by Jessie Haas
James sighed and turned away. A morbid impulse had brought him to this ring at just this time, and now he regretted it. The white horse made him think of Ghazal—clumsy, stupid Ghazal, who had stepped on himself last week while landing from a jump. He’d torn off a shoe and cut the bulb of his hoof. He needed at least three weeks’ rest, and he was scratched from this, the two-day dressage show toward which James had been working since early spring.
Sigh. He looked around for his cousin Gloria, who had come with him today.
When he found her, her back was turned, and she was taking a picture.
James had come because he couldn’t stay away, but Gloria was working; photographing riders who might buy the pictures, getting material for the local papers, and taking pictures for herself, to swell her portfolio and sharpen her eye.
There were hundreds of pictures to take: bright polo bandages on the flashing legs of horses; foam spattered on sweat-dark chests; bits and buckles twinkling in the sun, the glow of clean leather; chestnut, black, bay, and silver hides; the precise touch of a blunt chrome spur to a horse’s rib; the flick of the wrist deploying the long dressage whip; a jaw yielding softly, a jaw clenched hard; the pricked ears and bright eyes of distraction, the back-turned ears and dreaming, serious eyes of a horse who paid attention. Horses made ugly by their riders, made beautiful by their riders.
James saw, and ached to be here. Now he was nothing—a small, insubstantial person walking on the ground. He had no horse to make him important. Nothing to talk about, nothing to do. Acquaintances riding past seemed not to see him, and he didn’t bring himself to their attention.
His own sneakers caught his eye. He looked down at them glumly. Sneakers, not boots; symbolic—
The camera was now pointed at him. He jerked up his head in sharp indignation, but too late.
“I’m going to call it ‘Grounded,’” said Gloria. “Poor James!”
James gave her a long glare that she didn’t see. But he thought, too, of how he must have looked, and after a moment he hoisted his mouth into a near smile and followed the movements of Gloria’s camera, alertly if blankly. He would keep his self-pity locked inside from now on, where no one could take pictures of it.
Deliberately, because he had no mental focus of his own today, he made himself think about what she was seeing.
It was people as much as horses. James always saw horses first, but Gloria was seeing, as well, the sleek twelve-year-olds on their multithousand-dollar ponies, and the grubby, earnest twelve-year-olds who had to try ten times as hard, with no expensive teacher to tell them how. She saw the multitude of strong, handsome girls, the horsey beauties James liked so much to look at, and she saw the men, who were fewer. She saw the patient craft in the faces of middle-aged riders, the compensating they had to do, and the knowledge they had exchanged for limberness. And she saw …
And she saw the woman.
The woman rode by them on an incredible black warm-blood, bringing him down fluently from his warm-up work. She was perfect!
James turned in his tracks as she passed. He saw her halt the horse in two strides beside a man; bending her head to speak to him, sun glowing on her dark French braid … what a lovely neck! She wore a sleeveless riding shirt; her arms were bare and brown and beautiful, and she wore gloves, which seemed beautiful too.
“Isn’t he amazing?” Gloria murmured. She sounded appropriately awestruck, but the camera clicked away, recording minute variations of the scene.
“Mmm,” said James. How peculiar that Gloria, for once, was seeing only the horse! But he hastened to make clear that he, too, was gawking just at horseflesh. “Lotta power in those britches,” he said, nodding to the warm-blood’s gleaming, muscled haunches.
Gloria gasped. He glanced at her. The camera drifted down from her eye, and she stared at him, openmouthed and blushing. Then she started to laugh.
“James, I was talking about the man!”
“What?” James looked again and saw with indignation that the man’s hand rested on the beautiful woman’s knee. He had a strange face; triangular, big-nosed, with shiny, smooth-stretched skin the color of polished mahogany. His long greenish eyes were lifted to hers. They gazed into each other’s faces as if nothing on earth would have the power to distract them.
“Man’s like catnip, apparently,” murmured Gloria. James felt a powerful inner kick of antagonism.
“Ugly as sin!” he said roughly, lifting his eyes to the woman’s face. She was instant and glorious refreshment.
