Pat stood with his foot propped against the car.
“You see my problem?” Colleen asked.
“I’m not sure I . . .”
“You soon will. Come on, Pat, let’s take a closer look.”
Pat climbed into the paddock and tentatively approached the dark bay mare. The mare seemed to lock her eyes on Pat, shifting to face him head-on. At her side, the foal cantered away, but the black gelding stood firm, eyeing Pat with a look that could only be described as gleeful malevolence.
Pat went to lay a hand softly on the mare’s muzzle, but before he could touch her, the gelding sprang into action. Thrusting himself between them, he rolled back his lips and whipped his head from side to side, teeth bared, preparing to nip. Quickly, Pat whipped his hand away, took a step back. He was just craning a look over his shoulder when suddenly Colleen cried out.
“Pat, quick!”
Too late, Pat realized what she was saying. In the corner of his eye, he saw the dark bay mare lift her foreleg and kick it out with the precision and ferocity of a bare-knuckle boxer. Turning against the blow, he stepped to his left. The mare’s leg whipped past him and back again. Once it was planted firmly on the ground, the mare lifted her eyes to pierce him, while the gelding at her side still rolled his head, lips parted to show razor teeth.
“They’re devil horses,” Colleen began, on the other side of the fence.
This time, Pat did not take his eyes off the mare.
“She’s Magie Noire, or Black Magic in English. The gelding’s Philippe.”
“Brother and sister?”
“I never had that bond with my brother . . .”
“These aren’t your horses, are they?”
“What gave it away?” Colleen paused. “I’m not a horse person, Pat. Not like you and Mandy. I know a skewbald from a piebald, a stirrup from a halter, but . . . There used to be a family, lived high up in the Bvumba. The Nielsens. They had a holiday plot here, so they came to stay when they were thrown off their farm. In the end, they could only stay a year. It got to them. They had to get out. They’re back in Belgium, but they had to leave their horses behind. I said I’d do what I could, but . . .” For the first time, the beautiful Colleen betrayed her worry; her face creased and she breathed out slowly. “I can’t deal with them anymore, Pat. I can’t get near them, can’t feed them, can’t dip them. I certainly can’t ride them . . .”
Pat’s focus was still trained on the mare Colleen had called Black Magic. She was a small, statuesque mare, perhaps fourteen hands high, and her coat shimmered like a black tar road under heavy rain. Her brother, Philippe, had calmed down, but he stood so tightly to his sister that Pat did not doubt what would happen if he tried to get close. These two horses were inseparable.
“What did you say the farmer’s name was?”
“Nielsen. He farmed in the Mvuma area.”
Pat arched an eyebrow. A thousand warm childhood memories came to him.
“I knew Nielsen,” Pat breathed. “From when I was a boy.” A smile blossomed on Pat’s face, quickly dominating his every feature. “He was the most wonderful rider. I used to go to those gymkhanas. I used to go to those paper chases. I watched him playing polo. Those horses of his . . . I’d never seen anything like them.”
His eyes returned to Black Magic and Philippe, the foal hidden behind them.
“Nielsen’s horses?” he wondered, aloud. “What about the foal?”
“He’s Rebel. He was with Nielsen, too. He was one of the wild horses.”
“The wild horses?”
“You know, the herd they had, down near Mvuma . . .”
In the land around Mvuma, south of Harare, there lived almost three hundred wild horses, a herd made up from the descendants of farm runaways and old Rhodesian cavalry horses, unaccounted for at the end of the war. A trust of farmers in the area had collectively taken over stewardship of the herd, letting them roam free but taking care of their veterinary needs and rescuing injured animals whenever the need arose. Nielsen, it seemed, had been one of those men.
“Rebel’s all that’s left . . .” said Pat, as the terrible story seemed to tell itself.
Colleen nodded. “When they started being driven off their farms, the farmers got together. They couldn’t leave the herd to be butchered by the war vets. They didn’t deserve that.”
The image was a dark and bloody one and brought to mind the vet Rob Gordon’s heartbreaking recollections of putting down countless herds of livestock.
“They shot them,” breathed Pat.
“But Rebel was just a tiny foal. Nielsen took him in, brought him up here with Black Magic and Philippe. And now . . .”
