Chancey of the Maury River (11 page)

Hunter shows have never been my favorite. I detest the stressful conditions under which one must compete. The number of times that I’ve been cut off, kicked, or rear-ended because of rude or novice horse-and-rider teams is not worth counting. But then I am not much of a counter anyway. Coaches and spectators alike move in and out of the show ring with great inconsideration and little awareness. There are those who thrive at hunter shows; I am not among them.

Daisy would rather spend a day at a hunter show than most anywhere else. Of course, because of her sacred bubble, Daisy has always been permitted to show with a red ribbon tied around her tail. Tamworth Springs was no different. The ribbon warned that all who dared to enter the space around Daisy’s Welsh rear end would receive a swift, hard kick. I, without a red ribbon to excuse me, was expected to behave amid some quite poorly mannered teams.

If truth be told, hunter shows cause my stomach to clinch up almost instantly with a magnificent force. I am competitive, but prefer my competitors to meet me in an open field. Instead of measuring my worth in diagonals, leads, and head positioning, I prefer that we traverse a course designed to test not only our speed and endurance, but our command of varied and challenging terrain. An event where we are measured by our wisdom, sure-footedness, and resolve to go forward to the end, and without injury, is my ideal.

That was not the measure of our challenge at Tamworth Springs. Claire and I were to compete in a most basic set of classes: Short Stirrup Walk-Trot, Short Stirrup Over Eighteen-Inch Fences, and Short Stirrup Pleasure. We expected to place well in all three classes. In some secret place in my heart, I hoped we might win.

We succeeded in placing third in Walk-Trot, a fine enough showing for our first class, though surely not as well as we could have done. There were several factors working against our success. As I’ve already identified, the crowded conditions in the ring presented difficulty. We did not have ample space to relax and find our spot. We just couldn’t get settled. Mrs. Maiden felt the judge erred in not dividing the large class into two separate classes, as it would have improved conditions in the show ring for everyone.

Our third place in the Walk-Trot class was likely caused, in part, by a few strides at the trot where Claire rose to the wrong diagonal, though feeling the error herself, she self-corrected right away. Mrs. Maiden also pointed out that Claire’s dirty riding clothes had probably cost us points; she requested that next time, Claire keep her show clothes cleaner. Further contributing was what Mrs. Maiden speculated to be the judge’s bias against my albinism. Convinced that we should have placed higher, Mrs. Maiden most emphatically complained to us that this judge was known to despise what Mrs. Maiden gently described as “pink skin” in horses.

Daisy competed in the same class with her young rider, Ann, who, though the same age as Claire, was an inexperienced rider, having only started lessons at the Maury River Stables after my own arrival there. As impudent a mare as Daisy is, she is the pony of choice for graceful, but green, riders such as Ann. With a strand of Daisy’s tail braided and tied with the red warning ribbon, and Ann Hayden turned out in two pigtails with red ribbons of her own to match, they presented a classically sweet image, even to my old, jaded, half-blind eyes. Daisy knows her job, and she excels under these same conditions that cause extreme digestive turmoil for me. Daisy and Ann placed fourth in Walk-Trot, a fine showing for their first time out.

Claire seemed pleased with our placement, and she happily tucked our third-place ribbon into the headstall of my bridle. Mother had emphasized to Claire, and to me, that our only charge was to have fun, and not to worry about winning. I noted, however, that Mother was beside herself that we had placed at all, so I couldn’t help but believe that despite her protestations about having fun, she took pleasure in our achievement.

In our second class, over the little fences, we failed. I confess that although the entire scene remains vividly indexed in my memory and always will, it is still difficult for me to relive exactly what happened. But for my own conscience, I will try to reconstruct the event as best I can.

Before we entered the ring, it was evident that Claire’s anxiety from the day before had only increased. “I f-feel sick. M-M-other, I c-can’t,” Claire said.