“James, stop gaping! Come on!” Gloria took him by the arm and towed him a few unresisting steps before he dug in his heels.
“No. I want … I want to stay and see these tests.”
Gloria let go—perhaps only to snap another picture. Beneath the black box, her mouth smiled. “Okay. I’m going to cruise awhile.”
So I’m obvious, thought James. So what! But he made an effort to seem cool, noting his location—Arena Three—where, checking the program, Second Level tests were in progress. He nodded gravely at the program, in case Gloria was still looking, and strolled to a position from which he could watch the woman while appearing to watch the tests.
She looked like a queen, with that beautiful braid for a coronet. She looked like a fairy tale—too lovely to be real. Yet here she was, in the midst of what was to James the most beautiful setting in the world, outshining all. When he could shift his gaze for a few seconds, he saw that her dark, vivid face and glowing eyes drew many glances.
Or was it the man? Briefly James wondered if Gloria could be right; what she had heard; who this bozo was. But he had no time to spare for the puzzle. The sight of the woman was doing something wonderful to his spirit, and he didn’t want to waste a minute.
When she donned coat and hat and pinned on a number, he checked in the program and found her name—Norah Craig. Norah. Beautiful.
The horse had a Swedish name and belonged to Silver Thimble Farm.
So. Silver Thimble was a coming name, with wealth behind it and a fine herd of the prestigious Swedish warm-bloods. It was practically his duty to watch this woman ride; check out the competition.
She was up next, and as she rode away toward the entrance James saw that she was good. She seemed to grow up from the center of the horse’s back, like a willow. Her hands were educated and gave back as much as they took. As she trotted around the outside of the ring James watched in fascination the long, gleaming boot, folding softly at the ankle as the dancing foot absorbed concussion.
“Hello, James.”
Now someone saw him! He gave the speaker a fleeting glance.
Harriet Marks, who’d bought horses from MacLiesh Farm; an accountant in her fifties; one of the fair to not-so-good riders who made up the lower echelon of the sport, but a great person with whom James always enjoyed a talk. He said hello, and his eyes swung back to Norah and the Swedish horse.
The judge’s bell tinkled. Norah proceeded without haste toward the entrance. A perfect arc at the same cadenced trot brought her straight down the center to her halt, with lovely inevitability. She dropped her gloved right hand to her side and bowed her head in salute to the judge. Her grace and grandeur satisfied James deeply.
“Too bad those back legs didn’t square,” muttered Harriet.
James closed her out of his mind, throwing all his attention into the arena. He made himself judge, rider, and even horse. He executed the first corner in a lovely arc; he felt the power and smoothness of it. He said to himself, Good! and gave her nine points. And as James MacLiesh he saw, again and again and again, how beautiful she was. He said to himself, I am in love.
“… butter wouldn’t melt,” said Harriet. “Never believe she’s gone through two husbands already.”
“Norah?” In his shock James tore his gaze from the ring for a second. Harriet gave a pleased little nod.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “and that’s not all.…”
But James was already back with Norah and the S
wedish horse, as the elastic shoulder-in completed itself in a ten-meter circle, and then a flying, lengthened trot across the diagonal. He felt the places where Norah’s concentration wavered. Each time the horse’s drive escaped in some inaccuracy. He turned roughly, overshot a letter by a couple of strides, and began to work too fast. The lengthening of stride at the canter more nearly resembled a cavalry charge. James was close as the horse flew by down the rail. He heard the great rhythmic puffs of breath and saw the firm half halts, all too vigorous, all too necessary. Yet she did collect him to make the corner, and though he betrayed great excitement, she was able to guide him through the rest of the test without mishap.
The smile she put on, leaving the ring, was forced, and dropped off as soon as she passed through the gate. Yet she leaned forward, too, and clapped her gloved hand twice on the long, low neck of the tired horse.
Good! thought James. The horse deserved praise. His faults were generous, the result of too much energy rather than too little. A horse that gave too much could always be improved.