Pat stepped out of the paddock. “I don’t know how I’m going to get them out of these mountains,” he admitted.
Colleen’s face seemed to light up. “Then you’ll help?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning, with halters and ropes,” Pat said. Then, with a final look at the tempestuous, snorting Black Magic, he rolled his eyes at Colleen. “And help,” he said. “I think I’m going to need it.”
The next day, Pat and I went back to Colleen’s plot and, distracting Philippe from Black Magic with handfuls of horse cubes and hay, managed to fit halters and ropes to each. With Rebel trailing behind, we wound our way down the mountain road and around Mutare’s border, at last reaching the land where Duchess, Marquess, and twenty of our other mares were grazing. Black Magic had been tempestuous beneath Pat, twisting her head against his every command, but Pat was growing to be an expert horse trainer now, and he had an idea. Sometimes, if a human cannot convince a horse to behave, other horses might be able to do a much better job.
We released Black Magic into the herd of mares. As one, they watched the new intruder. Pat reached his hand out, and I followed it to see Shere Khan, gazing imperiously at the devilish horse who had just joined the herd.
“You just watch,” he said. “In a month’s time, they’ll have sorted her out.”
It was true. Every time Black Magic kicked out or butted one of the other mares, the herd turned against her, driving her out to stand on its edges, refusing to allow her back in. Every time she was readmitted and kicked out again, they would drive her out again, and again after that—until, at last, she would stand among them and graze contentedly, betraying her devilish spirit only in the gleam of her eyes, the fleeting flick of her mane. It was a psychological tactic that Pat and his trainers were employing in breaking and training all of the new foals and rescued horses who had come to the herd: a horse wants nothing more than to belong to its herd, and there is no better way of convincing it to behave than by making it confront the very real fear of being ostracized completely.
Fearing his malign influence on his sister, we took Philippe, along with Rebel, to join some of our horses on another patch of land, a smallholding owned by a wonderful woman, Sue Elton, where Brutus and Duke were roaming. And, in the days to come, it was a joy to see Black Magic slowly learn manners, shed her wicked ways, become a real part of the herd. The magic worked on her so quickly, so perfectly, that I was left agonized that I hadn’t known this sort of psychology back on Crofton, when our children were small. Perhaps it might have worked on Jay and some of his wilder, more unruly ways . . .
In the morning, Pat bounced out of bed, flexed his muscles, and—for a reason that will always evade me—did a little John Travolta side-shuffle dance routine. I rolled over in the covers, burying my head in the pillow.
“Really?”
“Really, Mandy. You know what today is, don’t you?”
“It’s not your birthday.”
“No,” said Pat. “It’s better. Today is Brutus day.”
The training had been in full swing for several months, and its most recent graduate was Brutus. Though he hadn’t yet shed his permanently worried expression, or the furrowing around his eyes that made me want to throw my arms around him and console him every time we met, Brutus was growing into a strong horse. P
at had been looking forward to this day for some time—a chance to finally get in the saddle. Brutus had been trained and schooled in how to behave with a rider on his back, and—or so his trainers swore—he was as ready as he was ever going to be.
“You’re coming, aren’t you, Mandy?”
He was, I decided, as excited as a little boy at Christmastime. I rolled over for another five minutes’ sleep.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling.”
A couple of hours later, high up in the Penhalonga Mountains, at the training grounds, a small crowd had gathered: Gaydia; Sally Dilton-Hill; Sally’s daughter, who had been working on Brutus; and a few onlookers.
In a paddock beside the fields where other horses were grazing, Brutus was waiting. As I chatted with Gaydia and Sally, Pat strode heroically from the crowd and swung himself over the fence. Sally waited eagerly at Brutus’s side.
“How’s he been doing?”
“Wonderfully,” Sally insisted. “He’s taken to it like a natural.”
Brutus, now fifteen hands high and wearing a smart saddle, flicked a look at him as he approached, but dropped his head sadly, as if what was coming was the most horrendous thing in the world.
“Come on, boy,” a beaming Pat said, “we’re in this together . . .”
