The Sixth Sense

by Jessie Haas

  “Oh, no!” James groaned.

  “Not so bad. You’ve made a difference in that horse.”

  “Oh, yeah!” James agreed glumly as Harriet accomplished the most nearly triangular circle he’d yet seen. Then she set off down the rail. Devan was high-headed, leaning on the bit. Harriet leaned right back.

  They took the corner without bending at all. “Oh, Harriet!” James groaned. “You’re so awful!” Then, remembering the stranger at his side, “I shouldn’t say that. She’s a great person.…”

  Garry shrugged, as if that mattered very little. True enough, James supposed. In the present circumstances Harriet’s feisty and humorous personality made no difference at all. Feistiness and humor had drained away. She was pale and wide-eyed, passing him. Her ungloved hands showed white at the knuckle.

  My fault, thought James. Poor Harriet!

  Yet Devan looked better. Though awkward and out of control, she revealed the natural forward energy that Harriet had hitherto dampened.

  You can save this, James telegraphed urgently to Harriet. Calm down and think! Get down in the middle of her—

  Too late. Harriet failed to turn the corner; Devan hopped the white rail gaily, ears pricked and neck arched. Lighting on the other side, she gave a saucy snort and looked around for fresh worlds to conquer.

  The judge’s bell rang sharply, signaling disqualification as James turned from the yellow rope and hurried toward the gate. Norah Craig was in his way. He waited impatiently for her to pass and rushed to catch Devan’s headstall, looking up at Harriet’s angry, humiliated face.

  It was a terrible moment. James felt every hour of the thirty-year difference in their ages, and his guilt quailed before her anger. He felt, too, how central they were in the public eye, and he had no notion what he was going to say. Yet something must be said, to save himself, to save face for Harriet, and to save for Devan the awkward progress she had made. He met Harriet’s pebbly stare for some long seconds; then he blurted, “Harriet, I know you’re upset, but she’s really made a breakthrough!”

  The corner of Harriet’s mouth jumped. She pulled it back into line for a second, and then laughed reluctantly. “Yes, James, she certainly has!”

  “No! I mean—look, come down here where I can talk to you!”

  Harriet looked down on him for one more half-angry moment, tapping the long dressage whip on her thigh. Then she nodded and came down. Under the anger and the laugh, James sensed how shaken she was. Horribly contrite, and knowing himself in some measure forgiven, he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. At that moment he caught the eye of Garry Kunstler, standing near the gate watching. James flushed and led Harriet away.

  “Sorry, I blew it for you. Do you ride tomorrow?”

  “No, just the two today.” She laughed, looking down at her boots. “Never mind, James. I blew the first one, too, all by myself.”

  “Well, then …” James took a deep breath. “I want you two to come down to us for some lessons—and before you say anything, the first couple are on the house. Okay? I owe you.”

  Harriet looked up, about to protest. She met James’ eyes, hesitated, and said, “Yes.”

  “Good! You felt how much she’s got in her—”

  Harriet glanced at Devan, walking quietly beside her but with a lingering brightness in her eye. “Entirely different horse. She scared me to death.”

  “That’s the horse she should be! That’s how much she ought to give. And you can handle it, Harriet, once you know what to expect.”

  “Can I?” Harriet’s voice was uncharacteristically low. “I’m a middle-aged accountant with chunky thighs, James, and I’ve been trying for a long time. I don’t know if I can be any better.”

  Neither did James. Certainly he hadn’t thought so half an hour ago. But now he had to make her better, and he frowned at her sternly. “You are fishing for compliments,” he said. “Can you come Wednesday at three?”

  “How about four?”

  “All right, four. Without fail!”

  Harriet was recovering and smiled at him indulgently, reminding him how young he was and that he was only male. “All right, Mr. MacLiesh. Without fail!” She led Devan away toward the barns.

  Drained, James stood watching her go. He liked the way her head was high again, and her shoulders square. Good old Harriet!

  “Well done!” said a soft voice at his shoulder, and he turned in astonishment to find Garry Kunstler.

