Macadoo of the Maury River (14 page)

The mountain was like a good and true friend, and Stu found that I could not be spooked on or off the old logging trails. Those roads, cleared long ago by drafts like me, made for an easy path, and nothing scared me. I walked right up to the wild turkey; I trotted over the fallen pines. The Maury River refreshed me on this side of the mountain, too. Off trail, I knew how to step down and up the steep rocks. I never bolted once.

I proved to be a steady and sure worker. In the springtime, Stu told Mrs. Maiden, “If I didn’t know he was a hundred percent Belgian, I’d swear to you he had some mule in him. He’s ready.”

On my first day working in the therapeutic school, Mrs. Maiden strode into our field with my halter slung over her shoulder. “Mac, come on.”

I walked over, ready to work.

“I believe you’re finally getting used to me. It’s about time.” Mrs. Maiden reached up and placed my halter over my earsand buckled it around my cheek. She tacked me up for my first student and Stu led me to the ring, where a child waited at the chair ramp.

As a colt, when I was so scared to leave Mamere, the sound of one boy’s voice had given me hope. But at the Maury River Stables, there were nice ladies, like Mrs. Maiden, and nice men, like Stu, and so many girls, but I had about lost hope of ever hearing a boy say my name again, when I heard a young boy’s voice call me.

“Macadoo! I’m up here!” Eric Sand said. “Look at me!” He sat in his chair on wheels, waiting at the top of the ramp. Izzy might not ever come, but this new boy needed me to be his horse right then, so when he waved at me I nickered back.

“Yeah, Mac!” He pushed his feet down into his chair and leaned back his head. “Ha, ha! He likes me,” Eric said to his mother.

Mrs. Maiden stood on the ramp with Eric. Stu guided me even with the ledge and held me straight. I kept still and quiet, just as I had been taught while Mrs. Maiden eased Eric onto my back and into a specially made saddle for two people.

Eric’s mother looked around like something was lost. “My husband, Virgil, should be here any minute to help,” she explained. “He’ll come; he promised.”

“Yeah,” said Eric. “My dad’s coming.”

An old, dented truck turned down the drive and parked on the grass instead of the gravel.

“Sorry, I’m late,” said Eric’s father. He reached out to pat me, his hand rougher than Poppa’s, less sure than Stu’s, and when I gave him my breath, he pulled back.

Then he breathed a long sigh and looked to Mrs. Maiden. “Should we get started?”

Mrs. Maiden nodded. She told the Sands, “As I understand, you’re here because Eric wants to learn to ride. We can do that, but we’re going to take it pretty slow. Does that sound fine with you?”

Eric tossed his head back and raised his hand high in the air.

“Thatmeans yes,” said Virgil Sand.

Mrs. Maiden smiled. “I picked that up. Eric you look happy sitting up there on Mac. I’m so happy your mom called me. I believe that anyone can learn to ride. Did you ever think you’d get to ride a big horse like this?”

As Mrs. Maiden explained our work, she spoke to Eric directly. “The reason we’re going to take our time is because with brain injuries, we want to be sure that we give you and Mac whatever you need together to become a good team. There’s a lot to consider — balance, alignment, and how much rest you might need. I want you to be safe and have fun. So, are you ready?”

Eric clapped his hands. “Ready!”

On our first day, Eric sat in that saddle made for two with his father. Mrs. Maiden stood at my head. Stu stood to one side of me; and Eric’s mother on the other. Virgil sat behind him with his arms around Eric’s waist. I carried them both in the curve of my back. With the strength of my two thousand pounds, I held father and son.

While I walked, I could see the geldings racing one another to the top of the field and back again. I could not run and did not want to, for I was working.

After Eric’s first lesson, he waited at the fence line with his father for Stu to turn me out. Stu brought me over to say good-bye first. Eric stayed in his chair, across the fence and near enough to touch my coat. He held his hand out with an apple. I lowered my head and took half of it.

Eric laughed and said, “Again!”

I took the other half and felt one of his fingers in my mouth, too. I didn’t bite him, but Erick shrieked.

I tried to nuzzle him an apology through the fence, but heard his father say. “Get away from my boy.”

