity locked inside from now on, where no one could take pictures of it.

Deliberately, because he had no mental focus of his own today, he made himself think about what she was seeing.

It was people as much as horses. James always saw horses first, but Gloria was seeing, as well, the sleek twelve-year-olds on their multithousand-dollar ponies, and the grubby, earnest twelve-year-olds who had to try ten times as hard, with no expensive teacher to tell them how. She saw the multitude of strong, handsome girls, the horsey beauties James liked so much to look at, and she saw the men, who were fewer. She saw the patient craft in the faces of middle-aged riders, the compensating they had to do, and the knowledge they had exchanged for limberness. And she saw …

And she saw the woman.

The woman rode by them on an incredible black warm-blood, bringing him down fluently from his warm-up work. She was perfect!

James turned in his tracks as she passed. He saw her halt the horse in two strides beside a man; bending her head to speak to him, sun glowing on her dark French braid … what a lovely neck! She wore a sleeveless riding shirt; her arms were bare and brown and beautiful, and she wore gloves, which seemed beautiful too.

“Isn’t he amazing?” Gloria murmured. She sounded appropriately awestruck, but the camera clicked away, recording minute variations of the scene.

“Mmm,” said James. How peculiar that Gloria, for once, was seeing only the horse! But he hastened to make clear that he, too, was gawking just at horseflesh. “Lotta power in those britches,” he said, nodding to the warm-blood’s gleaming, muscled haunches.

Gloria gasped. He glanced at her. The camera drifted down from her eye, and she stared at him, openmouthed and blushing. Then she started to laugh.

“James, I was talking about the man!”

“What?” James looked again and saw with indignation that the man’s hand rested on the beautiful woman’s knee. He had a strange face; triangular, big-nosed, with shiny, smooth-stretched skin the color of polished mahogany. His long greenish eyes were lifted to hers. They gazed into each other’s faces as if nothing on earth would have the power to distract them.

“Man’s like catnip, apparently,” murmured Gloria. James felt a powerful inner kick of antagonism.

“Ugly as sin!” he said roughly, lifting his eyes to the woman’s face. She was instant and glorious refreshment.

“James, stop gaping! Come on!” Gloria took him by the arm and towed him a few unresisting steps before he dug in his heels.

“No. I want … I want to stay and see these tests.”

Gloria let go—perhaps only to snap another picture. Beneath the black box, her mouth smiled. “Okay. I’m going to cruise awhile.”

So I’m obvious, thought James. So what! But he made an effort to seem cool, noting his location—Arena Three—where, checking the program, Second Level tests were in progress. He nodded gravely at the program, in case Gloria was still looking, and strolled to a position from which he could watch the woman while appearing to watch the tests.

She looked like a queen, with that beautiful braid for a coronet. She looked like a fairy tale—too lovely to be real. Yet here she was, in the midst of what was to James the most beautiful setting in the world, outshining all. When he could shift his gaze for a few seconds, he saw that her dark, vivid face and glowing eyes drew many glances.

Or was it the man? Briefly James wondered if Gloria could be right; what she had heard; who this bozo was. But he had no time to spare for the puzzle. The sight of the woman was doing something wonderful to his spirit, and he didn’t want to waste a minute.

When she donned coat and hat and pinned on a number, he checked in the program and found her name—Norah Craig. Norah. Beautiful.

The horse had a Swedish name and belonged to Silver Thimble Farm.

So. Silver Thimble was a coming name, with wealth behind it and a fine herd of the prestigious Swedish warm-bloods. It was practically his duty to watch this woman ride; check out the competition.

She was up next, and as she rode away toward the entrance James saw that she was good. She seemed to grow up from the center of the horse’s back, like a willow. Her hands were educated and gave back as much as they took. As she trotted around the outside of the ring James watched in fascination the long, gleaming boot, folding softly at the ankle as the dancing foot absorbed concussion.

“Hello, James.”

Now someone saw him! He gave the speaker a fleeting glance.

Harriet Marks, who’d bought horses from MacLiesh Farm; an accountant in her fifties; one of the fair to not-so-good riders who made up the lower echelon of the sport, but a great person with whom James always enjoyed a talk. He said hello, and his eyes swung back to Norah and the Swedish horse.

