The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

by Shade, Victoria;

  The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

  Victoria Shade

  Amberjack Publishing

  New York, New York

  Amberjack Publishing

  228 Park Avenue S #89611

  New York, NY 10003-1502

  http://amberjackpublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Victoria Shade

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Shade, Victoria, author.

  Title: The Tale of the dancing slaughter horse / By Victoria Shade.

  Description: New York, New York: Amberjack Publishing, 2016.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-0-9972377-7-1 (pbk.) | ISBN 978-0-9972377-6-4 (ebook) | LCCN 2016934588.

  Subjects: LCSH Shade, Victoria --Childhood and youth. | Horses --Anecdotes. | Human-animal relationships. | Horsemen and horsewomen--United States—Biography. | Horses --Training. | BISAC BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs.

  Classification: LCC SF284.5 .S53 2016 | DDC 798.2/092/2--dc23.

  Cover Design: Red Couch Creative, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Reflection

  “Your left hand is a disaster!” he roared in his thick German accent. He didn’t need to yell directly into the microphone; I could hear his bellow clearly from across the arena.

  Moonshine was completely unfazed, trotting unapologetically past a speaker as it blew out with a sharp crack-pop. He never broke his stride. A wave of snickers and chuckles escaped the audience. I hoped that they were amused by the blown speaker and not by my gaffe, which I had evidently committed one time too many. It was undeniable—I had caused Conrad Schumacher, one of the most prominent dressage trainers in the world, to lose his temper. And yet, I wasn’t terribly upset about it.

  The opportunity to train with a German Olympic trainer was rare—even more so for someone like me, a hopelessly horse-crazy teenager with a huge dream and measly mount. German equestrians are the best in the world. This guy had trained athletes on the Olympic track! The only track Moony had been on was the racetrack to the slaughterhouse. But I yearned to be an international superstar with my equine partner. I was convinced we could do anything together—even compete internationally—because of our bond.

  __________

  On the drive to the United States Equestrian Team headquarters in Gladstone, New Jersey, I watched the trailer sway as it succumbed to my angry beast’s barrage of furious blows. Moony loved to show, but he hated traveling in a trailer.

  Moon, stop, I thought, trying to communicate with him telepathically from the car.

  I worried that he would hurt himself or damage the shipper’s trailer. Moony had, on a previous occasion, kicked a hole in another shipper’s trailer, which my mother had to pay for. I was perpetually reminded of what an expensive sport I had chosen, and acutely aware of any unforeseen expenses. But I didn’t choose dressage, just like I didn’t choose to breathe. Dressage chose me.

  As the trailer driver picked up speed and the kicking subsided, I fell into my usual daydream of competing with Moony in an international arena. I am wearing my shadbelly jacket and top hat, while Moonshine proudly dons his double

  bridle—attire reserved for upper level dressage. We float into the arena, straight down the center line to the middle of the ring. Moony halts squarely, and stands at perfect attention as I salute the judge to start the test. We breeze through the test as one unit, a centaur. He reads my mind every step of the way. When I think extended trot, he finds the diagonal, leans his weight back and launches us into a lofty, suspended trot. When I think half-pass, he turns his head in the direction I want to go, and starts side-stepping that way. When I think walk, he instantly downshifts. When I think canter, he jumps right into it. The whole test is perfect. Upon my final salute, the massive audience erupts in deafening applause. We win the class, despite his unimpressive movement and non-existent dressage pedigree. We win because he is perfect.

  I couldn’t wait to show that Moonshine off to the German. He would go back and tell all of those German superstars to look out for this up-and-coming pair. The Americans would become contenders on the international scene—and on our terms, with American-bred, non-warmblood horses. We would show the world that dressage wasn’t exclusively reserved for horses bred for centuries in Germany, Holland, and Denmark. We would show them that a perfect pedigree wasn’t a prerequisite to being a serious contender.

  __________

  But there I was, fantasy dying, the German too exasperated with my uncooperative left hand to be impressed with anything at all. And yet, even as he berated me, I found myself calm, not panicking or embarrassed. I was grateful. I was grateful because I was there—with Moonshine. The horse that had narrowly escaped slaughter was performing in the same arena as imported warmbloods—those fancy, expensive horses bred specifically for dressage. I realized I didn’t care as much I thought I would about Mr. Schumacher’s opinion of my horse. I already knew Moonshine was extraordinary.

  1

  We’re in a bedroom. Mom is standing, holding me. She smiles at me. I’m happy. Then we float down to the floor. I am sitting in front of her face. Her cheek is on the hardwood floor. Her eyes are closed. A red stream crosses her face. Then another. And another. I don’t know what the oozing red liquid is but I do know that her face shouldn’t be on the floor. I am worried and reach for her. Her eyes slowly open and she looks right at me. She smiles. My worry quickly fades, and I am happy again.

  I am two years old, and my father has just smashed a wine bottle over my mother’s head while she was pregnant with my sister.