“The horse didn’t hurt him, Virgil,” said Eric’s mother, Amy.

“Yeaaah,” Eric called out.

I nickered at the boy. He waved his arm to me.

“That horse is supposed to help Eric not scare him. That’s its job.”

His wife said softly, “Did you see Eric laughing? Tell me the last time anything or anybody made Eric laugh.” She reached out for her husband’s hand. “I’m happy we came here. I love my boy. He’s a good boy. I love you. You’re a good man. I think this is a good horse. Don’t be angry, okay?”

Then Amy Sand gave Virgil a carrot, and he held it out to me. I moved toward him and was careful with my teeth.

Eric swung his head and arm toward me. “Good boy, Mac. Yeah, yeah.”

Eric Sand and I worked together on Saturdays, and there were more therapeutic lessons on Tuesdays and Fridays with Sam and Amelia. The vaulting team practiced with me on Thursdays and Sundays. And, I had lessons with the ladies on Wednesdays because very few of the students’ mothers could resist the riding ring. Even Mrs. Pickett who kept a donkey across the road, started taking riding lessons. Though Mira Stella did not return for night after night, every day my students did.

T
he autumn after Naomi left, I met Claire. A child, smaller than any I had ever met, appeared in the gelding field one crisp Saturday morning. Napoleon, the fat Shetland pony, was too busy eating hay to notice. Dante, our black Thoroughbred leader, couldn’t waste his time on a child when the other geldings — Charlie, Cowboy, Jake, and a new boarder, George — needed rounding up. So, I went to see about her myself. I found her standing by a fence post, talking with sparrows.

Neither Mrs. Maiden nor Stu seemed to have brought the girl to the field. Wearing old, torn overalls and new paddock boots, she stood grinning at me in the tall grass. I remember that her top front teeth were missing then.

“I’m Claire! I’m eight!” she said. “Mrs. Maiden says I get to take my first lesson on Daisy. I would rather ride you. I’ve read about your breed at the library. You’re a Belgian. I love Belgians!”

I had only met one other child, Izzy, who wasn’t afraid of me at first because of my size. Claire wanted to feed me by hand. She reached through my fence to a spot beyond my reach. Claire held her palm open and offered me a clump of wet grass.

Carefully, I took it from her — so much sweeter than the overgrazed offerings inside our field.

“You are a gentle giant.” She recited this as if it were a fact.

And while I sniffed around for stray clover, Claire told me more about Belgians than I ever expected a child to know.

“A long, long time ago, like, hundreds of years ago, your ancestors were famous. The Great Horse of Flanders, Macadoo, that’s you! Knights rode you into battle. Farmers harnessed you to till the soil. That’s what the book said, ‘till the soil.’ I guess Belgians were tractors before there were tractors.”

Claire squatted down in the grass beside me. She reached her hand out toward my cannon and fluffed the long hairs growing there. “Nice horse feathers! Your winter coat is thick already. Kinda muddy, though.”

Such a tiny little person, yet she showed no fear at all. I thought she might be settling in for a good long story about my breed, but the gate swung open and Mrs. Maiden came running into the pasture. Claire hopped up fast and tried to hide away behind me. “Uh-oh,” she said.

“Claire!” Mrs. Maiden yelled. “Why did you run off? From now on, you only come out here with an adult — at least until you’re older and more experienced. Do you understand?” Mrs. Maiden took a deep breath.

Claire looked at the ground. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Maiden. I’m sorry, Mom.”

A grown-up who looked a lot like Claire stroked the girl’s hair. “I asked you to wait with the older girls while I was in the office with Mrs. Maiden.”

“But, I saw the Belgian, just like in the book we read, remember? I wanted to meet him,” Claire tried to explain.

The woman took Claire’s hand and started toward the barn. I followed behind them.

“So, you know a lot about horses, Claire?” Mrs. Maiden asked. “Let’s see how well you know your breeds. I said you’d be riding Daisy this morning, right? She’s a gray Welsh cob. Find Daisy for me.”

Claire nodded. She looked to the mare field where Gwen and her mares grazed just across the fence line. “There! There’s a Welsh cob — a flea-bitten gray. And look beside her, a Hanoverian! She’s so beautiful, a blood bay, and she has three socks.”

