Training Harry

by Meghan Namaste

  The long, lovely gallop to the first fence was heaven. Then we were smack dab in the middle of hell. I collected D.M. furiously, and he squeezed himself through a tight turn, a nasty triple combination, and a huge oxer. The fences were so close together, and his stride ate up the distances. But he was getting it done. Take that, haters. We can do this.

  Next we had a 180 degree turn to get done. D.M. spun on his hind legs like a reining horse and galloped eagerly forward. Too forward. I should have half halted and shortened his stride immediately after making the turn. But I hadn’t reacted quickly enough, and now it was too late. We were almost on top of the fence now. He was sure to stop or run out. There was no way we were escaping this without a refusal.

  But I felt him gather himself, preparing to jump. I threw the reins forward, freeing his head and neck. Then I saw how close we were to the fence. Oh, shit.

  D.M.’s front legs smacked the top pole. His hind hooves struck the bottom poles a millisecond later. The impact of his massive body sent the entire jump careening forward, poles, standards and all. D.M.’s legs tangled with the poles. He scrambled in mid-air. As I sat frozen on his back, time and space seemed to freeze as well. I saw the whites of his eyes as he started to fall. D.M. had never been afraid like he was now. Neither had I. I desperately hoped that I would be thrown clear of his body when he went down.

  Just as I braced for impact, D.M. lurched forward. I was thrown onto his neck by the sheer momentum, but D.M. found his footing. I lay on his neck for a few seconds, not quite believing that we had really avoided a potentially catastrophic accident. Then I hauled myself back into the saddle, shaking like a leaf. D.M. snorted and shook himself off. Then he turned his head and sniffed at my boot. You okay?

  I looked around, realizing the entire show grounds had gone ominously silent. Not even the horses were making any noise. I looked around me, staring into the wide, shell-shocked eyes of everyone staring at me. I had brought the show to a grinding halt.

  Then my eyes rested on the clock. Unaffected by my near-disaster, it was still happily spitting out the seconds. I realized I needed to finish my round.

  I pushed D.M. into a walk, then a trot. He felt as sound as ever. I sucked in a deep, shaky breath, and rode a large circle around the wreckage I’d made of the sixth fence. Then we galloped on to our next fence. I rode aggressively, giving neither of us a chance to hesitate or look back. D.M. hardly needed any encouragement. He bounced over the remaining fences as if it was his reason for living. But he did listen to me very carefully when I asked him to collect or rate.

  As we left the ring, I patted D.M. generously, casting my eyes downward to avoid seeing all the shell-shocked eyes around me. Thank God I only entered one class today. I walked D.M. to a less populated part of the show grounds to cool him down, then loaded him and all my equipment and drove away. Maybe everyone will have forgotten by next weekend, I thought hopefully. Then I doused my own fragile hopes by letting Ben Miller’s face creep into my head.

  You’re a talented rider, Erica. But your horse is holding you back.

  Yeah, well, my horse saved my ass today, Ben. Our way-too-close call had been pure rider error. D.M. had just tried to do his job, which was to jump fast and clean. I was the total screw-up. Here I am trying to be a trainer...what a joke. No one’s going to hire a girl who can’t even get her horse around a 4 foot course without attempting suicide.

  Once I got home, I unloaded D.M., turned him out, and then unhitched my trailer and ran for it before anyone could ask me how my show went. As I drove back down the road, the lovely, cloudless sky and brilliant sunlight did nothing to improve my mood. Maybe I'll go to Lawrence's. That should make me feel better. I smiled, feeling the depression break up and start to lift already. Then my phone, forlorn and forgotten on the passenger seat, vibrated to life. I made a grab for it, and nearly steered my truck into a ditch in the process. I flipped it open and gasped "Hello?"

  "Is this Erica?"

  "Yes..." I answered cautiously.

  "This is Gloria Allsteen. Maggie's mother, remember?"

  "H-how could I forget?" I asked, dread seeping into my veins.

  "Maggie would like another lesson. Can you come today at five?"

  "Um......okay."

  "Excellent! Maggie will be so excited to see you again!"