The judge’s bell tinkled. Norah proceeded without haste toward the entrance. A perfect arc at the same cadenced trot brought her straight down the center to her halt, with lovely inevitability. She dropped her gloved right hand to her side and bowed her head in salute to the judge. Her grace and grandeur satisfied James deeply.

“Too bad those back legs didn’t square,” muttered Harriet.

James closed her out of his mind, throwing all his attention into the arena. He made himself judge, rider, and even horse. He executed the first corner in a lovely arc; he felt the power and smoothness of it. He said to himself, Good! and gave her nine points. And as James MacLiesh he saw, again and again and again, how beautiful she was. He said to himself, I am in love.

“… butter wouldn’t melt,” said Harriet. “Never believe she’s gone through two husbands already.”

“Norah?” In his shock James tore his gaze from the ring for a second. Harriet gave a pleased little nod.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “and that’s not all.…”

But James was already back with Norah and the Swedish horse, as the elastic shoulder-in completed itself in a ten-meter circle, and then a flying, lengthened trot across the diagonal. He felt the places where Norah’s concentration wavered. Each time the horse’s drive escaped in some inaccuracy. He turned roughly, overshot a letter by a couple of strides, and began to work too fast. The lengthening of stride at the canter more nearly resembled a cavalry charge. James was close as the horse flew by down the rail. He heard the great rhythmic puffs of breath and saw the firm half halts, all too vigorous, all too necessary. Yet she did collect him to make the corner, and though he betrayed great excitement, she was able to guide him through the rest of the test without mishap.

The smile she put on, leaving the ring, was forced, and dropped off as soon as she passed through the gate. Yet she leaned forward, too, and clapped her gloved hand twice on the long, low neck of the tired horse.

Good! thought James. The horse deserved praise. His faults were generous, the result of too much energy rather than too little. A horse that gave too much could always be improved.

He turned away from the next competitor; a stingy horse, executing the figures precisely in a dull pony gait; a bunchy rider with tight shoulders and no neck. He followed Norah at a discreet distance, delighting in the weary grace with which she swept the hat from her head.

“… every single one! That’s what I’ve heard.”

How annoying! Harriet was still at his side. He looked at her, for the first time seeing that she wore riding clothes.

“When do you ride?” he asked, hoping it would be soon.

Harriet gave him a puzzled, annoyed look. “I ride in forty minutes,” she said with utmost precision. “I asked you to do a little coaching, and you said yes.”

So they weren’t following Norah Craig. They were going to the barn.

Norah was going that way, too, with the black coat folded over one bare arm—hat, whip and reins all gracefully gathered in her hands; beside her, the man. They paced slowly, hips rolling, strides perfectly matched. Behind walked the Swedish horse, long and loose.

Snatches of talk drifted back, and James accelerated to eavesdrop.

“… freight train,” said Norah. Her voice was low and creamy. “I half-halted the hell out of him—”

“Yes, darling, that was painfully obvious. But what I’d like to point out is the extent to which he responded. Not enough, plainly, but he heard you this time. I see improvement.”

“I let him get away from me,” said Norah, her voice going deeper, as if it were difficult to admit a fault. “When my concentration was right, I had him.”

James felt a little rise of heart, because he had sensed that. He understood her.…

So did the detestable man at her side. He slid an arm around her waist and gave her a long, complicated look, full of sympathy for the trials in her life that might disturb her concentration, and of merry willingness to disturb her in a different way. For now he only kissed her cheek. “Have Jay cool him out and get Maia ready. I have to coach Evelyn now.” He gave her a squeeze, and departed.

Walking captive beside Harriet, James half listened to her gossip till Norah disappeared around the corner of a barn. Then, spirits deflating, he began to hear again.

“… did very well in the first divorce,” said Harriet. “The second husband has money, too, but maybe he won’t part with it so easily, because I hear they’re patching things up.”

“Was that guy the husband?”

Again he got the odd look. “No,” said Harriet crisply. “Garry Kunstler, the trainer at Silver Thimble.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.”

So that was the famous Garry; hot local favorite among trainers and riding teachers, a name dropped reverently from every lip. Two years ago he’d been National Champion, Prix St. George, on his great horse Avatar.

No wonder …

“Anyway,” said Harriet, “here’s Devan. Help me saddle, will you, James?”

