Macadoo of the Maury River (4 page)

“You’re a smart one and quite right. I found a bit of trouble. Thank you for checking on me,” she said.

The lady patted my neck. “Oh, a gentle giant — what a breed! I probably need a Belgian like you, boy.” She practically nickered and, so, I nickered, too. “If I had a calm horse, a good horse to take care of me, a horse I could count on, well, then . . . wouldn’t that be fine!”

I enjoyed this lady’s gentle voice and imagined her calling me in for grain each morning. I closed my eyes and nuzzled her when she came close. With her good arm, she fluffed my forelock, then asked, “Is he selling on his own?”

The stick man shook his head. “This lot is going up as one. If you want him, gotta bid on ’em both.”

The pretty lady kissed my cheek. “Oh, sweet Belgian, today is not your day. If it were just you, I’d take you home right now and save you the indignity of this place. I’m so sorry. I have no need for a mare.”

I whinnied the lady good-bye. I made welcome room for a new hope. If we were to make it, I needed just the right someone to help us both.

Two men had been eyeing us all morning, and now they talked openly about how much they could get per pound — first for me and then also for Mamere.

“Turn away from those men,” Mamere said, and she pushed me away from the two buyers leaning against the gate, watching us, encouraging each other in speculation and greed.

I couldn’t help but listen. I broke away from my dam and trotted over to hear more.

“Come on, let me have this pair. I gotta leave here with some weight on the truck. These two and I’m out. I’ll leave the rest for you to pick over. How ’bout it?”

“That doesn’t sound like a good deal to me. It’s more fun to let you bid up and then come in late and grab a couple thousand easy pounds out from under you.”

The two men laughed over which of them would win my dam and me. The kill sale was about to begin; just three pens separated Mamere and me from the auction block.

I ran back to my dam.

“Here, now,” she said. “Keep away. I want you with me until . . .”

“Until what, Mamere? Until the end, just like my father said?”

She thrust her muzzle into my chin, forcing my head up. “Shhh . . . I am with you forever, my sweetest, my fastest, my most favorite son.”

I surrendered to Mamere and let her lead me by the nose to a corner out of earshot. The threat of death lurked there on the other side of the rail, in those buyers bargaining for meat. Our meat. In that moment, I would not have left Mamere’s side even for a promise of endless, infinite days in a field without her.

I gave in to whatever would follow — whether we would be purchased by these or other kill buyers or might somehow miraculously find our way free from the grim journey that awaited us.

T
he auction house was crowded and loud, but a sparkly belt buckle caught my eye as a tall and wide man with no hair at all passed by. He appeared slightly bent over, as if shouldering a great load, and the bald man stopped to watch me. His furrowed brow hinted at some worry, and he rested his chin on the gate. The veins in his temple bulged out, and I thought how badly he must hurt.

I breathed out onto the man. He lifted his head; I lifted mine. When he laughed, I puffed a quick blast of air across his face.

He laughed, again. This time, his laughter came from some deep place, just as the pileated woodpecker’s laugh comes from deep within the woods.

I will grow strong and broad and might carry this gentleman anywhere he pleases,
I thought.

I stood still with my legs perfectly square and let my new friend imagine a life with me by his side. We watched each other for a long while, and when I felt I knew his heart, I touched his shoulder with my nose.

“You’ve got a nice something about you, boy,” he told me. “I’ve had Belgians; good horses.”

He, too, talked about how much I weighed, but with admiration, not how much he could get per pound.

“Look at you! A fine draft. My last Belgian grew to just over seventeen hands. You’ll reach every bit of eighteen hands, for sure.” He patted my neck with a soft touch.

Mamere must have sensed his goodness, too. She came nearer and stretched out her neck to meet the shiny man. He dropped his head to meet her, and my dam breathed in his out-breath.

“He’s not buying for meat,” she said to me. “He’s — I can’t be sure, but I believe he’s here to rescue.”

The stick man hollered over, “Wasting your time if you just want him. These two are going up in one lot —”

The kind man held up his hand and shook his head. “Nope. Trailer’s about full. I won’t be bidding anymore today, but these two belong on the other side of the house. Wish I’d seen them earlier.”

The man turned away. He would not be rescuing us. I leaned against the corral and whinnied, begging my new friend to change his mind.

The stick man popped my withers. “Get back off of that gate!” The prod stung into my skin, and I stumbled into the fence. Stick man struck me, again.

I spun around fast, lost my balance, and careened into the stick man’s partner. He lifted his hand to beat me, and this time, with no hope left of avoiding the kill sale, Mamere defended me. She reared up and the handler covered his face in fear.

But Mamere backed down. “No,” she said to me. “I will not strike back.”

“I knew this Belgian was trouble; stupidest breed on earth. Corner the mare, and I’ll get the colt,” yelled the stick man. He raised his arms and poised the stick in the air.