Mother rubbed Claire’s back but before she could speak, Claire’s father interrupted. “Claire, you’re stuttering. You’re just nervous, sweetheart. Stay focused. Don’t psych yourself out.”

With the bit in my mouth and Claire perched too high in the show saddle, which sparkled more than either Claire or I, I had no means to assist Claire in finding her breath as I had done in our early days, when Claire would often tumble in her words, or stutter, as her father called it. I tried to sigh a long sigh, but with so much dust in the ring, the result sounded more like a cough.

Mrs. Maiden motioned for us to walk on toward the gate. Claire patted my neck. “Mother?” Claire asked. “Just have fun, right?”

Mother told Claire and me as we entered the ring, “Right, have fun and be safe!” She patted Claire’s leg and then my neck.

“Number one-eighty-five, Claire Dunlap, riding Take-A-Chance,” the announcer called out as we entered the ring. I’ve never been addressed by any name other than Chancey. Even my registered documentation, as far as I am aware, reads Chancey. Claire had wanted me to have an official show name; Mother had come up with Take-A-Chance. I felt as proud at that moment, hearing my new show name called along with Claire’s, as I ever have in my life.

I know that we took the first jump fine. Six strides out, I saw the jump clearly and straight ahead of us. I heard Claire counting, “One, two, one, two, one, two.” I had come rely on her counting to compensate for the darkness in my left eye. Claire’s voice command —“Jump!” — accompanied by an even squeeze of her legs and the raising of her hands to be nearer my ears, aided me in flying over the jump, as we had practiced in our training. We attacked the fence with purpose and unison. I listened for Claire’s breathing, but could not find it.

Still, our first small fence was textbook. I felt it to be so, and as we passed by, I heard Mrs. Maiden call out to us, “Perfect!”

We completed the first jump and, cantering away, rounded the ring toward the left. I did not relax a bit, for Claire had not. I listened closely for her second wave of counting. I saw Claire’s father out of my right eye; I’m certain that Claire saw him, too, for I felt the slightest tilt of her head in his direction. She was so proud that he had come to see her. Claire sat higher in the saddle, making little contact with me.

Perhaps, had the two jumps been placed in a simple line with two strides in between, the day would have ended pleasantly. On the second approach, Claire did not count, and I did not feel her legs firm on me as I had at our first jump. I could not find Claire’s aids — neither her legs nor voice instructed me. Nor could my right eye find the second jump, and so I wavered. Not until late in our approach did I see the jump at all.

When the fence did appear, dead-on in front of me, I panicked, unsure what Claire meant for me to do next. She failed to move into jump position. I did not refuse the jump straight on by stopping, for having gathered a nice speed, I knew that an abrupt halt, even if Claire was intending our retreat, would likely throw her over my head. Not feeling Claire’s right leg resisting my duck, I did not aim to take the fence — though in looking back, I know I could have managed to barrel through it, had I kept my wits. I swerved out to the right without breaking stride and without Claire. She was so light.

To my right and just behind me, I saw Claire fall, first up and then down. I could do nothing. I heard her helmet crack against the ground. In unison, the spectators gasped for air. I whipped quickly around, but in the slowest measure of time could only watch Claire bounce off of her head and come to a rest near the jump rail.

I galloped back to Claire, slowing to a walk only when I came directly upon her. Reaching her before anyone else, I bowed my head and blew across her face. Her eyes remained closed, and nothing of Claire moved. I blew again, this time closer to her face, and waited to catch the smell of her breath back to me. I could find no breath, no smell of Claire, only a great weight in my chest. I found no voice of my own to call for help. Everyone around us moved about slowly, too slowly. In those first few moments of Claire’s unconsciousness, I had no one to help me revive Claire.

Some horses beg and spend their entire lives begging. Whatever they do get is never enough and they beg for more, constantly. I have probably not asked for enough in my life. At Tamworth Springs I asked for Claire. In fact, I begged for Claire. I didn’t ponder it. I fell to my knees to be nearer to Claire and simultaneously to beg my Creator, and Claire’s, to awaken her quickly with either my breath or His. I lay beside Claire.