Devan was a MacLiesh Farm graduate; a small chestnut mare whose one fault had been her adamant refusal to enter a trailer. Tom MacLiesh had ridden her twenty-five miles home from the place where he bought her, and labored over her for months.

Like every horse that passed through MacLiesh hands, she had a certain potential—a decent build, decent gaits, the willing, teachable personality that Tom MacLiesh had a knack for spotting in the most unpromising places.

But ahead of them, as they made for an unoccupied slice of meadow in which to work, walked Garry Kunstler, beside a Hanoverian ten times the horse Devan was; stride like a young giraffe; mild, intelligent head; bloodlines back to the time of Fredrick the Great and beyond.… Devan seemed like a mustang off the range, and compared to that straight-backed redhead, poor old Harriet …

Well, Harriet was a tryer and Devan was an innocent, and they deserved his best, such as it was. “Here,” he said, stopping, and shortening his field of vision to exclude Garry Kunstler.

“Trot around me a few—no, out farther. Okay.”

Worse than he’d imagined. Harriet bounced and thumped and tugged, wearing a most professional and serious expression. She was obviously working very hard, and felt she knew what she was doing. Under this treatment, Devan moved with stilted, choppy strides, with high head and a distracted expression.

“No!” James cried. “Loosen up—no, be soft! Don’t jab her mouth … keep contact with her! No!”

No good. He could not teach Harriet piecemeal, by correcting her every move. First she needed something inside; a model of correctness, a hero to imitate.

“Pretend you’re Norah Craig!” he said. “Get a picture of Norah in your head!”

The corner of Harriet’s mouth thinned derisively.

“Let me get on,” cried James in desperation. There were fifteen minutes left before the test, and it was no time for a lesson; really, no chance of doing good. Yet he sensed in the current, attenuated Devan a perfect motion striving to be free.

He coaxed Harriet to the ground and mounted, crossing the stirrups in front of the saddle. No time to waste adjusting them. He urged Devan forward.

She felt small and unsteady to him, liable to duck out from under him at any moment. She felt dull, rough, and jerky.

But … she was reins in his hands and a saddle beneath him, the hot smell of horse in his nostrils, the unseen body that seemed so naturally a part of his own. He felt alive again.

“Trot, Devan! Come on!”

Her response was meager, but he pushed, with legs, whip, seat, voice, and spirit. “Trot, girl! Trot!”

At last she began to fly, like a high-powered engine finding the range it was built for. Her ears flicked forward and back, expressing pleasure and disbelief. You mean you’re allowed to go like this? Her stride became oily and powerful.

Now she wanted to get out of hand, but James balanced her with light checks and releases and small suppling circles. She didn’t yet understand how to come against the bit and flex herself, like a drawn bow. She wanted to go through. James got her walking again, calmed her down, made her listen. At the corner of his eye he saw Harriet look at her watch.

“James, I’ve got to go!”

“Okay.” He jumped down without touching the stirrups. His chest felt full of air, and his sneakered feet light.

“Up you go! You’ll do fine. Remember, support her from behind, keep pushing. The judge wants to see impulsion.”

Harriet gave him a tight-lipped glance and was silent.

James followed her toward the ring where the First Level test was running. First Level—he himself was now accomplished at First Level, able at last to be both bold and attentive to detail. He’d been reasonably confident of winning today; at least, of doing well enough to move Ghazal up and enter Second Level as a novice.

Next time. Next time.

Soon, then, he would compete against Norah Craig. Would he become as good as she was? Or would she be moving on, too, forever beyond him? Did it matter? He was never able to decide how much he cared about competition. You measured yourself against other riders, but the true measure was your horse, and that measure could be taken in private.

He spotted Gloria across the ring, face half hidden behind her camera. He wondered what she now saw through the lens. The grounds crew had done a nice job on this show, and as it was the first day, the tubs of geraniums were still fresh and the grass not much trampled. The low rail, a mere three inches off the turf, sparkled with fresh paint. It was the barest sketch of a fence, a symbol of the willing cooperation of the horses. James liked the rail. He hoped Gloria’s pictures would say something about it.