  He felt his brows shoot up and his face freeze haughtily. “I disagree,” he said, and feeling he’d proven himself in every way a bastard, he turned to walk away, pretending to look for someone.

  But Garry Kunstler was still at his side, speaking as if he hadn’t heard the snub. “It’s a fine line, of course, between teaching and manipulation. Horse or human, I feel it every day.”

  James slowed his steps. He knew he was being manipulated even now, but he was intrigued.

  “I square it with myself,” said Garry, “by remembering that they want this. Every horse knows in his bones what balance is. Every horse knows how to dance. If they were to live their lives in freedom, they wouldn’t need teaching. But that’s not how it is. I show them how to regain their natural balance under a rider, and they want to be balanced, because it’s right.”

  “Hmm,” said James, wondering. “And how do you square with yourself about people?” He thought specifically of Norah.

  Garry smiled. “People pay,” he said. “They’re capable of figuring me out and manipulating me, in their turn. I don’t worry so much about people.”

  They were threading slowly among the spectators, people with dogs on leashes and people with babies in backpacks, people loaded down with other people’s coats, hats, numbers, and bottles of fly spray. They came up now to another stretch of yellow rope, beside a ring where Training Level tests were in progress.

  “Tell me about your place,” said Garry. “I’ve heard of the MacLieshes, of course, but till now I’ve never met one.”

  James’s suspicions were conquered. Of course it’s done deliberately, he reminded himself, but he didn’t really care. Eyes on the ring, taking in half consciously the soothing rhythm of horses’ legs in motion, he told Garry Kunstler about MacLiesh Farm; his work with Ghazal and Robbie, and the various spoiled horses; his hopes, his ambitions. Garry listened and asked illuminating questions.

  The last thing he asked was, “Have you ever ridden an upper-level horse?”

  James was distracted for a second. Across the ring, he spotted Gloria, homing in on him with her zoom lens. “Uh—no,” he said, frowning back at her. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Would you like to?”

  He had gained every scrap of James’s attention.

  “I don’t ride my top horse till tomorrow. He needs exercise.”

  “But why? I mean …” Just twang on this Stradivarius a couple times! Tool my Rolls around the block!

  “Someone did the same for me once. Let’s just say I’m passing it along. Will you?”

  “Well—yes! Hell, yes!”

  Garry laughed. “Well, come on, then!”

  The Silver Thimble horses were stabled in the farthest, quietest barn. They had taken over a full dozen stalls, including one for tack and one for a dressing room. Yet despite this ample storage space, supple, expensive saddles were hung on outside racks, and blue-and-silver coolers, blankets, and pads were draped richly everywhere, like the banners of a secluded kingdom. A stretch of several empty stalls separated Silver Thimble from the ragtag and bobtail in the rest of the barn.

  It’s only money, thought James, resisting. Yet his eye was seduced by Norah Craig, polishing a big, calm warm-blood with a blue-and-silver cloth. His ear was seduced by the serenity.

  A little unfocused, he watched Garry speak to Norah and to the young man, Jay, then go to the tack stall and bring out a grooming kit and halter. He set the kit down at the hitch rail and approached a stall with a bronze nameplate that read AVATAR. />
  No, I’m reading that wrong! James narrowed his eyes and went a couple of steps nearer.

  No, I’m not reading it wrong! He looked up as a noble, dark head appeared above the nameplate; a gleaming head with a knife blade of white down the frontal bone. The head was as familiar to him as those of his own horses. He’d seen it in sports magazines dozens of times over the past three years: Avatar, National Champion, Prix St. George.

  The great horse nickered like any Shetland pony at the approach of his master, and graciously gave his head to be haltered. Garry opened the door. Released from paralysis, James stepped forward.

  “Sir—uh—Garry … are you sure? I mean … what if I screw him up?”

  Garry looked amused. “This is an intelligent and highly educated animal, Mr. MacLiesh. I don’t think you’ll find him easy to lead astray.”

  “But—”

  “Norah rides him.”

