West With the Night

by Beryl Markham

  It was a world of absolutes. It held no intermediate shades, neither of sound nor of colour. There were no subtle strokes in the creation of Nakuru.

  The shores of its lake are rich in silence, lonely with it, but the monotonous flats of sand and mud that circle the shallow water are relieved of dullness, not by only an occasional bird or a flock of birds or by a hundred birds; as long as the day lasts Nakuru is no lake at all, but a crucible of pink and crimson fire — each of its flames, its million flames, struck from the wings of a flamingo. Ten thousand birds of such exorbitant hue, caught in the scope of an eye, is a sight that loses credence in one’s own mind years afterward. But ten thousand flamingos on Lake Nakuru would be a number startling in its insignificance, and a hundred thousand would barely begin the count.

  Menegai Crater overlooks the township and the lake. In the time of man it has breathed no brimstone, and barely a wisp of smoke. But in the annals of the Rift Valley which contains all this as a sea contains a coral atoll or a desert a dune, the time of man is too brief a period to deserve more than incidental recording. Tomorrow, next day, or next year, Menegai may become again the brazier over which some passing Deity will, for a casual aeon or so, warm his omnipotent hands. But until then, one can stand safely on its edge, watching the lake of pink and scarlet wings, so far below — the lake that seems to have stolen for the moment, at least, all the mountain’s fire.

  This was the lavish background against which I worked my horses at Nakuru. My entrance with Arab Ruta and Wise Child on the flat shore each morning just after daylight must have been as anticlimactic as the spectacle of three mice crossing a stage gigantically set for the performance of a major Wagnerian opera. I used the shore because it was the only place soft and yielding enough for Wise Child’s sensitive legs.

  My quarters were hardly so elaborate as the hut at Molo had been. By day I lived in a stable I had renovated for my own use, and by night I slept at the very top of the modest little grandstand, built, as was the race-course, by stolidly British members of the district, who, like all the others of our immutable clan, were allergic to the absence of horses.

  And each time I had watched Wise Child test her tendons on the moist ground while flamingos rose and settled on the surface of the lake or sluggard hippopotami waddled into it, I had thought of Wrack — disdainful Wrack. How well I knew him!

  But the twelve weeks had hurried on, the work had been done as skilfully as I could do it.

  And now, at last, we are here. Now Eric fingers his glass and questions me hopefully, while the music of Muthaiga marches through our talk, and festive people clasp hands, revive old toasts — and make bets on tomorrow’s Leger.

  One hundred pounds — two hundred pounds —

  ‘Has the filly a chance?’

  ‘Against Wrack? Of course not.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure …don’t be too sure. Why, I remember …’

  Well, that’s what makes a horse-race.

  Jockey: Sonny Bumpus.

  What’s in a name? At least there’s no weight in this one. There’s an airy insolence in it. Who would be so heedless as to run a horse against such a happily cocksure combination as — Sonny Bumpus on Wise Child?

  And if this were not enough to ponder, what about Arab Ruta? Arab Ruta, the mystic, the conjurer, the wizard of Njoro?

  ‘Ah-yey!’ he says, as he grooms the filly with inspired hands, ‘I will make these muscles like the muscles of a Murani ready for battle. I will make them tough as the bow of a Wandorobo. I will put my own strength into them!’ He spits contempt. ‘Wrack — I warn you! You are a colt, but God has given our filly the blade of a Nandi spear for a heart, and put the will of the wind in her lungs. You cannot win, Wrack. I, Arab Ruta, say so!’

  He turns to me. He is solemn. ‘It is settled, Memsahib. Wrack will lose.’

  I look up from the plaiting of Wise Child’s mane, and smile.

  ‘There are times, Ruta, when you sound like Kibii.’

  With hesitance my smile is returned. Ruta is thoughtful, but unchastened. ‘No, Memsahib — it is only that I have the power to make truths of my beliefs. It is a thing only a Murani can do.’

  We are in our stable at the race-track. Within two hours the Leger will be run. While Ruta grooms, I plait the silky mane and the blacksmith spreads out his tools to put on Wise Child’s aluminum racing plates. The filly stands quiet as a nodding kitten, but she is not asleep. She knows. She is thinking. Perhaps she is wondering, as I am, about those weakened tendons. She cannot feel them; it is not a matter of pain. It is only a question of how long they will take the strain of speed, the piston-pounding of hooves against the hard track, the long way from that excited start to that distant finish.