A horse and rider left the ring, and now it was Harriet’s turn. James stood close to the yellow rope, watching as she trotted Devan around the outside, awaiting the bell—dreading the bell. How grim she looked, unlike herself. The brief euphoria died in James’s heart. Helplessly, guiltily, he watched the dynamic of frustration build itself. Harriet, knocked off-balance by his coaching, by the change he’d made in Devan—afraid, tight, clutching. Devan, also off-balance, full of go, resentful because she knew she should not be poky and dull but should fly—pulling on the bit, Harriet clutching, Devan shaking her head, swishing her tail, shying at the judge’s trailer.… James tried to catch Harriet’s eye as she passed, but she didn’t see him.

“Hello,” said a soft voice at his side. James spared a quick glance. Oh fine! he thought. The crowning pleasure of this glorious moment.

“Garry Kunstler,” said the man, smiling and holding out his hand.

“James MacLiesh.” They shook hands briefly, already turning back toward the ring.

“I saw you on that mare a few minutes ago,” said Garry. “Good work!”

The bell tinkled. Horse and rider jumped. “I’m not so sure,” said James.

“Oh, they’re shaken up, of course. They’ll do poorly. But …” Garry shrugged. “That’s the price of learning.”

“I’m not sure Harriet wants to pay,” James said. “And I never asked.”

He watched her enter the ring, making a wobbly line down the center, halting a few feet past X. A quick, jerky salute; the dropped hand leapt back to the rein. Then, mindful of James’ injunction to push forward, she goosed Devan into a hasty trot.

“Oh, no!” James groaned.

“Not so bad. You’ve made a difference in that horse.”

“Oh, yeah!” James agreed glumly as Harriet accomplished the most nearly triangular circle he’d yet seen. Then she set off down the rail. Devan was high-headed, leaning on the bit. Harriet leaned right back.

They took the corner without bending at all. “Oh, Harriet!” James groaned. “You’re so awful!” Then, remembering the stranger at his side, “I shouldn’t say that. She’s a great person.…”

Garry shrugged, as if that mattered very little. True enough, James supposed. In the present circumstances Harriet’s feisty and humorous personality made no difference at all. Feistiness and humor had drained away. She was pale and wide-eyed, passing him. Her ungloved hands showed white at the knuckle.

My fault, thought James. Poor Harriet!

Yet Devan looked better. Though awkward and out of control, she revealed the natural forward energy that Harriet had hitherto dampened.

You can save this, James telegraphed urgently to Harriet. Calm down and think! Get down in the middle of her—

Too late. Harriet failed to turn the corner; Devan hopped the white rail gaily, ears pricked and neck arched. Lighting on the other side, she gave a saucy snort and looked around for fresh worlds to conquer.

The judge’s bell rang sharply, signaling disqualification as James turned from the yellow rope and hurried toward the gate. Norah Craig was in his way. He waited impatiently for her to pass and rushed to catch Devan’s headstall, looking up at Harriet’s angry, humiliated face.

It was a terrible moment. James felt every hour of the thirty-year difference in their ages, and his guilt quailed before her anger. He felt, too, how central they were in the public eye, and he had no notion what he was going to say. Yet something must be said, to save himself, to save face for Harriet, and to save for Devan the awkward progress she had made. He met Harriet’s pebbly stare for some long seconds; then he blurted, “Harriet, I know you’re upset, but she’s really made a breakthrough!”

The corner of Harriet’s mouth jumped. She pulled it back into line for a second, and then laughed reluctantly. “Yes, James, she certainly has!”

“No! I mean—look, come down here where I can talk to you!”

Harriet looked down on him for one more half-angry moment, tapping the long dressage whip on her thigh. Then she nodded and came down. Under the anger and the laugh, James sensed how shaken she was. Horribly contrite, and knowing himself in some measure forgiven, he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. At that moment he caught the eye of Garry Kunstler, standing near the gate watching. James flushed and led Harriet away.

“Sorry, I blew it for you. Do you ride tomorrow?”

“No, just the two today.” She laughed, looking down at her boots. “Never mind, James. I blew the first one, too, all by myself.”

“Well, then …” James took a deep breath. “I want you two to come down to us for some lessons—and before you say anything, the first couple are on the house. Okay? I owe you.”

Harriet looked up, about to protest. She met James’ eyes, hesitated, and said, “Yes.”

“Good! You felt how much she’s got in her—”

Harriet glanced at Devan, walking quietly beside her but with a lingering brightness in her eye. “Entirely different horse. She scared me to death.”

“That’s the horse she should be! That’s how much she ought to give. And you can handle it, Harriet, once you know what to expect.”

