Black Horse and Other Strange Stories

by Wyckoff, Jason A.

  Josie scoffed, ‘I don’t see how you could consider him well-behaved if he won’t let you ride him!’

  ‘It’s true, though,’ Brandon interjected. He vaulted over the fence and took Blackie’s reins in one hand and stroked the animal’s neck with the other. ‘Blackie wouldn’t hurt a fly. He just don’t want one of us big ol’ men up on him.’ Brandon leaned in towards the children with a mischievous smile. ‘But could be one of you girls would be all right. . . .’

  Kelli and Naomi giggled appreciatively. Keith protested, ‘What about me?’

  Peter looked down apprehensively at his cousin’s youngest. A sudden swell of doubt came over him. ‘Well, I’m not sure we should, really. . . .’

  Josie addressed Brandon, ‘But you think it’s all right, then?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Brandon laughed casually. He winked at the girls, ‘S’long as he likes you.’

  ‘I think I should be first because I am the oldest,’ Kelli declared, and no one could find fault with that logic.

  Brandon stepped over and unlatched the gate. ‘Come on around here, then.’

  Kelli jumped down from the fence and hurried inside the pen. Brandon considered the best way to get the girl up onto Blackie. He offered the reins to Peter, ‘Mr Willick?’

  Peter took the reins and lowed at the horse, ‘All right now. All right.’ Some fraction of welcome self-consciousness stalled him from saying, ‘Good girl,’ in the company of others.

  Kelli squealed with delight as Brandon squatted down and grabbed her around the waist from behind and threw her up over his head.

  ‘All right now,’ Peter said.

  ‘Put your leg over,’ Brandon instructed Kelli.

  She did as instructed and Brandon eased her down onto the saddle. Blackie made no protest by sound or deed, but looked at his master with a question Peter didn’t know how to answer. So he just said, ‘All right now,’ as he handed the reins back to Brandon.

  Brandon clicked his tongue in his cheek and tugged the reins. Blackie obeyed and let him lead her towards the centre of the pen. ‘Hold onto that horn now,’ the boy instructed Kelli, who grabbed the front of the saddle with her left hand and stretched out her right to run her fingers through Blackie’s mane. Brandon attached a tether to the bridle and fed out the line as the horse spiralled towards the perimeter.

  ‘That’s called “longeing”,’ Peter informed his cousin.

  Josie frowned at his obvious uncertainty in using the term. ‘Is that all you do with him? You walk him around the pen like that?’

  ‘Well, yeah. . . .’

  Brandon piped up. ‘I’ve had him loose out of the pen.’ Peter frowned at this revelation.

  ‘Good,’ Josie approved. ‘I should think a horse like that would get bored walking around in circles all day.’

  Kelli demanded, ‘I want to come out!’

  ‘Well, now. . . .’

  Josie challenged Peter, ‘I thought you said he was well-behaved?’

  Brandon didn’t wait for approval. ‘All right, then!’ He walked to Blackie, coiling the tether in circles from his hand to his elbow until only a few feet of slack remained. ‘Come on, Blackie,’ he urged and brought the horse to the gate.

  Peter felt apprehensive but, muted by feelings of inferiority, couldn’t open his mouth to speak. A sound waited, formless, in his throat.

  Brandon led Blackie through the gate and let a couple of coils of tether drop slack. Kelli leaned forward and nuzzled the horse’s mane, two hands holding tight in the hair. Blackie cast an inscrutable eye at Peter. He pawed at the dirt and shifted uneasily.

  ‘Whoa,’ Brandon tried to calm the horse, and stretched out a hand to Blackie’s neck.

  Blackie lunged forward as though shocked by Brandon’s touch. Brandon was so startled and the horse broke so quickly that he dropped the tether. Blackie shot away from the people and the buildings off towards the tree line; Kelli held on instinctively.

  The sound of command erupted from Peter clear and hard over the field: ‘Blackie!’

  The horse stopped cold. Kelli slinked to the side and fell harmlessly to the ground. The company ran towards them. Kelli laughed loudly, leaning back on her hands, her open mouth pointing to the sky. Brandon caught Blackie by the reins and turned her back towards the pen. Another look passed between horse and master, another understanding was implied that the master did not share.