Stopping only to make sure that there were no rocks or small stones left in the grass around Brutus, Pat swung himself into the saddle. He sat there for a moment before lifting his leg to adjust his left stirrup. When he was certain both he and Brutus were comfortable, he turned and flashed a grin at me through the crowd. Taking the reins in his right hand in classic African fashion, he coaxed Brutus gently around.
Suddenly, Brutus lifted his head. His permanently worried expression transformed itself into one of abject horror. In the saddle, Pat froze. He knew what was coming.
Brutus lifted his forelegs, stamped them back down, and performed a buck. In the middle of the field, he lifted himself, smashed back down, lifted himself again, shaking his head fiercely. In that first buck, he shook off Pat’s grip on his reins—but, still, Pat held on. His hands grappled out for Brutus’s mane, his legs clenched tight.
Then, he was in the air—and then, he was lying spread-eagled on the ground at Brutus’s side. He did not move.
Sally was the first out of the crowd and over the fence to reach him. I hurried behind, catching hold of Brutus’s rein to stop him bolting. By the time I was there, Pat was stirring, turning over, and looking up with bleary eyes.
“Pat, are you . . .”
Pat seemed to be trying to stand, but then he winced and took another deep breath. His eyes drifted sideways, and mine followed. Lying at his side was a single piece of brick, the only one left in the whole field. His chest had crashed down upon it.
“How does it feel?”
“Broken,” uttered Pat, as I helped him to his feet.
“Let’s get you out of here . . .”
Pat’s face twisted. From the corner of his eyes, he took in the bank of watching faces. “Not a chance!” he rasped. “I can’t let them see me like that, Mandy.”
“Pat, if you’ve really broken your ribs . . .”
“A couple of broken ribs?” Pat agonized. “I’ve been waiting to ride Brutus ever since John Crawford’s farm . . .”
There was no use arguing further; I had seen the steel in Pat’s eyes. Either that or the vain foolishness. I handed him the rein and helped him get his first foot in the stirrup.
“You’re being . . .”
“Heroic?” interjected Pat, wincing as he swung his leg back over the saddle.
As Pat sat uncomfortably in Brutus’s saddle, Gaydia led the other horses out and made sure they were tacked up properly. I had not ridden in several weeks now, and I was longing to be back in the saddle, but now also a bit apprehensive. Behind me, Gaydia fastened a girth and swung into her saddle to adjust her stirrups, while Sally readied another horse. We pulled onto the trail and began the gentle walk off the smallholding. At the head of the procession, I pulled my horse level with Brutus.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.
Pat whispered to me out of the side of his mouth, “Brutus hasn’t been trained at all. He just hasn’t taken to it.”
“How does he feel?”
“Like he wants to be back in a paddock with Jade, grazing on some grass.”
“Unresponsive?”
“Dejected . . .”
That did sound like our poor little Brutus.
The sun was almost at its highest point above Penhalonga, but in gullies and crags, the morning mist still lingered. We nosed Brutus and the rest through a cold reef of gray, emerging in brilliant sunshine at the head of the gully beyond. For a while, the trail cut circles around the foothills, before following a ridge with the scrubby escarpments dropping away on each side. Then we were up, high among the pine trees, climbing to what seemed the top of the world.
At the head of the procession, Pat rode Brutus. Though I could not see his face, I could tell from the way he was sitting in the saddle that he was tense. The disgruntled little horse did not want a rider on his back, nor to be high up in these mountains. He wanted, I knew, nothing more than a paddock of long grass, a trough for water, and the rest of the herd all around him.
I looked back to wave to Gaydia, coming up in the rear on one of Sally’s horses. When I looked back, Brutus was gone.
A streak of brown was hurtling up the road ahead, my broken husband clinging to his back.
Brutus had taken off. I urged my horse to follow, but it was already too late. Brutus was careening wildly around a bend in the road, and Pat was gone.
In the saddle, Pat clung on for dear life. He squeezed with his thighs, rocked backward—but if Brutus had ever learned his commands at all, he no longer wanted to take them. As I came around the next bend, I saw Pat craning to his left, peering through the trees. Still, Brutus plowed on. I cried out, my voice lost on the wind, and saw Pat crane left again, as if he could see something through the trees. My eyes darted the same way.