  She straightens at the touch of the blacksmith’s hand, then yields a foot with graceful resignation. She will do whatever is asked of her, as she always has done. She turns her head, nudging me, speaking to me — do not worry; I will run. As long as these legs will bear me up, I will run. But have we long to wait?

  Not long, Wise Child, not very long.

  When the blacksmith is finished, I leave the stable, and, for a few minutes, inspect the course again — as if I had not already done it a dozen times. Other trainers, and owners, stand alone or in pairs about the paddock gates or lean on the white rails that enclose the oval track. Syces are busy, a jockey wearing the colours of Lady MacMillan’s stable scurries through the bustle — an important, a resplendent midget. Bookmakers tread on each other’s toes, on mine, on anybody’s, or stand flat-footed scowling at scraps of paper clutched like passports to El Dorado.

  A cloud of people, growing darker, creeps over the course, across the grandstands, muffling in its billows the martial thunder of the K.A.R. Band.

  To the north looms Mount Kenya, throne of the Kikuyu God, jewelled in sunlight, cushioned in the ermine of lasting snow. And, to the northeast, lying lower, like a couch of royal purple awaiting the leisure of this same prodigious God, spread the Aberdares. Under the shadow of such sovereign furnishings sprawl the ignoble stamping grounds of little people — the Indian Bazaar, the Somali Village, Nairobi itself in its microcosmic majesty. And the inhabitants of these, coloured as variously as unsorted beads, stream through the open gates of the race-course, paying for passage, eager for pleasure.

  I have wondered sometimes if it is the beauty of a running-horse that brings so many people of so many kinds to such a makeshift amphitheatre as this is, or if it is the magnetism of a crowd, or if it is only the banal hope of making an easy shilling? Perhaps it is none of these. Perhaps it is the unrecognized expectation of holding for an instant what primordial sensations can be born again in the free strength of flashing flanks and driving hooves beating a challenge against the ground.

  A keeper of an Indian duka — a Government clerk — a Lord Delamere — an Eric Gooch, all cogs of a kind, in a life of a kind, have made for themselves here, and everywhere, places where they can sit with folded arms and pay regular tribute to an animal so humble that he can be bought for a banknote.

  Yet I wonder if he is ever bought? I wonder if the spirit of Camciscan, the sturdy integrity of Pegasus, the wise and courageous heart of Wise Child can ever be bought?

  Is this too much to say of horses?

  I remember the things they did; I remember this Saint Leger.

  In the large talk of Continental sweepstakes, it is a trivial thing. It is not trivial to Wrack, to Wise Child, to the eight other horses who will leave the starting post; it is not trivial to me as I make the final preparations.

  I feel the filly’s legs, a little puffy, but not feverish. I kneel down and strap the tendon boots on them, firmly, carefully. I slip on the light racing bridle with my blue-and-gold colours striping the forehead band; I put the martingale over her head, onto her neck.

  Arab Ruta fixes the protective pad on her withers, the number cloth over that, and then the saddle. At last I tighten the girths. We do not talk very much. It is only a matter of
minutes before the bell will ring calling the horses to the paddock.

  Sonny Bumpus has had his instructions. The lean, dark haired boy has listened earnestly to every word. He is a grand horseman, honest as daylight.

  I have explained the strategy over and over: ‘Lie two or three lengths behind Wrack for the first couple of furlongs — until the filly gets warmed up. Steady her round the first bend; if her legs are still standing after that, let her go on the far stretch. Get the lead — keep it. She’s willing and fast. She’ll stay forever. If Wrack challenges, don’t worry — so long as her legs can take the drive she’ll never quit. If they fail — well — it won’t be your fault, but whatever happens don’t use your whip. If you do, she’ll stop in her tracks.’

  That’s all. That’s all there can be. A bell rings and I nod to Ruta. He takes Wise Child’s reins in his hands and leads her slowly toward the paddock. The small fleck of sweat on her flanks is the only indication that she shares with us our anxiety, our unmentioned fears, and our quiet hopes.