“Can I?” Harriet’s voice was uncharacteristically low. “I’m a middle-aged accountant with chunky thighs, James, and I’ve been trying for a long time. I don’t know if I can be any better.”

Neither did James. Certainly he hadn’t thought so half an hour ago. But now he had to make her better, and he frowned at her sternly. “You are fishing for compliments,” he said. “Can you come Wednesday at three?”

“How about four?”

“All right, four. Without fail!”

Harriet was recovering and smiled at him indulgently, reminding him how young he was and that he was only male. “All right, Mr. MacLiesh. Without fail!” She led Devan away toward the barns.

Drained, James stood watching her go. He liked the way her head was high again, and her shoulders square. Good old Harriet!

“Well done!” said a soft voice at his shoulder, and he turned in astonishment to find Garry Kunstler.

He felt his brows shoot up and his face freeze haughtily. “I disagree,” he said, and feeling he’d proven himself in every way a bastard, he turned to walk away, pretending to look for someone.

But Garry Kunstler was still at his side, speaking as if he hadn’t heard the snub. “It’s a fine line, of course, between teaching and manipulation. Horse or human, I feel it every day.”

James slowed his steps. He knew he was being manipulated even now, but he was intrigued.

“I square it with myself,” said Garry, “by remembering that they want this. Every horse knows in his bones what balance is. Every horse knows how to dance. If they were to live their lives in freedom, they wouldn’t need teaching. But that’s not how it is. I show them how to regain their natural balance under a rider, and they want to be balanced, because it’s right.”

“Hmm,” said James, wondering. “And how do you square with yourself about people?” He thought specifically of Norah.

Garry smiled. “People pay,” he said. “They’re capable of figuring me out and manipulating me, in their turn. I don’t worry so much about people.”

They were threading slowly among the spectators, people with dogs on leashes and people with babies in backpacks, people loaded down with other people’s coats, hats, numbers, and bottles of fly spray. They came up now to another stretch of yellow rope, beside a ring where Training Level tests were in progress.

“Tell me about your place,” said Garry. “I’ve heard of the MacLieshes, of course, but till now I’ve never met one.”

James’s suspicions were conquered. Of course it’s done deliberately, he reminded himself, but he didn’t really care. Eyes on the ring, taking in half consciously the soothing rhythm of horses’ legs in motion, he told Garry Kunstler about MacLiesh Farm; his work with Ghazal and Robbie, and the various spoiled horses; his hopes, his ambitions. Garry listened and asked illuminating questions.

The last thing he asked was, “Have you ever ridden an upper-level horse?”

James was distracted for a second. Across the ring, he spotted Gloria, homing in on him with her zoom lens. “Uh—no,” he said, frowning back at her. “No, I haven’t.”

“Would you like to?”

He had gained every scrap of James’s attention.

“I don’t ride my top horse till tomorrow. He needs exercise.”

“But why? I mean …” Just twang on this Stradivarius a couple times! Tool my Rolls around the block!

“Someone did the same for me once. Let’s just say I’m passing it along. Will you?”

“Well—yes! Hell, yes!”

Garry laughed. “Well, come on, then!”

The Silver Thimble horses were stabled in the farthest, quietest barn. They had taken over a full dozen stalls, including one for tack and one for a dressing room. Yet despite this ample storage space, supple, expensive saddles were hung on outside racks, and blue-and-silver coolers, blankets, and pads were draped richly everywhere, like the banners of a secluded kingdom. A stretch of several empty stalls separated Silver Thimble from the ragtag and bobtail in the rest of the barn.

It’s only money, thought James, resisting. Yet his eye was seduced by Norah Craig, polishing a big, calm warm-blood with a blue-and-silver cloth. His ear was seduced by the serenity.

A little unfocused, he watched Garry speak to Norah and to the young man, Jay, then go to the tack stall and bring out a grooming kit and halter. He set the kit down at the hitch rail and approached a stall with a bronze nameplate that read AVATAR.

No, I’m reading that wrong! James narrowed his eyes and went a couple of steps nearer.

No, I’m not reading it wrong! He looked up as a noble, dark head appeared above the nameplate; a gleaming head with a knife blade of white down the frontal bone. The head was as familiar to him as those of his own horses. He’d seen it in sports magazines dozens of times over the past three years: Avatar, National Champion, Prix St. George.