  ‘I thought you said he was well-behaved!’ Josie shrilly chastised her cousin.

  Josie and her children didn’t stay long. Brandon convinced her to let the children ride Blackie on the tether, in the pen. Peter’s mood lifted at the sight of Naomi and Keith sharing the saddle, quaintly bickering. But the children quickly became bored of the novelty of riding a horse in slow, small circles. No one suggested going out to the cornfields and Peter didn’t tell them it would be their last chance that year before the harvest. Peter was glad he wouldn’t have to be with Josie without the children present; he was sure it was a sentiment his cousin shared. When they left, they waved and called, ‘Goodbye!’ with greater joy and enthusiasm than usual; Peter was surprised at the emotional outpouring until he turned and saw Brandon approaching behind him, waving back and smiling widely.

  Peter asked Brandon if he thought there was anywhere closer than the Sloope Valley Mall that he thought Peter could get a baby monitor.

  Brandon stared blankly at Peter before he caught up with the question: ‘You want it for the stables?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The boy kept up his blank stare.

  ‘I think I saw some . . . things. Coyotes, maybe.’

  Peter winced; the presence of coyotes was at least plausible, but they would be no danger to the horse. If I say ‘wolves’, I’ll look like a total jackass.

  ‘Shouldn’t be anything to worry about in the stable,’ Brandon suggested diplomatically.

  ‘Could’ve been something else.’ Like what? Cougars? Bears? Peter knew the suggestion was absurd. Why didn’t I just say I thought somebody was sneaking around the stable? Peter became annoyed that he had to explain himself to his hired help, and more annoyed that he came off looking like a fool doing it.

  Thankfully, Brandon was accustomed to his employer’s naïveté and chose not to further question his reasoning. ‘You know, come to think of it, my sister had one. Jack’s two now, I’m sure she don’t use it no more. D’you want I should ask her if you could have it?’

  Peter decided to take advantage of the last embers of lingering guilt that Brandon felt for Kelli’s fall; he’d be glad if he didn’t have to drive fifty minutes to the next county over. ‘Yeah, why don’t you do that?’

  Brandon called his sister and reported to Peter that the monitor was available. He told Peter he’d retrieve it after he had run a couple of ‘errands’ in town. Peter urged him to have it back before nightfall. Peter went into his house and felt fatigue give way to exhaustion. He collapsed on the couch and turned on the TV with the remote. He was asleep before the picture lit up.

  Spinning in the black, Peter heard an echo of the old cliché: Mr Willick was my father; you can call me Peter . . . Mr Willick was my father; you can call me Pete . . . Mr Willick was my father; you can call me Peter . . .

  ‘Mr Willick?’ came the insistent voice, followed by the sharp rapping on the door frame.

  Peter opened his eyes and sat bolt upright on the couch. The light from the television illuminated the otherwise darkened house. Brandon continued knocking on the darkened porch.

  Goddammit. It’s night. The son of a bitch.

  Peter got up, turned on the porch light, and opened the door.

  Brandon held out two hands, cupping two plastic stylised cats from Japan. ‘Got you your baby monitor. Sorry it took so long.’

  Peter grunted.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  Peter took the two cats from Brandon. He looked over towards the side of the house, thinking of the stable. He wanted to ask Brandon to take one of the cats into the s
table but didn’t want to appear afraid to do it himself.

  Brandon caught the unspoken inference and hurried to escape it. ‘Well, I’m afraid I better get going. Good night, Mr Willick!’

  Peter, still hazy from the torpor of sleep, could offer no protest as the teen jumped down from the porch and into the waiting pick-up truck. Red taillights diminished to nothing as Peter still waited on the porch, staring dumbfounded at the two pink and white plastic cats in his hands. After a minute, he became suddenly aware of the abject stillness of the country night and started out from his bleary reverie. He went back into his house and hastily locked the door.

  Peter turned on the receiver and sat it on the end table. He turned on the transmitter and heard static crackle.