Mrs. Maiden laughed at how smart Claire was about horses. “That’s right! The Welsh is Daisy; Gwen is the Hanoverian. Now, let’s see. Napoleon is a Shetland pony. Find Napoleon for me now.”

Claire giggled and pointed to Napoleon’s rear end, sticking out from behind the hay ring. “That’s easy!” she said. “There’s the Shetland! He’s a red roan.”

“Really? You even know that?”

She was showing off then. “Yep! Red roan means a reddish coat that’s sort of frosty white on top. Oh, but, Mrs. Maiden, I didn’t know a Belgian lives here. Could I please ride him today?”

“No, not yet. He’s a little big for you. Say good-bye to your friend, Macadoo. Let’s go tack up Daisy. I’m sure you’ll be riding Mac in no time.”

I followed Claire to the gate and whinnied for her to return soon, which she did with lots of treats! Mrs. Maiden was right. By winter, Claire joined me for a weekly vaulting lesson. By spring, she was proficient in most of the basic vaulting positions. Flank gave her more trouble than standing. By summer, she could even perform a special K — hands free of the surcingle at a trot. That summer, after Claire turned nine, she signed up for a week of riding camp. Mrs. Maiden let each child care for one horse during the entire week. Claire chose me.

“He’s awfully big,” warned Mrs. Maiden.

“I know!” Claire practically sang.

“During summer camp, you’ll have to take care of Mac all by yourself. That means getting a mounting block so you can brush him and tack him up. And, at the end of the week, when we go camping, up at the top of Saddle Mountain, you’ll be in charge of Mac.”

“Mrs. Maiden, I’ve been waiting all year just to take care of Mac during camp.” Claire smelled my neck.

“What are you doing, Claire?”

“Nothing, giving Mac a good sniff.” She smelled me again.

Mrs. Maiden kissed the top of Claire’s head. “You are too cute. All right, Mac is yours. If he gets to be too much, let me know, and you can switch to Daisy.”

She ran to the tack room for my brush box. “No way! It’s Mac and me all the way! Thank you, Mrs. Maiden.”

During camp we rode in the riding ring in the morning, went out on a trail ride across the Maury River and up Saddle Mountain after a short rest, and, sometimes, in the afternoon, played Chase Me Charlie in the ring.

Claire was not a fussy camper like some of the children who complained about dirt and sweat and hard work. She didn’t mind picking rocks and gravel from my bare feet with her fingers. She would set the hoof pick down and explain, “I don’t want to hurt your frog. That’s a very sensitive part of your foot, I know.” And, when it was too hot to ride, Claire was as happy to sit and read a book on my back as she was to get me all tacked up.

The highlight of riding camp for Maury River Stables campers was an overnight trip to the top of Saddle Mountain. The horses were packed with food and shelter for the campers and first-aid supplies for all of us. Stu loaded the truck with hay and grain and a barrel of water and drove our supplies up the logging trail, nearly to the crest of Saddle Mountain.

We reached the top with just enough daylight left for the children to pitch tents and for Stu to start a campfire. Long after nightfall, the campers were still swapping stories and songs. For the first time in my life I stood atop Saddle Mountain. The night sky glittered with stars, and I missed Izzy.

Claire loved the night sky just as my boy did. While the other campers and Mrs. Maiden slept inside their tents, Claire snuck outside with her sleeping bag, surrounded by the stars. Izzy would have done the same.

When Claire could not sleep, she grabbed my mane and hoisted herself up. She stretched out on my back, in much the same way Izzy had when I was still a colt. “See, up there’s my favorite moon — and my dad’s, too. A crescent moon.” She sighed, as if waiting for something.

Claire pointed up. “There! Look! Mac, tonight is the peak of the Perseids.” The fire stars came fast and near, just as they had when I was a colt in Alberta. “My dad told me to stay awake tonight. Oh, Mac, Dad was right. I’ve never seen anything like this. Let’s count them! I bet there’s a million an hour, or at least a hundred. I call them shooting stars. My dad says they’re meteors.”

The stars seemed to descend, almost within reach. I hadn’t made a wish in a very long time.