It was then that I realized what was coming.
Up ahead, our road came together with another, running almost parallel, to meet the final stretch of road winding to the very top of the mountain pass. Brutus and Pat were rapidly reaching the apex where two roads became one.
Through the trees, motoring blindly along the other road, came a gargantuan semi truck, piled high with tree trunks felled from the forests. Approaching the junction, the truck and Brutus were almost neck and neck, each straining for the lead as they charged toward an inevitable, very messy meeting.
I closed my eyes, drew my horse to a sudden stop, and muttered a prayer. The sound of the semi exploded in my ears, a horn blasting out as it sailed through the trees, cruised through the junction, and took off up the mountain road.
All was silent. All was still.
At last, unable to keep them closed any longer, I opened my eyes. At the top of the road, only yards from the junction, Brutus had stopped dead. Pat was still in the saddle, gazing back at me as if shell-shocked.
I very carefully made my way up the road to Brutus’s side. “That was close, Pat.”
“This horse,” Pat wheezed, dragging his arm across his brow to wipe away the fear, “hasn’t been trained at all.”
I looked down. Brutus’s gaze met my own. His brows seemed to be pinched and his eyes loomed large, protesting his innocence.
“Time to go home?” I asked. Behind me, Gaydia and the rest of the procession were only just arriving.
“Home,” Pat said, “and bed.” Then, he gripped his chest. “Oh, and a doctor. I probably need a doctor . . .”
That night, back at Partridge Hill, I stripped back Pat’s shirt and saw a dark square of black bruising where he had fallen on the brick. I tried to run my fingers around the marks, but instinctively he recoiled, as sensitive as Princess had been around her open withers.
“Broken,” I said.
&n
bsp; Pat fingered his wound. “But not completely.”
It was, I decided, exactly how I had come to think of Zimbabwe.
We had been in the Bvumba two peaceful years, and around us the herd had swollen. Kate neared the end of school, Paul called to tell us that he had met the girl he meant to marry in London, and Jay left to complete his final exams and began to look for work, not only in Zimbabwe’s hunting areas but all across southern Africa. Never since the earliest days of Crofton had I seen Pat so industrious, riding out each morning to train another horse. Partridge Hill had proven the oasis in Zimbabwe’s storm that we had craved ever since Crofton.
Yet, if I ever allowed myself to believe we were safe, it was a feeling that quickly passed. There was always the whisper in the back of my mind, a little voice telling us we had delayed the inevitable but that, one day, it would come for us, too.
When the ax fell, it fell swiftly and viciously, just as it had always done in Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.
I was returning from England, having finally found Granny Beryl a home and a small state pension, when the first news came in. With so many of the nation’s farms already fallen to Mugabe’s war vets, it was only a matter of time before his relentless gaze fell on Mutare and the borderland between this country and the next. Immediately on my return from England, we heard the news that one of the farms at which we were keeping our horses was about to be seized. We marshaled our resources to ferry the twenty horses, including our precious Grey and Deja Vu, to one of the other farms we were using. Only days later, that farm too was taken, and we had to ferry the horses again. Now, the land grab gathered pace. The calls came at midnight, in the smallest watches of night, in broad daylight as we drove through Mutare’s wide, flowery avenues. One after another, the farms where we were keeping the horses fell to Mugabe’s war vets.
We had reached the end of the line.
A small part of the herd had been kept on the grounds of an old game park, where most of the animals were aged or already dead. As the farms fell, we ferried the horses here, so that soon the herd was roaming wild where once antelope, giraffes, and elephants had been kept. Our days became an endless zigzagging across the countryside as we tried desperately to bring the whole herd back together on safe country: foals splitting from their mothers in the confusion; a gelding going astray only to be discovered grazing, oblivious, at the edge of the road; Black Magic momentarily finding Philippe again and rediscovering the sheer joy of being a truculent, aggressive prima donna. You could see the confusion in the faces of the herd, mares disgruntled at having to leave good grazing behind to be driven to some farm where the fields were already shorn flat. Among them, Brutus wore his old expression of permanent alarm. Perhaps he, alone of all the horses, understood the true severity of what was going on.
One Hundred and Four Horses Page 18