  ‘Hello?’ he tested; the receiver chorused his distorted voice.

  Peter frowned deep furls in his chin; he hated the feeling that his farm was not his anymore; he hated measuring his courage and finding it shallow. There was no-one present to question his resolve or to judge his uncertainty. If there had been, if there were someone who knew what had transpired the night before, could such an observer fault him his hesitation? But Peter could only see himself critiqued by absent judges, and could only judge himself by their imagined, selectively ignorant bias. So he wrestled with the decision of what to do, and the cost of delay weighed on him heavier with each passing second.

  Do it now, you fool! If they are out there again, maybe they got chased off when Brandon brought his truck ’round! You got to hurry!

  Peter tried to make quick preparations but was hampered by leaden feet and hands turned rubbery with adrenaline. He put on his coat and slipped the transmitter in a pocket. He went into the kitchen, but instead of going through the pantry and down the stairs leading outside, Peter went through the other door and turned to his left to face a closet. Peter retrieved a lever-action hunting rifle he’d left leaning in the corner several years before and pushed through various boxes on the overhead shelf to retrieve the ammunition. He loaded six .30-30 cartridges in the magazine and left the other four he fumbled on the floor. Emboldened by the feel of the burnished stock and cold barrel in his grasp, Peter went back through the kitchen, the pantry, and down the steps. He turned on the exterior lights, retrieved and tested the flashlight from the pantry shelf behind him, drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and went outside.

  Peter stood still and listened to the night. The eerie calm, the void of sound that he’d encountered the previous evening was once again in effect. Peter mimicked something he’d seen on a cop show—he held the flashlight in his left hand with the handle pointing back towards his body from between thumb and forefinger and the heel of his palm tight against the cone, while across his wrist he rested the rifle’s stock. He swivelled slowly, casting the meagre pool of light out into the yard, through the pen, and over towards the stable. Peter crept forward. He strained his senses for any movement or sound. Several times he snapped his head around at some imagined shift in the distant dark, several times he stopped cold, straining to listen and hearing only the rush of blood through his veins. He charged the last ten paces to the barn, wheeled about, and flattened his back on the barn door. Peter cursed at the unwanted crack and rattle of wood he sent rolling out into the heavy silence. Hissing his breath through his teeth, Peter cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm and searched behind him for the handle. His hand snapped closed and he flung the door wide; he backed through the gap and cushioned the rebound of the door with a forearm before hurrying it closed. He tried to tell himself that he did not see something moving towards the stable in the last sliver of light before the door shut. Peter threw the bolt to lock the door and felt reassured at the metallic shunkt! it reported.

  Blackie stood in his stall, patient and still.

  Peter regarded the powerful, stoic horse and wondered, Why the hell was I worried about him?

  Blackie bent his neck forward slightly, as if to show appreciation for the unwarranted concern.

  Peter hung the transmitter from a nail jutting out from a support beam next to Blackie’s stall and turned it on. He looked again at the calm beast and briefly considered staying the remainder of the night in the stable. Then he cursed himself again for being a fool and a coward, turning away from the horse so that it wouldn’t see his equivocation.

  ‘Well. Good night.’

  Peter walked to the barn door. He pushed the bolt back slowly with his left hand, repositioned the flashlight, and put his right shoulder against the door, pushing it a few inches open. He played the flashlight’s beam over the ground close to the barn, then farther, until it dissolved in the wash from the exterior houselights. Peter pushed the door open a few inches more, pushed his head out through the crack and curled his neck around.

  ‘AH!’