The great horse nickered like any Shetland pony at the approach of his master, and graciously gave his head to be haltered. Garry opened the door. Released from paralysis, James stepped forward.

“Sir—uh—Garry … are you sure? I mean … what if I screw him up?”

Garry looked amused. “This is an intelligent and highly educated animal, Mr. MacLiesh. I don’t think you’ll find him easy to lead astray.”

“But—”

“Norah rides him.”

“Norah’s Second Level! I’m nowhere near as good as she is!”

“At your age I don’t see how you could be.” Garry led the beautiful horse forth to the hitch rail. “So start with one of the soft brushes, will you? And hand me one.”

“But—”

“As you know quite well—remember, I have seen you ride—dressage is the continuing refinement and elaboration of certain fundamentals; a steady seat, good legs, sensitive hands, and the pure natural gaits of the horse. Avatar remembers all about First Level work. So really, I don’t quite see what you’re fussing about.”

Put that way, neither did James. In silence he brushed the silken, sensitive hide. He found the spot, just behind the whithers, that liked to be scratched, and he watched the great horse grimace and wiggle his lip.

A great horse is just like any other horse, he thought. Only more so. Yet even in this prosaic scratch response there was a statement. He thought of Ghazal, who projected dignity with every gesture. He did not yet know what Avatar was saying.

He stood back now as Garry girthed on a magnificent long-skirted saddle; the best saddle, soft as a glove. Then the bridling; the dark horse reached willingly for the bits and savored them on his tongue, clanking the snaffle. His head came up and his ears pricked. His eyes began to dream.

“Come on,” said Garry. “We’ll find a relatively private spot.”

“All I have is sneakers,” said James, lifting one. Somehow he hoped for a delay. “Never mind, you won’t be using stirrups.”

Oh.

Delay came from Norah, asking a question as they were walking away. Garry gave the reins to James and stepped apart with her.

James stood waiting, in an absolute daze. His eye was torn between the great horse and the beautiful woman, so that he really saw neither. Only as the conversation between Garry and Norah ended, and the reins were taken from him, did he see Gloria, alone at the hitch rail, lowering the camera from her face. She smiled and waved at him.

Now what was she up to? Lately she did what she called photographic essays. James thought of this day, all the fatuous, forlorn, and foolish ways his own image would appear in the developing pan, and blushed.

But they were walking; past the three rings where tests were being held, past horses warming up and cooling out, past picnickers and gossipers ahorse and afoot. Far out at the end of the fields a fat, lopsided old woman leaned on two canes and shouted directions to three riders circling her, two men and a girl. Before they reached this group, Garry veered left, and they crossed the shallow brook, coming out into a small meadow screened from view by trees. Garry stopped to tighten the girth and pull the stirrups down. James looked back and saw Gloria on the path behind him.

“Mr. MacLiesh.” Garry stood at the horse’s head like a groom. His strange gnomelike face was quite inscrutable. James felt his heart thump in his chest.

He gathered the reins and set his foot to the stirrup, hesitated a second and swung up. He lit on the marvelous saddle with an instant sense of homecoming.

“Cross the stirrups in front,” Garry directed. James obeyed. Then he combed his fingers through the double set of reins, organizing them and finding the horse’s mouth.

Garry stepped back. “Just warm him up a few minutes.” The meadow sloped steeply. The man considered a moment. “Down here, on the level.”

Now. James squeezed gently with his legs, feeling as gauche as a boy on his first pony. Yet, pony or Prix St. George, the principle was the same. The great horse stepped out.

It was a bold, lithe walk, the horse as loose at the shoulder as a tiger. James felt high off the ground and tippy. He tried unobtrusively to adjust his seat, and as he did, he felt the horse slide to the left in a smooth leg yield.

Now why in hell had he done that? He froze his seat bones to immobility. The horse stopped and squared up.

James felt the heat rise to his face. He squeezed his legs, intending to walk again.

Instead, he achieved a canter from the standstill. In the great bounding transition, even as he threw his hands forward to avoid jabbing the horse’s mouth, he felt that his left leg was fractionally behind his right. Avatar had felt this and assumed it to be intentional.

All right, he knew when he was licked. He slowed and then stilled his seat, bringing the horse to a halt. Then, moving only his head, he turned to look back at Garry.