  "Bye," I squeaked, and hung up the phone. I stared at the windshield in disbelief and denial. I did not just agree to teach that little brat again, did I? Fuck. I guess I did.

  Marla

  The concept of riding a horse, when you spread it out before you, pick it apart, and take a hard look at it, is crazy.

  It is crazy to think that a predator, even a highly sophisticated one, would think to sit on the back of a fearful, incredibly swift prey animal that significantly outweighs them. Horses are ruled by their instincts. Domesticated they may be, but even the dullest and most “desensitized” equine can injure or kill their rider because they saw something twitch in the bushes. Horses are big and strong, and even good horses can do stupid things.

  There’s a lot to be afraid of in the world when you’re a horse. Puddles, plastic bags, snow sliding off a metal roof, loud noises, sudden movements. It is entirely illogical for a horse to allow a human onto its back. Yet they do. Horses are anything but simple. Perhaps that is why humans gravitate toward them, because they share our complexities. Or maybe we are awed by their athleticism, and we just want to go for a ride.

  Riding a horse, and doing it right, has to be one of the most difficult skills to master. According to many riders who appear to have mastered it, they are only beginning to learn. And they will never stop learning. There is so much to learn, just so you can balance on a horse without compromising his balance. Every part of your body can influence the horse to move better or worse, each and every second. Good riding isn’t flashy. Kicking and pulling has no place in good riding. The aids – instructions to go faster or slower, turn, or move in a special way – should be light and invisible to even an educated onlooker. The muscle control this takes is almost unfathomable. Riders must have control of their bodies and minds to have any hope of controlling the horse’s body and mind and producing something beautiful.

  But, almost unbelievably, considering all they must do and think about to be successful in the saddle, riders have it easy, compared to the horse. The horse feels every move, intentional or not, that the rider makes, and more often than not, they are saddled with an inept, unskilled or uncaring rider. Little abuses are committed against horses every day. When riders attempt to sit the horse’s lofty, sometimes jarring gaits, and fail, the horse feels the rider’s seat bones pounding their back. They feel the rider’s hands clutch the reins in a desperate attempt to stay vertical and in the saddle. They lose their balance when the rider lurches, leans, and bounces. Balance is vital to the horse. Without it, they can’t run from danger. They can’t save themselves. No wonder horses so often resent being ridden.

  Some riders take it even further. Beginners abuse without intent, and they improve. They are easily forgiven by their saintly horses. But some riders never improve, and they don’t care to. They intimidate the horse, make it dance out of sheer terror. It takes patience, dedication and selflessness to be a good rider. Some people don’t want to take the time it takes. They want it now.

  Horses “ridden” by people like this generally crack, sooner or later. If they are lucky, they find their way to one of the good riders. If they are not, they may find their way onto someone’s plate. Another transgression against the horse.

  Lawrence Cavanaugh knows all about these horses. His best polo pony is one of them. And he worked with many more so-called "problem horses" as a teenager so he could earn money to rent polo ponies from the Lexington Polo Club. A "string" of at least a half-dozen polo ponies is essential if one wants to compete, even at the lowest level. Polo ponies are treated better than most horses, even most people. They are a vital part of the game. Being a good rider and an excel
lent strategist counts for nothing if you don't have a good horse underneath you.

  A good horse, in polo, is equal parts flesh, blood, bone and fire. They are impossibly quick, hot, and iron-tough. When they look at you, there is far too much behind their eyes to even try to comprehend. Their riders are supposed to be the more intelligent animal, the strategists behind the plays that are made, the goals that are scored. But a polo pony is no beast of burden, and everyone knows it. The players jump off their mounts and celebrate loudly, seeking and soaking up the affirmation and admiration radiating from their fans. Their ponies don't need any validation. They live higher up on the food chain. They look down on everyone, knowing, in their quiet way, that there would be no polo without them.

  To ride a polo pony is a heart-stopping, mind-blowing thrill. They don't require aids. They read your mind instead. I found this out the night that Lawrence Cavanaugh came to me, riding his steel grey mare with her star-shaped dapples. She glowed brighter than the moon. He held two reins in each hand, one set leading to Eloise's mouth, the other attached to a bay gelding's polished steel bit. He hadn't bothered to saddle Eloise. The gelding wore his saddle almost proudly. His eyes sparkled, as if the whole crazy idea had been his.