  “Norah’s Second Level! I’m nowhere near as good as she is!”

  “At your age I don’t see how you could be.” Garry led the beautiful horse forth to the hitch rail. “So start with one of the soft brushes, will you? And hand me one.”

  “But—”

  “As you know quite well—remember, I have seen you ride—dressage is the continuing refinement and elaboration of certain fundamentals; a steady seat, good legs, sensitive hands, and the pure natural gaits of the horse. Avatar remembers all about First Level work. So really, I don’t quite see what you’re fussing about.”

  Put that way, neither did James. In silence he brushed the silken, sensitive hide. He found the spot, just behind the whithers, that liked to be scratched, and he watched the great horse grimace and wiggle his lip.

  A great horse is just like any other horse, he thought. Only more so. Yet even in this prosaic scratch response there was a statement. He thought of Ghazal, who projected dignity with every gesture. He did not yet know what Avatar was saying.

  He stood back now as Garry girthed on a magnificent long-skirted saddle; the best saddle, soft as a glove. Then the bridling; the dark horse reached willingly for the bits and savored them on his tongue, clanking the snaffle. His head came up and his ears pricked. His eyes began to dream.

  “Come on,” said Garry. “We’ll find a relatively private spot.”

  “All I have is sneakers,” said James, lifting one. Somehow he hoped for a delay. “Never mind, you won’t be using stirrups.”

  Oh.

  Delay came from Norah, asking a question as they were walking away. Garry gave the reins to James and stepped apart with her.

  James stood waiting, in an absolute daze. His eye was torn between the great horse and the beautiful woman, so that he really saw neither. Only as the conversation between Garry and Norah ended, and the reins were taken from him, did he see Gloria, alone at the hitch rail, lowering the camera from her face. She smiled and waved at him.

  Now what was she up to? Lately she did what she called photographic essays. James thought of this day, all the fatuous, forlorn, and foolish ways his own image would appear in the developing pan, and blushed.

  But they were walking; past the three rings where tests were being held, past horses warming up and cooling out, past picnickers and gossipers ahorse and afoot. Far out at the end of the fields a fat, lopsided old woman leaned on two canes and shouted directions to three riders circling her, two men and a girl. Before they reached this group, Garry veered left, and they crossed the shallow brook, coming out into a small meadow screened from view by trees. Garry stopped to tighten the girth and pull the stirrups down. James looked back and saw Gloria on the path behind him.

  “Mr. MacLiesh.” Garry stood at the horse’s head like a groom. His strange gnomelike face was quite inscrutable. James felt his heart thump in his chest.

  He gathered the reins and set his foot to the stirrup, hesitated a second and swung up. He lit on the marvelous saddle with an instant sense of homecoming.

  “Cross the stirrups in front,” Garry directed. James obeyed. Then he combed his fingers through the double set of reins, organizing them and finding the horse’s mouth.

  Garry stepped back. “Just warm him up a few minutes.” The meadow sloped steeply. The man considered a moment. “Down here, on the level.”

  Now. James squeezed gently with his legs, feeling as gauche as a boy on his first pony. Yet, pony or Prix St. George, the principle was the same. The great horse stepped out.

  It was a bold, lithe walk, the horse as loose at the shoulder as a tiger. James felt high off the ground and tippy. He tried unobtrusively to adjust his seat, and as he did, he felt the horse slide to the left in a smooth leg yield.

  Now why in hell had he done that? He froze his seat bones to immobility. The horse stopped and squared up.

  James felt the heat rise to his face. He squeezed his legs, intending to walk again.

  Instead, he achieved a canter from the standstill. In the great bounding transition, even as he threw his hands forward to avoid jabbing the horse’s mouth, he felt that his left leg was fractionally behind his right. Avatar had felt this and assumed it to be intentional.

  All right, he knew when he was licked. He slowed and then stilled his seat, bringing the horse to a halt. Then, moving only his head, he turned to look back at Garry.

  The man’s face was lit with amusement. “Well? You know what the problem is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So sit still! Try some circles at a trot.”