  Peter’s arms jumped; he lost his grip on both rifle and flashlight and juggled them between hands and elbows as he fell back into the barn; the door banged closed. Peter jumped to his feet and rushed back to the door to put the bolt back. He hesitated, as thought encroached on instinct and he processed what he had seen on the ground outside the barn. It wasn’t one of the dog-things; it was smaller. Peter didn’t think that it had moved at all. He was sure it hadn’t been there before he entered the barn. Peter strained his ears, heard nothing. He cast a glance back at Blackie; the horse remained a confident sentinel, unperturbed. Peter pushed the door open again, cast the beam about again. Once again, he pushed the door open further and craned his neck to see around the edge of the door. The thing was still there, as before, on the ground. Peter was sure now it was an object and not an animal, but he could not yet make out what it was; he saw only that it was brown, creased or lumpy, and about the dimensions of a football set on point. Peter eased through the door and let it close behind him. He looked around him and aimed the rifle out into the darkness, but caught sight of no threat. He stepped forward and looked down at something like a crude leather bag, its drawstring pulled tight at the top. Peter could see edges hinted at by the drape of the fabric and furrows to show that it was mostly empty inside. He squatted, grabbed the bag, and bounced back up from his heels. The fabric wasn’t leather, but Peter could tell it was some sort of tanned animal hide. Peter judged the contents to weigh no more than two pounds. He decided any further investigation should take place back in the relative safety of his house. He rotated and cast the light about one last time before jogging across the yard, his triple burden shifting clumsily in his arms.

  With doors and windows locked and strategic lights turned on, Peter sat down at the small kitchen table and regarded his find. In the light there was no more to be told from the outside than before: The bag was made from animal hide neatly stitched (though obviously by hand) and there were no adornments or markings on the exterior of the bag. Though his course of action was clear, Peter was hesitant to open the bag. He felt no fear for the physical presence of the contents—whatever waited inside was clearly inanimate. But a primitive dread held him fast for several minutes until curiosity won out, buttressed by a terminal Come on, you damn fool.

  Peter loosened the drawstring and slipped the bag down to reveal the thing inside. The object was a black figurine, about seven inches tall, depicting the narrow head and neck of a horse. Peter touched the cool, glossy surface of the horse’s nose. Peter couldn’t guess what the substance of the object was, whether it was a heavy wood with thick varnish, or petrified wood, or soapstone. But the primitive dread he felt before opening the bag resounded still, not in consideration of what ancient hand might have carved the thing, but rather in response to the recent activity that left a small, braided garland of unknown flowers interwoven with red, green and gold ribbons tied around the horse’s neck.

  What does it mean? Peter wondered, and fell asleep, wondering still, on his couch with his rifle on the floor in front of him, listening to the deep, regular breaths of the black horse broadcast from the stable.

  The next few days passed without incident, though hi
s anxiety over recent events and the watchful waiting of his evenings was wearying Peter. Brandon noticed his employer’s degradation, but thought better of inquiring about the ‘coyotes’. Though neither could say why, it was a great relief to both when Jack Johnson brought the combine over to pull in the corn harvest on Thursday. Peter followed the faint drift of diesel out to the fields after the first few acres were cleared, walking slowly over the bent, stripped stalks. His head bobbed repeatedly with the nodding of accomplishment. He felt ageless, unworried, satisfied. He thought of the looks that Blackie gave him that he couldn’t understand and thought, I couldn’t give no-one a look that would say how I feel.

  Peter kept watch over the reaping for most of the day though his opinion remained unsolicited. In the late afternoon, when he knew Brandon would be tending the stable, Peter decided he should at least offer instruction to his stable hand. When he came around to the front of the barn, Brandon hurried up to Peter with a sheepish, mischievous grin. Peter saw past him that there was a teenage girl leaning over the fence of the pen, stroking Blackie’s nose. Blackie was saddled.

  ‘Ah, Mr Willick, sir.’ Brandon crushed his palms together in front of his chest. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend over to see Blackie.’

  ‘Is that Heather Getley?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. You know her?’

  Peter knew the girl; he remembered her as a child always lurking through the aisles of the pharmacy that her father managed. Even ‘all grown up’ he knew she had to be at least a year younger than Brandon. Peter guessed that Heather was the cause of Brandon’s unfulfilled frustration the other day. He thinks Blackie’s like a motorcycle—put something powerful between her legs and maybe she’ll get a mind to open them up for him.

  ‘You think he’ll let her on?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. She’s only a little bigger than your niece, Kelli.’

  Peter curled a lip at the mistaken relation. He saw that Brandon took the motion for disapproval and worked the curl around a few seconds extra to torment the boy.