Horses

I walked through the aisle of a stable called Danbury Farms. It had once been well known to everybody in this county who jumped, a place where young jumpers dreamed of riding. However, the farm had fallen on hard times. The manager had moved to England to be with his girlfriend, and the farm had collapsed. As a result, the owners of the farm, Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Jones, were selling all of their top-flight jumpers dirt cheap, and my mom had agreed to buy me one. My mom, who was calling me over to look at another horse, interrupted my thoughts. “Jessica, dear, come and look at this Arabian mare, Silvershadow.” I started to turn toward her, but another stall caught my eye. It looked empty at first glance, but when I walked over to have a second look, I saw that a little colt, his coat a fiery chestnut, almost red, occupied it. I read the stall plate. “Piccadilly Dreams,” I said to him, “Quite a big name for such a little fellow, isn’t it?” Despite being a year old, according to the birth date on the stall plate, he was rather small. He stretched his neck a little so he could put his head over the stall door, and I put my hand on his forehead, covering the small, white, lopsided circle that was there. Looking into his liquid brown eyes, I knew that this was my horse, my partner. “Excuse me,” I said to a passing groom, “could you tell me about this little guy?” “Sure,” he answered, putting down the water bucket he was carrying. “He’s half thoroughbred, half Arab, bred and born right here on Danbury Farms. His dad was that massive stallion we sold to Whiteberry Stables, remember him?” Looking into his liquid brown eyes, I knew that this was my horse, my partner I nodded. I remembered seeing him unloaded while I was doing my job as a groom there. He was a fiery red terror. Whiteberry was just down the road from my house, and the owner, Lydia Carpenter, taught me to ride in exchange for work. “His mom,” the groom continued, “was that pretty girl over there.” He pointed to Silvershadow, the mare my mom had wanted me to see, and I looked at her in a new light. She was dusky black, with the dished face that was typical of Arabians, strong hindquarters, and an intelligent look in her large brown eyes. She would be a good jumper, I thought. “May I go into his stall?” I asked. “Sure,” the groom said again. “He got his dad’s color, but his mom’s temper, thank goodness, or he’d have been a holy terror.” I opened the stall door carefully, so I didn’t scare him, then let him sniff my hand. After he could recognize me by smell, I crouched down and ran my hands over his legs, checking for straightness. Good. They were straight. Sloping shoulders? Check. Strong hindquarters? Check. Good attitude? Check. He had all the things he needed to be a champion jumper. I stood up again, and looked right into my mom’s face. “Mom,” I said. “This is my horse.” “No,” she answered. “He’s too young, untrained, and you won’t be able to ride him for a long time. No. I’m sorry but this is the way it’s meant to be. There will be other horses.” I wish my mom wasn’t so superstitious. Sometimes, when she thinks something’s “meant to be,” there’s no way to change her mind. There was nothing I could do. I walked away slowly, every step taking me further away from my horse. All the way back home, I sat in stony silence. I was sorry to make such a big deal of it, but she was wrong. As soon as the car stopped, I ran into the garage and grabbed my bike. I got on it and biked swiftly to the end of the road, to Whiteberry. Lydia was waiting for me. As soon as I had stopped, I said, “Lydia, I found the perfect horse, but my mom won’t let me buy him!” While I was saying that, she said, “Jessica, I found the perfect horse for you!” I stopped talking. “You go first,” I said. “OK. You know that barn across town, Danbury?” I nodded but didn’t say anything. “Well, they just closed down and are selling all their horses real cheap. You know that massive terror of a stallion I bought, Piccadilly’s Devil? He was from there. “Anyways, I went up there again to look at a mare of theirs, and I found out she had a colt! He’s one year old, which is a bit young, but I can help you train him. He’s also actually the son of my stallion! Isn’t that cool? Now, what did you say?” I stared at her. “Well,” I said, “I found the same colt, but my mom won’t let me buy him. I’m sure he’s the horse for me!” While Lydia was speaking, my face had flushed with excitement that she thought Piccadilly was a good horse for me, too, and I had had to resist the urge to jump up and down. I needed a breather. “Wait a sec,” I said, “I gotta run to the bathroom.” When I got to the bathroom, I splashed my face with cold water, glad that Lydia had forked out the extra money for running water. In despair—I wasn’t going to get to buy my horse, after all— I stared at the pictures of Lydia jumping her horses. A spark of an idea formed in my mind. The question was, would it work? I ran back to where Lydia was standing. “I have an idea,” I told her. “What?” she asked. I told her my idea. “Yes!” she said. “Go for it!” I biked home in the gathering darkness. When I got to the house, I went to bed, falling asleep instantly. *          *          *