As I set my head near Claire’s, again I heard the crowd suck in their own collective breath. I could not speak to Claire but with my heart, and with it I showed her everything we had yet to do. There was still Saddle Mountain to be explored. I had yet to take Claire across the Maury River. She had promised to play her violin for me. We had planned to one day gallop through the snow.

I gave my breath to Claire. I begged Claire to wake up and forgive me for dropping her. My prayers for her restoration were interrupted by a change of pace; everyone who had been so slow to reach us now descended upon us. My stomach tightened. I remained on the ground next to Claire.

“Get that horse away from my daughter,” Claire’s father demanded. I looked to Mother for protection, for she was now kneeling beside us. Mother took no notice of me or the command that I be removed from the show ring.

Instead, Mother began yelling for help. I stood up and with my voice strong now, joined with Mother and whinnied long and shrill to better relay our urgent need for assistance. Still, Claire did not move, nor did she answer the questions that Mrs. Maiden had begun asking to ascertain whether Claire was damaged by the impact of the fall.

Daisy, carrying Ann, stood at the entrance to the show ring, watching our attempts. Daisy tossed her head toward me, but that was of small comfort.

Claire’s father spoke sharply under his breath to Mother. “For God’s sake, Eleanor, I told you this would happen. What were you thinking? The horse is dangerous; he’s half blind.”

My chest tightened; a weakness grew there and spread within me. I felt the brick in my stomach churn. I dropped my head down toward Claire. I wanted to roll.

Mother stayed crouched beside Claire, holding her hand. She did not look up.

Still, Claire’s father persisted. “Eleanor? Did you hear me? That’s it; it’s over. The horse needs to be sold. He’s hurt Claire. Do you understand? We’re getting rid of him.”

Mother said nothing. She held Claire’s hand and kissed her forehead again and again.

Claire’s father said to no one in particular, “Will someone get this horse out of here? He’s hurt my daughter. He needs to be taken away.”

Mother did not look up and did not speak. I stood by Mother, for she needed me and so did Claire. I stepped in closer, for I belonged with them.

Claire remained motionless; again I blew a long breath out, across her nose and mouth. My girl opened her eyes, but I gather was not altogether restored.

More people joined us, and the biased judge grabbed my reins to lead me out of the ring. I refused to go and sank all of my one thousand pounds as far into the earth as I could. The judge, with warmth that I did not expect, turned to face me and patted my shoulder. “Come on, fella. The rescue squad will take good care of her.”

I whinnied at Claire. She did not respond. I whinnied at Mother. Mother looked up at me with her sad eyes. She smiled at me and finally opened her mouth to speak.

“Please, Eleanor, this horse has got to go!” shouted Claire’s father.

He snatched my reins from the judge and began pulling on me. He yanked hard on my mouth, but for Mother and Claire I absorbed the pain because I would not leave them. Mother jumped up and took the reins from his hand. Without shouting, she faced him squarely and told him, “Chancey is our horse. You don’t get to decide. He’s not your horse.”

Mother handed the reins back to the judge. Then she kissed my poll and whispered in my ear, her voice cracking, “You’re going home now, Chancey. I’m going with Claire. You belong with us; don’t ever forget that, boy.”

The judge again tried to comfort me. “That’s a boy; come with me. Claire will be just fine.” Her voice conveyed no pigment bias toward me whatsoever. I yielded to the judge’s pull and watched the rescue squad take Claire and Mother away.

I ached to leave Tamworth Springs at the instant that Claire left, but was required to stay on, as we had all traveled there together for the purpose of allowing Claire and Ann to compete. Mrs. Maiden took my reins from the judge and thanked her for holding me. I could think of nothing but Claire. I did everything to slow my breathing, yet it remained fast and shallow.