He turned away from the next competitor; a stingy horse, executing the figures precisely in a dull pony gait; a bunchy rider with tight shoulders and no neck. He followed Norah at a discreet distance, delighting in the weary grace with which she swept the hat from her head.
“… every single one! That’s what I’ve heard.”
How annoying! Harriet was still at his side. He looked at her, for the first time seeing that she wore riding clothes.
“When do you ride?” he asked, hoping it would be soon.
Harriet gave him a puzzled, annoyed look. “I ride in forty minutes,” she said with utmost precision. “I asked you to do a little coaching, and you said yes.”
So they weren’t following Norah Craig. They were going to the barn.
Norah was going that way, too, with the black coat folded over one bare arm—hat, whip and reins all gracefully gathered in her hands; beside her, the man. They paced slowly, hips rolling, strides perfectly matched. Behind walked the Swedish horse, long and loose.
Snatches of talk drifted back, and James accelerated to eavesdrop.
“… freight train,” said Norah. Her voice was low and creamy. “I half-halted the hell out of him—”
“Yes, darling, that was painfully obvious. But what I’d like to point out is the extent to which he responded. Not enough, plainly, but he heard you this time. I see improvement.”
“I let him get away from me,” said Norah, her voice going deeper, as if it were difficult to admit a fault. “When my concentration was right, I had him.”
James felt a little rise of heart, because he had sensed that. He understood her.…
So did the detestable man at her side. He slid an arm around her waist and gave her a long, complicated look, full of sympathy for the trials in her life that might disturb her concentration, and of merry willingness to disturb her in a different way. For now he only kissed her cheek. “Have Jay cool him out and get Maia ready. I have to coach Evelyn now.” He gave her a squeeze, and departed.
Walking captive beside Harriet, James half listened to her gossip till Norah disappeared around the corner of a barn. Then, spirits deflating, he began to hear again.
“… did very well in the first divorce,” said Harriet. “The second husband has money, too, but maybe he won’t part with it so easily, because I hear they’re patching things up.”
“Was that guy the husband?”
Again he got the odd look. “No,” said Harriet crisply. “Garry Kunstler, the trainer at Silver Thimble.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.”
So that was the famous Garry; hot local favorite among trainers and riding teachers, a name dropped reverently from every lip. Two years ago he’d been National Champion, Prix St. George, on his great horse Avatar.
No wonder …
“Anyway,” said Harriet, “here’s Devan. Help me saddle, will you, James?”
Devan was a MacLiesh Farm graduate; a small chestnut mare whose one fault had been her adamant refusal to enter a trailer. Tom MacLiesh had ridden her twenty-five miles home from the place where he bought her, and labored over her for months.
Like every horse that passed through MacLiesh hands, she had a certain potential—a decent build, decent gaits, the willing, teachable personality that Tom MacLiesh had a knack for spotting in the most unpromising places.
But ahead of them, as they made for an unoccupied slice of meadow in which to work, walked Garry Kunstler, beside a Hanoverian ten times the horse Devan was; stride like a young giraffe; mild, intelligent head; bloodlines back to the time of Fredrick the Great and beyond.… Devan seemed like a mustang off the range, and compared to that straight-backed redhead, poor old Harriet …
Well, Harriet was a tryer and Devan was an innocent, and they deserved his best, such as it was. “Here,” he said, stopping, and shortening his field of vision to exclude Garry Kunstler.
“Trot around me a few—no, out farther. Okay.”
Worse than he’d imagined. Harriet bounced and thumped and tugged, wearing a most professional and serious expression. She was obviously working very hard, and felt she knew what she was doing. Under this treatment, Devan moved with stilted, choppy strides, with high head and a distracted expression.
“No!” James cried. “Loosen up—no, be soft! Don’t jab her mouth … keep contact with her! No!”
No good. He could not teach Harriet piecemeal, by correcting her every move. First she needed something inside; a model of correctness, a hero to imitate.
“Pretend you’re Norah Craig!” he said. “Get a picture of Norah in your head!”
The corner of Harriet’s mouth thinned derisively.