The smell of newly cut wafted in through open windows. A grain bucket clanged against a stall door like a dull church bell. A black, velvety nose pressed against the bars of a stall and sweet-smelling grain dribbled from whiskered lips. A bay horse came down the aisle, her hooves tapping a tune on the rough cement. Stalls stretched away on either side and the air was full of the smell of sweet grain and newly polished leather and saddle soap. Awards and ribbons were hung on stall doors and on a big golden palomino’s stall door a plaque read: Individual Gold in Eventing—2000 Olympics. Heads of every horse color imaginable stuck out of stalls, but a few of the stalls were empty. One beautiful chestnut had a mane that flowed like water over her beautiful head. The white star on her forehead shone like silver as she haughtily tossed her forelock out of her eyes and turned to munch on hay. A colt whinnied for its mother; its mother answered it with a soft, low, comforting nicker that would have calmed the wildest colt. In the corner of the grain room stood a green, shiny wheelbarrow with a pitchfork leaning against it. Grain buckets of all shapes and sizes were piled in a corner, each carefully labeled with the horse’s name. Mice scampered about and nibbled on spilled grain. A huge grain bin stood in the corner, its top padlocked against mice and horses. Several brightly colored new grain bags lay on top of it, waiting to be opened and dumped into the bin. There was a sink in the corner and in it grain scoops and dirty buckets were stacked in a towering pile. On the counter in the corner of the room there was a bag of mineral salt licks and next to that there was a bag of regular white salt licks. In another room saddles were stacked neatly on holders, and bridles of all shapes and sizes were hung on shiny metal hooks. Brushes and hoof picks were thrown in buckets and were sitting quietly on a dusty shelf. A leather crop lay on a wooden chair and a tack trunk stood quietly waiting to be opened. The floor was dirty and the now potbellied mice scampered around like naughty children. A soft, velvety nicker rang through the air, splitting the silence into a million pieces. Another soft, low nicker answered it and then there was silence again. They were like a rainbow after a storm; silent and perfect, yet beautiful The arena at the end of the barn was huge. Its long sides stretched away for what seemed like miles. At one end an observation deck stuck out obstinately like a poorly fitting hat, and at the other end there were two huge wooden doors that led into the barn. A tiny black pony and its equally tiny rider cantered around and around, now and then gracefully taking the big, green cross-rail jump in the middle of the arena. The pony’s hooves drummed on the soft, sandy footing: ded-der-dum-ded-der-dum. Swallows flew overhead, their wings whiffing and buzzing like bees in the air as their tiny feet fought for a foothold on the rafters. The sand on the floor created a musty but sweet-smelling aroma and the sun streamed through the clear panels on the roof. The doors from the barn swung open and a girl leading a big, chestnut pony stepped into the arena. The girl looked at the tiny black pony and then slowly mounted. She began to trot around the ring, but paused at the jump. She walked her pony up to it, showing it to her from every angle. Then she steered her pony away from it and urged her into a canter. The canter was slow and graceful, like flowing water. The girl turned toward the jump. Her soft hands and legs guided the pony carefully over the jump. They took the jump together in perfect unison. They were like a rainbow after a storm; silent and perfect, yet beautiful. There was a little door on the side of the arena that led out into the winter paddock and the lush, green fields out behind the barn. The fields stretched away for miles in either direction. Hay bales dotted the fields in the distance and beautiful horses grazed in the closer fields. Miles of board fence surrounded the fields. Beautiful, beautiful fields and horses! A chestnut colt romped in the far paddock, its sparkling mane and tail flying in the light spring breeze. A black mare rolled and shook off the dirt with a snort. A gelding pawed the air and whinnied to another horse in a neighboring paddock. In an outdoor arena a tall, blond girl lunged her beautiful bay thoroughbred. It was the beginning of another day at Pendragon Farm. Amy Cheetham, 11Monroe, Maine Elizabeth Wright, 13Las Vegas, Nevada