  I don’t remember him living with us, but I do remember his frequent intrusions when I was young. They usually went something like this: “Get out! I said get out!” my mother screams, her body pressed against the front door of our house while my father, on the other side, pushes his way in. With one sweep, he swings the door open, slamming her into the wall.

  As he steps inside, he points at her, “This is my house, you bitch!”

  “The girls!” she shrieks, forcing him to acknowledge that my sister and I are only a few feet away. She is more upset that her toddlers just heard profanity, than by the fact that she has just been thrown into a wall.

  As he steps toward my little sister and me, standing on the far side of the living room, he reconsiders his entry. He looks at us, then back at her, and spits at her, “This is my house. You’re nothing without me.” Finally, he disappears through the doorway, and the terrifying encounter is over.

  “Fafa,” she orders me, “go play My Little Pony in your bedroom with your sister.”

  Fafa was my nickname, after my failed attempts when I was younger to properly pronounce the word “fata,” in Romanian, which means “girl.”

  “OK,” I obey, grabbing my sister’s hand and pulling her away from the entrance of the house.

  I lead her to the safety of our bedroom and help her up to my twin bed, into the mess of My Little Ponies strewn all over. I pick up the closest one, and put another on
e in front of her.

  “Look, Baby, aren’t they pretty? Look at their long, flowing tails and the stars on their butts.” My sister was the baby, so, naturally, her nickname was “Baby.”

  I knew she had a short attention span and had probably already forgotten the episode between our parents that had just played out before us, but I needed to make sure; I needed to completely engage all of her attention.

  “Your pony is so pretty. She’s pink, see?” I cue her. “What will you name her?” I ask.

  “Pony,” she replies, staring at the toy, but not touching it. Since she would not touch it, I pick them both up and make them run alongside each other.

  “OK,” I say, “then mine can be called Horsey. And they’re sisters. And Horsey will take care of Pony.”

  “I’m sleepy; can I sleep in your bed tonight?” she asks as she lies down on top of all of my toys.

  “Sure,” I reply, sliding off my bed and making my way toward her bed, across the room. “No,” she whispers, grabbing my shirt, “you stay here, too.”

  “OK.”

  2

  It was 1985. I was five years old when my mother decided we needed to be out of our house and out of Queens, as much as possible. She said we had to go upstate, for the fresh air. It was the first time she had sent us to a small town in upstate New York to spend the summer with our grandparents and relatives we didn’t know.

  “Are you coming with us?” I asked my mother after her announcement.

  “No, you are going with Nanni and Tati. I have to work. But I will visit as much as possible, every night after work, if I can.”

  “You’re going to visit us every night?” I inquired, dubious. She typically worked well into the dark hours of the night. I rarely saw her. And “upstate New York” sounded like it was far away. I wondered how she would visit us every night after the late hours she worked, and travel the distance to this faraway place she was sending us. It seemed impossible.

  “Yes, dear,” she said as she hurriedly stuffed my clothes and some of my favorite toys into an old, ugly, brown leather duffel bag.

  “But we’ll be asleep when you come. Why don’t you just stay with us?” I pleaded. I never got to see my mother. She was my favorite person, the only person I wanted to be with. I definitely didn’t want to stay with my caustic, cold, and abrasive grandparents. They made no secret about what a tedious chore it was to watch me and my sister while my mom worked.

  “Because I have to work, Victoria,” she repeated, audibly annoyed.

  I knew to stop antagonizing her when she used my full name, but I still didn’t understand why she would only visit us at night, when we were sleeping.

  “And besides, I will stay with you up there every other weekend,” she said, softening.

  The next morning, we all piled into the car—me, my sister, my grandparents, and my aunt, with my mother at the wheel. I felt relief in leaving the house behind.

  As the car droned along highway after highway, I watched the gray, lifeless buildings of the city morph into the vibrant green trees of upstate New York. I rolled down the window and took in the fresh, crisp air. The pure, clean air flooded my lungs. The sweet smell of lush trees and flowers filled the car. All eyes were drawn to the rolling green landscape now surrounding the station wagon. Nobody spoke. We were all captivated by the serenity of our new surroundings. There were no more screaming people, no more traffic jams, no more honking horns—just green tranquility.

  When we exited the highway, we continued down a maze of winding little roads without double yellow lines or even white dashes. It was as if someone had recklessly spilled cement down a clearing of trees and called it a road. There were no sidewalks, no traffic lights, not even stop signs. Just trees.

  After even more driving, the car then made a left turn onto another bizarre road, one made of small rocks. It seemed like the road-making people had gotten lazier and lazier; the roads were getting smaller and shabbier. The car followed the small road to the front of a large white house. Behind the house, I could see nothing but a hill that rolled high beyond my line of sight. In front of the house, the same hill spilled downward, ending with a border of thick brush, and a large, bright blue pool in the ground.

  A stout lady with porcelain white skin and short, dark, curly hair blew open the front door of the house and hurtled herself down the front steps.