“Let me get on,” cried James in desperation. There were fifteen minutes left before the test, and it was no time for a lesson; really, no chance of doing good. Yet he sensed in the current, attenuated Devan a perfect motion striving to be free.
He coaxed Harriet to the ground and mounted, crossing the stirrups in front of the saddle. No time to waste adjusting them. He urged Devan forward.
She felt small and unsteady to him, liable to duck out from under him at any moment. She felt dull, rough, and jerky.
But … she was reins in his hands and a saddle beneath him, the hot smell of horse in his nostrils, the unseen body that seemed so naturally a part of his own. He felt alive again.
“Trot, Devan! Come on!”
Her response was meager, but he pushed, with legs, whip, seat, voice, and spirit. “Trot, girl! Trot!”
At last she began to fly, like a high-powered engine finding the range it was built for. Her ears flicked forward and back, expressing pleasure and disbelief. You mean you’re allowed to go like this? Her stride became oily and powerful.
Now she wanted to get out of hand, but James balanced her with light checks and releases and small suppling circles. She didn’t yet understand how to come against the bit and flex herself, like a drawn bow. She wanted to go through. James got her walking again, calmed her down, made her listen. At the corner of his eye he saw Harriet look at her watch.
“James, I’ve got to go!”
“Okay.” He jumped down without touching the stirrups. His chest felt full of air, and his sneakered feet light.
“Up you go! You’ll do fine. Remember, support her from behind, keep pushing. The judge wants to see impulsion.”
Harriet gave him a tight-lipped glance and was silent.
James followed her toward the ring where the First Level test was running. First Level—he himself was now accomplished at First Level, able at last to be both bold and attentive to detail. He’d been reasonably confident of winning today; at least, of doing well enough to move Ghazal up and enter Second Level as a novice.
Next time. Next time.
Soon, then, he would compete against Norah Craig. Would he become as good as she was? Or would she be moving on, too, forever beyond him? Did it matter? He was never able to decide how much h
e cared about competition. You measured yourself against other riders, but the true measure was your horse, and that measure could be taken in private.
He spotted Gloria across the ring, face half hidden behind her camera. He wondered what she now saw through the lens. The grounds crew had done a nice job on this show, and as it was the first day, the tubs of geraniums were still fresh and the grass not much trampled. The low rail, a mere three inches off the turf, sparkled with fresh paint. It was the barest sketch of a fence, a symbol of the willing cooperation of the horses. James liked the rail. He hoped Gloria’s pictures would say something about it.
A horse and rider left the ring, and now it was Harriet’s turn. James stood close to the yellow rope, watching as she trotted Devan around the outside, awaiting the bell—dreading the bell. How grim she looked, unlike herself. The brief euphoria died in James’s heart. Helplessly, guiltily, he watched the dynamic of frustration build itself. Harriet, knocked off-balance by his coaching, by the change he’d made in Devan—afraid, tight, clutching. Devan, also off-balance, full of go, resentful because she knew she should not be poky and dull but should fly—pulling on the bit, Harriet clutching, Devan shaking her head, swishing her tail, shying at the judge’s trailer.… James tried to catch Harriet’s eye as she passed, but she didn’t see him.
“Hello,” said a soft voice at his side. James spared a quick glance. Oh fine! he thought. The crowning pleasure of this glorious moment.
“Garry Kunstler,” said the man, smiling and holding out his hand.
“James MacLiesh.” They shook hands briefly, already turning back toward the ring.
“I saw you on that mare a few minutes ago,” said Garry. “Good work!”
The bell tinkled. Horse and rider jumped. “I’m not so sure,” said James.
“Oh, they’re shaken up, of course. They’ll do poorly. But …” Garry shrugged. “That’s the price of learning.”
“I’m not sure Harriet wants to pay,” James said. “And I never asked.”
He watched her enter the ring, making a wobbly line down the center, halting a few feet past X. A quick, jerky salute; the dropped hand leapt back to the rein. Then, mindful of James’ injunction to push forward, she goosed Devan into a hasty trot.