  James took a deep breath and rearranged his jutting jaw. He felt trapped and foolish.

  Deliberately he took himself back a couple of notches. What was the true situation? He was not here to impress Garry Kunstler. He sat astride the great horse Avatar, by unlooked-for chance. The opportunity must not be wasted.

  All right, relax.

  His belly softened. The fork of his seat sank down into the saddle. All at once he felt the heat of the horse’s body against his calves.

  Laying his palm on the glossy neck that rose before him, he said, “Hello. I’m James MacLiesh.”

  He sensed a change, perhaps a softening. Now he offered the suggestion, “Trot?”

  They trotted.

  Oh, wow! thought James. Oh, wow! The saddle hugged him close and deep, and he was part of this springy forward trot. Part of it, so that his suggestion that they turn and describe a circle on the hoof-marked grass was perhaps no suggestion at all but a shared idea arising in the combined mind/body of horse and man. Horse and man. Horse-man.

  Several round, beautiful circles; then changing direction, crossing the circle in a fat S, dividing the circle yin and yang; then around again. A rush of air to the chest—a clear, pure stillness. A silent shout for joy.

  Adding to the combined consciousness came a voice, instructing James to do things he’d never done before, saying how. As the words came, James acted, with no delay for thinking; collected trot, piaff, passage, and pirouette. Lovely, lovely pirouette, the horse cantering gaily in place around his own back legs, all the energy he was capable of compressed between the rider’s legs and his hands.…

  Horses are heavier than words. A horse cannot canter the pirouette as lightly as you can say it. His lightness is the lightness of half a ton. His breath gusts out with the great effort, and the fun of lifting himself, of falling to earth, of lifting again. James had always wanted to ride a pirouette. Because he never had, did not know how, he had imagined it to be impossible. Never mind that he had seen it many times. He knew horses to be too heavy. Now he knew how very nearly that was true. Marvelous …

  Then release, like an arrow shot from the bow, across the little meadow to the end. Hurrah! Turn and walk slowly back along the brook with the reins all long and floppy. Black ears go east and west like a plow horse’s, black neck low, black nose stretching forward in snorts of satisfaction.

  His shirt clung, front and back. Dust prickled on his sweating brow. He began to have thoughts.

  Such as, Boy! Oh, boy!r />
  And more complex ideas; the realization of what had been done for him. He had been given a gift of understanding. Someday, when he brought Ghazal to this level, he would remember the feeling of today and measure against it.

  He understood, too, that this marvelous ride had been far from the partnership of real dressage. Avatar had done all these things because he understood and loved them. He knew how to be beautiful and required from a rider only the patterns in which to enact his beauty.

  Garry had made him so, and Garry could lift him higher, make him still more beautiful and correct. James MacLiesh, as yet, was only along for the ride.

  So it was like a pony ride, or like sitting on your father’s lap with your hands on the wheel as he guides the car gently down the driveway. Not an accomplishment but a look ahead at what you will do one day when you are grown.

  He came to Garry and dismounted. The three of them, all separate again, stood looking at one another. Was there anything to say?

  Apparently not. Garry gave his hand and James shook it. The man took the reins of his horse, mounted, and rode away.

  James stood alone when they had gone, his back to the path. The feeling of that ride slowly drained out of his body, and he felt a yearning, painful joy, like unrequited love.

  It reminded him of the morning’s pain, in that empty gap between competitors. Could he say, now, that it was all for the best? He had seen Norah and ridden Avatar. He had upset Harriet and helped Devan, been humbled by a cousin and a camera, and then been lifted up by Mr. Garry Kunstler of Silver Thimble Farm. Would he trade all this for three five-minute rides before, a judge and before his peers, a few numbers written up publicly on a board beside his name?

  Yes, he thought he would. He was glad the choice had not been given.

  He turned to go. Gloria was coming toward him on the path, and the fat old woman was going the opposite way. Garry Kunstler, now dismounted, walked slowly at her side, his head inclined in courteous listening.