  “Hi, Mariana!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as she leapt down the last few steps.

  Before my mother could respond, she tore open the door to the backseat, and yanked me out. Her grasp was like a man’s, rough. Her skin was sandpaper, scratching my arm. On seeing her close up, her nose and cheeks were peppered with orange and brown spots. She was older, but the patches and cherub face made her look young.

  “You don’t remember me, do ya?” she asked as she squatted on one knee before me.

  Before I could answer, my mother made her way around the car and got her attention.

  “Anita, she’s not going to remember you. She hasn’t seen you in two years,” my mother explained.

  “Pfft!” Anita scoffed, as if to say there are no excuses for not remembering her.

  “And who is this?” she said, peeking into the other side of the back seat at my three-year-old sister.

  “That’s my sister!” I let out immediately.

  __________

  After a few days of berry-picking, swimming in the pool, and climbing trees, my sister and I were bored.

  “Take them horse-back riding,” Anita suggested to my mother. “There’s a barn just down the road that does trail rides through the woods.”

  “Yeah, Mom!” I was immediately intrigued, eager for something new to do.

  I stood by the entrance of the barn, waiting for my horse to be brought out. As the giant emerged from the darkness of the barn, his shadow eclipsed my body. The sunlight peeked out from every outline of his body, illuminating his entire frame. He was massive, not just to me, but he exerted a commanding presence over his handler. And yet, he was completely obedient and docile. He stopped where his handler had parked him, like a car, and waited for his next order. He hung his head, disinterested in the world around him. Although I stared into his eyes, hoping for him to see me, he never did. I scanned the length of his body. Other than his massive stature, there was nothing striking about this animal—he was light brown, slightly dusty, and had no markings.

  As I approached, he grew bigger and bigger. When I reached him, I stood face to face with his chest. The stirrup hung above my head. My eyes traveled up the worn leather of the western saddle as I wondered how I would climb into it.

  “Big boy, ain’t he?” I heard a gruff but gentle voice ask.

  Before I could respond, he continued, “Yeah, he’s a Thoroughbred aw’right. See them long legs, like a Daddy Long Legs spider? That means he’s a Thoroughbred, and good for runnin’.”

  My eyes darted from the saddle to the man speaking to me. He looked like a cowboy, except that he wore a baseball hat instead of a cowboy hat. But he had the rest of the uniform—flannel shirt, worn jeans, and old chaps. Just like on TV.

  “Aww, don’t worry dear, he ain’t gonna hurt ya. He’s about a hundred years old and can’t barely move no more. Plus them big ones, we call ‘em the gentle giants. The bigger they are, the nicer they are.

  “His name’s Big Tom,” the imposter cowboy continued. And then, “Alley-up!” he said with one motion, stepping behind me, lifting me by my armpits and dropping me into the saddle. He must have done this before, because he knew exactly how to throw my body so that I would land in the middle of the saddle.

  I instantly disliked the saddle. First, the horn of the western saddle stood as tall as the middle of my torso. The end of the saddle lifted so high that I was sandwiched in. They might as well have taken the couch from my living room, with the indented spot that ev
eryone sat in, and put it on this horse’s back. I had no freedom, no room to move. It was like sitting in a hole.

  But then I looked around and saw how high I was. Now, the man was looking up at me. In a matter of seconds, I was no longer limited by my weak, miniscule body; I had become part of a giant, powerful being. A foreign sense of satisfaction and serenity enveloped me. For the first time in my life, I was no longer looking up at people. Now, I was looking down at them. For the first time, nobody could reach me. For the first time, I felt safe.

  “OK, now you listen here,” the man said, stretching to reach my hands. “These are what control the horse. They’re called reins. It’s real easy, see, if you want to turn left, you pull the left rein, like this, and if you want to turn right, just pull the right one. If you wanna stop, pull ‘em both. If you wanna go forward, squeeze with your legs. If Tom tries to stop and eat some grass or leaves on the bushes, pull one rein and kick, to get him out of there. Got it?”

  I nodded. It seemed simple.

  “Great, now just stay right there,” he said, turning back into the darkness of the barn.

  He emerged with a much smaller horse, all blond.

  “Come ‘ere kiddo!” the man called to my sister. She broke loose from my mother’s hold and rushed to her horse.

  “This here’s Goldie,” he said. “Now give him a little pet on his nose to make friends,” the man instructed.

  “Hi Goldie,” my sister said softly, lightly stroking the horse’s soft muzzle.

  After making some last minute adjustments to the saddle, the man then hoisted my sister into the saddle, and gave her the same instructions on how to turn, stop, and go.

  “Cassey, let’s go!” The man hollered into the barn, cupping his hands over his mouth.

  Then, a girl emerged, much younger than the old man, leading her own horse. She had on the same uniform, hair tied back in an old baseball hat, jeans, and chaps—except she wore a T-shirt, not flannel.