  I stuck my foot into the stirrup, and swung onto the gelding. He felt like electricity flowed through his veins instead of blood. He was completely immobile, yet I felt the energy pulsing away inside him. I looked at Lawrence . He sat, relaxed, looking back at me with those incredible bedroom eyes of his. "When you're ready," he said.

  I nodded. I'm ready, I thought. The gelding's energy surged, propelling him forward. The first few strides were so fast, I almost felt panicky. But I also felt Lawrence at my side, so I soon found the rhythm. The ground blurred beneath my mount’s hooves. His speed distorted the scenery. The cloudless sky even grew fuzzy at the edges. His hoof beats rang fast and true. What I couldn’t get over was how smooth he was, what little effort he exerted to fly over the turf. His ears pricked forward happily. I felt as if I was defying gravity and every other law of physics.

  It all went by too fast. I could see the stable in the distance, and I saw Eloise slow. “Lean back a little,” Lawrence called out. My concentration broken, I dropped back into the saddle. The gelding stopped abruptly in response to my inept signal. The horses walked back to the stable, catching their breath easily. My delicious high was over, but a new electricity crackled in the air.

  With the horses undressed and back in their stalls, we found each other in the half-dark aisle. I gave myself up to my desire. I didn’t speak or even think. I barely remembered to breathe. His hands were all over me, pulling away my clothes and tossing them aside like they were on fire. I didn’t ache for him, I burned. It didn’t matter where he touched me. Every inch of my skin was sensitized to his touch. My breath came fast and short as I watched him take off his clothes, revealing a landscape of hard, lean muscle. Then I was against the wall, and he was inside me, moving exquisitely slow, angled perfectly. His lips were on my neck and shoulder; my nails dug into his biceps. I felt my heart racing, working overtime in an unsteady rhythm. I couldn’t form even one word, but he was a mind reader, just like his horses. I didn’t have to tell him what to do; he knew everything. All I had to do was hold on and try not to die, or something. It was so good that I almost wished I would die. I knew I would never find a better way to go.

  I held on. It ended well. And I held on to consciousness, even though it knocked the wind out of me and I would have ended up on the floor had it not been for the solidness of the wall behind me, and the support of Lawrence’s well-defined arms. When I caught my breath, he released me for a moment and threw down a stack of horse coolers. The combined heat of a Florida night and his body kept me warm.

  I stepped away from the laptop. My emotions were a puzzle I couldn’t untangle. Words were more my thing. Words, or sensations. Not feelings.

  It was all out there now. It was no longer contained in the deepest, darkest part of my brain, lurking and hurting all the time. That night was just another piece of writing. Would it mean less to me now? I hoped valiantly that it would.

  I left my hotel room and headed down the beach, enjoying the burn of the sand against my bare feet. Raising one hand, I shielded my eyes from the white-hot glare of the sun. My second look confirmed what the first had revealed. I sprinted across the sand, stopping just short of the young man on a tall, black horse. “Alejandro?” I asked breathlessly.

  He nodded once. “And you must be Marla.” His accent was hot. So was his suntanned skin and close-cropped haircut. He was built, too. Much hotter than Lawrence, I decided. Lawrence was just kind of scrawny and pasty. If you looked past the glittering, coal-black eyes and rippling muscles, he was really quite ordinary.

  Another nice specimen led a broad grey horse up to me. I looked him over (the grey, not the guy). His eyes were huge and soft, and his mane and tail were thick, long and wavy. He was absolutely beautiful, but somehow disappointing. I placed my foot in the stirrup and mounted up. He was much wider than the last horse I’d ridden. I felt very secure on his back, which was a bit of a letdown.

  The lovely Alejandro’s eyes widened. “You know how to mount a horse, I see.”

  “I know how to ride, too. Let’s go.” I dug my bare heels into my horse’s fleshy sides. He pranced forward, lifting his legs very high but barely moving. When I asked him to go faster I only got more elevation.