  It is only coincidence that in the paddock she falls in line behind Wrack, giving me a chance to compare them closely. I do not even bother about the others — Lady MacMillan’s entries, one of Delamere’s, a couple entered by Spencer Tryon, one of the best of trainers. They are all good horses, but I admit none as a threat. Wise Child has but two threats — Wrack, and her own weak tendons.

  Wrack is triumphant in advance of victory. He is a beautiful colt, sleek as speed itself, dancing like a boxer on quick, eager feet, flaunting his bright body in front of the steady and demure Wise Child. I look at him and take credit for that impressive form, but allow myself the comfort of small malice at the sight of too much sweat streaming from his chestnut coat — a coat that looks as if it might be otherwise a bit too dry under the touch of experienced fingers. Has Wrack been over trained since he left me? Has someone been too anxious? Or am I smothering reason with a wish …

  I recognize Wrack’s owner a few yards down the rail — at the elbow of the colt’s new trainer. We nod to each other all around, with about the same warmth one might expect of so many robots. I can’t help it. I’ll be doubly damned if I will try to help it.

  Eric Gooch touches my shoulder. ‘I couldn’t resist,’ he says; ‘the filly looks so good I’ve placed a bet on her for myself — and another for you. I won’t have to mortgage the old homestead if she loses, but we’ll both be a little richer if she wins. Will she?’

  ‘Her legs are weak as oat straws, but she’ll try.’

  ‘Wrack’s the horse!’ A dogmatic gentleman next to me hurries off to place his bet on Wrack. I wince a little, but the man’s no fool.

  Comments are being made on the splendid condition of Wise Child, but the filly is as deaf to flattery as a hitching post. She’s deaf to everything. She circles round the paddock before the critical gaze of five hundred pairs of eyes. She moves modestly, even shyly, as if her being there at all is a matter she can only hope will be regarded as an excusable error.

  Suddenly the crowd mumbles and shifts, the paddock opening is cleared, and the lead horse — a black stallion — prances in pompous style toward the track. In a few minutes it will all be over.

  Eric and I hurry through the grandstand into Delamere’s box. We wait; we watch; we brace ourselves against the wooden ledge.

  The horses canter briskly past the stands. Wise Child, with Sonny riding feather light, trips like a shy schoolgirl behind the others. She is without ego, but she can afford vanity. There’s not a prettier one in the field — nor one more thoughtful. I strain forward, trying foolishly to make her aware of me, to make her feel somehow that the burden of her secret is a little shared — the secret of those smartly bound legs that may have to yield so soon.

  ‘She’s in wonderful shape!’

  Eric is radiant, but there’s no answer from me. I unbuckle my binocular case and find that my hands are shaking. She won’t win; she can’t win. I know Wrack’s form. I try to be casual, nodding to my friends, fumbling my program as if I could really read it. But the pages are blank. I read nothing. I stand staring down at the little group of horses with humourless anxiety, not as if this were just a race held under the African sun in a noisy settlement between Lake Victoria and the Indian Ocean, but as if this were the greatest race of all time, held on the greatest course, with the world looking over my shoulder.

  Incongruously the band blares out the nerve-tightening notes of ‘Mandalay’ and some of the crowd beat the floor boards in heavy time. I wish the band would stop — and I love bands. I wish people would stop humming that dreary tune — and I love the tune. I can see perfectly well without glasses, but I lift the binoculars to my eyes and watch.

  They’re at the post — some of them eager, some of them stubborn, some of them not quite sure. Atop their gleaming backs the jockeys look like gaudy baubles, secured with strings. They bob up and down, they rise, lean forward, then settle again. A horse rears, or whirls, striking plumes of dust from the track until the bright marionette he carries is swallowed in it, but appears again, transformed now — stubbornly human now, controlling, guiding, watching.

  I find Wrack. Look at Wrack! He’s fighting to run, dying to run. As always, he’s impatient with delay. Arrogant devil — he wants it over with; it’s his race and he wants to hammer it into our heads once and for all. Why the ceremony? Why the suspense? Let’s run! He’s doing a pirouette; he’ll plunge if his boy can’t hold him. Easy Wrack — quiet, you elegant fool!