The man’s face was lit with amusement. “Well? You know what the problem is, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“So sit still! Try some circles at a trot.”

James took a deep breath and rearranged his jutting jaw. He felt trapped and foolish.

Deliberately he took himself back a couple of notches. What was the true situation? He was not here to impress Garry Kunstler. He sat astride the great horse Avatar, by unlooked-for chance. The opportunity must not be wasted.

All right, relax.

His belly softened. The fork of his seat sank down into the saddle. All at once he felt the heat of the horse’s body against his calves.

Laying his palm on the glossy neck that rose before him, he said, “Hello. I’m James MacLiesh.”

He sensed a change, perhaps a softening. Now he offered the suggestion, “Trot?”

They trotted.

Oh, wow! thought James. Oh, wow! The saddle hugged him close and deep, and he was part of this springy forward trot. Part of it, so that his suggestion that they turn and describe a circle on the hoof-marked grass was perhaps no suggestion at all but a shared idea arising in the combined mind/body of horse and man. Horse and man. Horse-man.

Several round, beautiful circles; then changing direction, crossing the circle in a fat S, dividing the circle yin and yang; then around again. A rush of air to the chest—a clear, pure stillness. A silent shout for joy.

Adding to the combined consciousness came a voice, instructing James to do things he’d never done before, saying how. As the words came, James acted, with no delay for thinking; collected trot, piaff, passage, and pirouette. Lovely, lovely pirouette, the horse cantering gaily in place around his own back legs, all the energy he was capable of compressed between the rider’s legs and his hands.…

Horses are heavier than words. A horse cannot canter the pirouette as lightly as you can say it. His lightness is the lightness of half a ton. His breath gusts out with the great effort, and the fun of lifting himself, of falling to earth, of lifting again. James had always wanted to ride a pirouette. Because he never had, did not know how, he had imagined it to be impossible. Never mind that he had seen it many times. He knew horses to be too heavy. Now he knew how very nearly that was true. Marvelous …

Then release, like an arrow shot from the bow, across the little meadow to the end. Hurrah! Turn and walk slowly back along the brook with the reins all long and floppy. Black ears go east and west like a plow horse’s, black neck low, black nose stretching forward in snorts of satisfaction.

His shirt clung, front and back. Dust prickled on his sweating brow. He began to have thoughts.

Such as, Boy! Oh, boy!

And more complex ideas; the realization of what had been done for him. He had been given a gift of understanding. Someday, when he brought Ghazal to this level, he would remember the feeling of today and measure against it.

He understood, too, that this marvelous ride had been far from the partnership of real dressage. Avatar had done all these things because he understood and loved them. He knew how to be beautiful and required from a rider only the patterns in which to enact his beauty.

Garry had made him so, and Garry could lift him higher, make him still more beautiful and correct. James MacLiesh, as yet, was only along for the ride.

So it was like a pony ride, or like sitting on your father’s lap with your hands on the wheel as he guides the car gently down the driveway. Not an accomplishment but a look ahead at what you will do one day when you are grown.

He came to Garry and dismounted. The three of them, all separate again, stood looking at one another. Was there anything to say?

Apparently not. Garry gave his hand and James shook it. The man took the reins of his horse, mounted, and rode away.

James stood alone when they had gone, his back to the path. The feeling of that ride slowly drained out of his body, and he felt a yearning, painful joy, like unrequited love.

It reminded him of the morning’s pain, in that empty gap between competitors. Could he say, now, that it was all for the best? He had seen Norah and ridden Avatar. He had upset Harriet and helped Devan, been humbled by a cousin and a camera, and then been lifted up by Mr. Garry Kunstler of Silver Thimble Farm. Would he trade all this for three five-minute rides before, a judge and before his peers, a few numbers written up publicly on a board beside his name?

Yes, he thought he would. He was glad the choice had not been given.

He turned to go. Gloria was coming toward him on the path, and the fat old woman was going the opposite way. Garry Kunstler, now dismounted, walked slowly at her side, his head inclined in courteous listening.

Nearing Gloria, James saw as freshly as the first time her round bright face, so full of strength and cheer. The camera lifted briefly; she took another picture of him. Then she snapped the case shut and switched the strap to her shoulder. With the camera she put away the something in her manner that said she was at work.

“Tell me,” she said, “all about it!”

“Later,” said James. “When you show me your pictures.”