I whinnied, hoping the bald, shiny cowboy might still linger nearby. The stick man kept prodding me until I was running and lathered into a white sweat. I squealed for my life, as it was all I could think to do.

By some miracle — perhaps that star I had wished on — the shiny man did hear my calls for help, and he came to save us.

“Leave the colt alone,” he ordered the stick man.

I stopped running, but the stick man immediately came toward me.

“You heard me. Leave him alone. The mare, too. I’m John Macadoo, I’ve bought ten other horses here today, and I want another look at these two.”

Stick man angrily left the pen. The bystanders cheered, and I trotted over to kiss my friend who was neither a lady nor a small child, but a man with a golden heart, the heart of a child. He held his hand out for Mamere; she let him rub her long white blaze.

“You’re a beauty. A real beauty,” he said. He rubbed the top of his head, smooth like one of the balls Janey often tossed in the pasture for us to push and pull and chase. The man said to himself, “I’m crazy for Belgians. Trailer’s hit its limit, but, shoot, I’m crazy for Belgians.”

Mamere rumbled at him. She closed her eyes and let the man hold the full weight of her head and of what he had done. John Macadoo beat out the kill buyers; John Macadoo won us at auction.

J
ohn Macadoo haltered Mamere and did the same to me. He tried to lead Mamere onto the trailer, where dozens of others were restless and ready to go, but suddenly she refused to join them. My dam had seen more cruelty on this one day than ever in her life.

“What if I was wrong?” she asked me. “Could I have made a mistake about this man’s intentions?”

I thought of all of Mamere’s children. Year after year, Mamere sent her children out into the world with a hope for tomorrow told under an August star shower. She had told all of her colts and fillies the story of the auction. Today, she had confronted the terror that all of her children had faced. She needed a different story — one that included a different sort of tomorrow for her.

I had to help Mamere before John Macadoo changed his mind and sent us back. I may never be king, but I would not desert my dam. “Mamere, let me tell you a story,” I began.

She raised her head.

“Come close to me like when I was so much smaller,” I said. I pushed out my chest and held my head up. There was no fire in my eyes or steam from my muzzle, only love for her in my heart. She walked toward me, her eyes and head hanging low in defeat. I wrapped my neck around her, as best I could.

I told her how our new owner said he had come to Alberta with a mission to save horses by bringing us back to his home in Virginia, where he hoped to find us good homes. Mamere lifted her head.

“Look at him,” said John Macadoo. “He’s taking care of the mare. Let the colt load her; watch him. He’s a little alpha.”

Mamere took two steps up, and I stayed right beside her.

“I would never in a million years believe this,” said one of the handlers. “The colt
is
leading her.”

My dam tossed her head, and she told the new story with me. “We will face adversity, and we will face it together. We will be brave, and we mustn’t give up.”

I nudged Mamere up to the trailer, until I could take her no farther. Only she — she alone — could take this last, great step. Mamere looked back at me.

“Tell me something more, my courageous son,” she said.

Two men stood at each side of the trailer. Mamere kept a bittersweet silence while she decided whether to go on her own or be broken into submission.

I looked back at the auction. The chutes stood empty of all yearlings. Soon enough, they would be full of more colts and more fillies. For a springtime and a summer, they would all race inside the fences by the mountains. In a new season, a different colt might play pretend king. Beyond the auction house, I gazed one last time upon the Alberta mountains.

“Mamere, walk on. While we have this chance, walk on and I will, too.”

There is something to be said for having a purpose. A horse on his way to slaughter has a purpose: to endure suffering and torture so that man or animal may eat. Surrendering your life for the nourishment of God’s creatures is a noble purpose. But, such a purpose was not for me, not for my dam, not that day.

Mamere stepped into the trailer, and she did not look back. I whinnied good-bye to Alberta. We set off with John Macadoo, wearing halters with his name on them, packed tightly in a trailer and headed for a new life in Virginia.

O
n our second day in Virginia, I heard, then saw, a child. And, he saw me. An old man, using a cane to steady himself, walked beside the boy. He rested against the wood whenever he stopped. He walked with a limp, yet managed to almost keep up with the boy, who came running up to me.

“Poppa, look, a pony! Come with me!” The curly-haired boy ran in circles, then raced past John Macadoo.

“Slow down, Izzy, wait for me,” his poppa shouted.

Izzy.
The boy reached me first, then the man. Out of breath from trying to catch the child, he corrected the boy, “That’s a colt, Izzy. A Belgian, I believe. What a breed — half love, half work! He’ll be a very big and very fine horse one day. He’s like you, Izzy; he’s big for his age.”

John Macadoo came into my field and haltered me while the older gentleman introduced himself.

“Young man, I called you earlier today. My good friend, Russ Ramsey, says you’ve brought back some nice horses from the draft sale in Alberta,” he said to John Macadoo. “But, allow me to introduce myself. Harry Isler from over in Buena Vista. And this is my grandson, Isler. He goes by Izzy.”