  The starter is ready, the crowd is ready, Eric and I are ready. The band has stopped and the grandstand is a tabernacle of silence. This is the moment — this should be the moment. Steady, Sonny — the end may hang on the beginning, you know. Steady, Wise Child. All right. Everybody on their feet; everybody crane their necks.

  Beautiful line-up; their noses are even as buttons on a tape. Watch the flag. Watch …

  No! False start. Wrack, you idiot; I’d hammer that out of you. I had it out of you once. You can’t start that way; you’ve got to be calm. Don’t you remember? You’ve got to …

  ‘Be calm,’ says Eric, ‘you’re trembling.’

  So I am. Not quite like a leaf, but anyway like a branch. I don’t see how I can help it much, but I turn to Eric and smile vacuously as if somebody just past eighty had asked me to dance.

  When I turn again, they’re off with Wrack in the lead. That’s fine. That’s what I expected. It’s what the crowd expected too. Five thousand voices, each like a pipe in an immense, discordant organ, swell and roll over the single, valiant note of the trumpeter. They roll over me, but they sound like a whisper — a bit hoarse, but still like a whisper. I have stopped trembling, almost breathing, I think. I am calm now — wholly composed. They’re off, they’re on their way, swinging down the long course, leaving behind their heels a ripple of thunder.

  How can I compare a race like this to music? Or how can I not? Will some perfectionist snug in the arms of his chair under the marble eyes of Beethoven shudder at the thought? I suppose so, but if there’s a fledgling juggler of notes and cadences, less loyal to the stolid past, who seeks a new theme for at least a rhapsody, he may buy a ticket at any gate and see how they run. He will do what I cannot. He will transpose and change and re-create the sound of hooves that pelt like rain, or come like a rolling storm, or taper like the rataplan of fading tympani. He will find instruments to fit the bellow of a crowd and notes to voice its silence; he will find rhythm in disorder, and build a crescendo from a sigh. He will find a place for heroic measures if he watches well, and build his climax to a wild beat and weave the music of excitement in his overtones.

  A race is not a simple thing. This one is not. There are not just ten horses down there, galloping as fast as they can. Skill and reason and chance run with them. Courage runs with them — and strategy.

  You do not watch a race; you read it. There is cause in every flux and change — jockeys have ability or they haven’t; they bungle or they don’t. A horse h
as a heart or he lacks it.

  Questions must be answered before the rap of one hoof follows another — when to hold back, when to coax, when to manoeuvre. More speed? All right, but will he last?

  Who can tell? A good boy — a sound judge of speed can tell. Slow pace, medium pace, fast pace — which is it? Don’t let a second-rater snatch the race! Sonny shouldn’t; he’s sensitive as a stop-watch. But he might.

  What’s that behind — trick or challenge? Don’t be fooled, don’t be rattled, don’t be hurried. Mile and three-quarters, you know — with ten in the field, and every one a winner until you prove he’s not. There’s time, there’s time! There’s too much time — time for errors, time for a lead to be stolen, time for strength and breath to vanish, time to lose, with the staccato insistence of forty hooves telling you so. Eyes open — watch the score!

  Wrack’s first, then the black stallion pulling hard. A brown horse with more style than speed clings to a precarious third. It’s Wise Child at his flank, on the rails. She’s smooth. She’s leopard smooth.

  ‘God, she’s going well!’ Eric yells it, and I smile. ‘Be calm — you’re trembling.’

  He isn’t, perhaps, but he’s hopping up and down as if he’d won the race, and he hasn’t. He hasn’t won anything yet. Tendons. Tendons — remember the tendons! Of course she’s going well, but …

  ‘Come on, Wrack!’

  Support for the enemy, unidentified. I snort and mumble in my mind. Silly man, don’t yell — watch. They’re in the far stretch now. My jockey’s no fool — Sonny’s no fool. See that? See Wise Child easing up, gliding up? Where’s your Wrack now? Don’t yell — watch. She’s catching him, isn’t she? She’s closing in, isn’t she?

  She is; she does. The crowd stirs, forgetting bets, and roars for blood. They get it too. Wrack is a picture of driving power — Wise Child a study in coordination of muscle and bone and nerve. She’s fast, she’s smooth. She’s smooth as a blade. She cuts the daylight between Wrack and herself to a hand’s breadth — to a hair’s breadth — to nothing.