  I looked over at Alejandro, who shook his head. “This horse was trained to move very flashy. He is a good horse, very safe. But he thinks he must perform all the time. He can never relax. I feel bad for him.”

  I stroked the neck of my high-stepping grey horse. The muscle felt like bone under my fingers. I glanced over to Alejandro’s mount. He was taller and slimmer, a Thoroughbred, I guessed. He looked fast, and a little dangerous. He too was prancing, nearly jumping out of his skin. I could tell he resented the slow pace set by the other horse. The shanks on his bit were at least seven inches long. They magnified any aid given by the rider. A bit like this could be used for unnecessary and abusive purposes, but Alejandro’s touch on the reins was quiet and skilled. I knew his horse would simply run through a lesser bit. The animal lived for speed.

  “I want to ride your horse,” I announced. Even the act of speaking the words made my adrenaline rise.

  Alejandro looked stunned. I knew he knew he should refuse instantly. But he was a victim of my stare. “Do you think you can control him?”

  “If I force myself.”

  He nodded, comprehending. He halted his horse and stepped off. I did the same, and threw the grey’s reins at him, snatching the black horse’s reins from his still-closed fingers. My soaring adrenaline propelled me onto the horse’s back, even though it was far above the ground. Alejandro’s horror-filled eyes were huge in his face. “Ride lightly,” he urged me. “And keep a tight hold on the reins at all times!”

  I smiled, let the reins slide through my hands, and tapped the horse audibly with my heels.

  The horse leapt into a full gallop at once, and tore across the sand. He was as fast as Lawrence’s polo pony, but his speed was not controlled, efficient or smooth. This horse was crazy, reckless, and jarring. But it was nothing I couldn’t handle. I stood in my stirrups, suspended over his back, following the rapid motion of his head with my hands. Tears streamed out of my eyes from the force of the wind and the glare of the sun on the water. I was alive, and living it up once more.

  Gradually I realized we were nearing the end of the beach. It was time to come back down to earth. I pulled back on one rein, an aid that would have set a polo pony back on its haunches in an instant. But the crazed black horse kept running like it was on fire. How am I going to stop this thing? I wondered for the first time. He ran on no matter how hard I pulled back on the reins. So I stepped into the left stirrup, and he turned in response, now facing the open water. Backed off by the frothing waves, the black horse surrendered, slowing to a walk
. I kept a tight hold on the reins as we turned around and headed back up the beach to meet Alejandro, who was quite a ways behind on the grey horse.

  I smiled at him when we drew near, and he grinned in relief. “You ride very well,” he said as we walked the horses across the expanse of white sand.

  My smile faded at first, then came back stronger. “Well, I had a really good teacher.”

  Lawrence

  I paced around the kitchen, trying to work up the balls to go ride my horse.

  The last time I’d ridden Harry, magic happened. I hadn’t touched him since. I’d thrown food at him and kept him alive, but that was it. I wasn’t naïve enough to think that whatever was wrong with his head was fixed now. I had learned how it felt to ride Harry at his best. It was a high that rivaled any natural or artificial high life could produce. I didn’t want to come back to reality. Reality was harsh and inevitable once I started working with Harry again. So I was stalling.

  I had ridden Vegas into a lather in the early morning humidity, then walked him almost as long as I’d ridden, until he was dry and perky again. Elle had surveyed the yard and mowed the grass at the end of my lead. The barn was clean. Wilson-clean. I’d even allowed Soiree an excruciatingly long hug. I was twitchy and uneasy and longing for something to do. But the only thing left on my usual mental list was ride Harry.

  Maybe I should just do it. I took a step toward the door.

  The door clattered open. Amber rushed through the open space, sweaty, out of breath and holding some envelopes. I focused on the envelopes rather than the sweat rolling down her long, elegant neck and into her…Stop! You idiot! Don’t go there!

  “Where’ve you been all morning?” I asked in an attempt to get myself back on track.

  Amber walked to the counter. “I went for a walk,” she answered vaguely. She set the envelopes down. “Your mail lady is cute. Is she straight?”

  “Uh-huh.” I gave her a meaningful look.