Chancey of the Maury River

by Gigi Amateau

  Mrs. Maiden laughed. “He likes you! Now, grab the currycomb and see if you can get some of this caked mud off of Chancey’s other side. Don’t rub his face; it’s chafed from wearing his halter too tight. And be careful of his legs; they’re covered in cuts. We’ll tend to his wounds after we clean him up.”

  I doubted if my great Appaloosa ancestors would have ever wanted to be pampered in this way, but I decided that I quite liked it. Claire did as Mrs. Maiden asked of her, brushing all of me that she could reach and paying special attention to go around my wounds.

  “I can’t reach all of him. I’m too short,” Claire said matter-of-factly, but without complaint.

  “Well, then go get a mounting block so you can reach his withers.” That was my first indication that Mrs. Maiden doesn’t believe in the word can’t.

  The two of them spent an entire morning and most of the afternoon cleaning and bathing me. They soaked my legs in a salt bath of warm water; the moist heat of the water-and-salt combination soothed me. I believe I dozed off with two of my four legs knee-deep in buckets.

  Daisy and some of the other mares checked on my progress throughout the day, but no one introduced themselves. I followed the barn protocol set by the mares and stood silently in the round pen enjoying every treatment given me by Mrs. Maiden and Claire.

  After the leg soak and a good warm bath, Claire rubbed me down with a towel. The little girl was so serious and devoted to the work of caring for me that I dared not flinch or kick, though her small hands quite tickled. I did flick her with my tail, thinking perhaps she might respond, as flies often do, by at least moving from one place to another. Claire, being a little girl, not a fly, did not move and seemed to delight in the feeling of my tail snapping against her, so I continued.

  From the first day of my arrival at the Maury River Stables, Claire came to care for me every day, forgoing her own riding lessons to nurse me. She changed my bandages, gave me fresh water, and convinced Mrs. Maiden to move me into a spare room in the barn, where I would be out of the sun. Not once had Claire brought out any tack — no saddle, bridle, or girth had come anywhere near me. Most girls her age would have lost interest after a day or so, preferring to return to the company of the other girls. Claire — she committed to stay with me for as long as I needed. She sensed that I needed plenty of time to heal. I sensed that Claire needed time, too.

  Since our first meeting, Claire had not spoken of her family conflict nor the sorrow that filled her. Only once, in fact, did Claire speak of her father at all.

  “I’m sorry you d-didn’t get to meet my d-dad today, Ch-Ch-Chancey. He had to go b-b-back to work for a meeting. You’ll meet him soon; I p-promise.”

  I rumbled my contentment at the manner in which Claire was brushing my back.

  “He d-d-d-doesn’t like horses as much as Mother and I d-do. I th-think because he’s a-, he’s a-, he’s afraid. I d-don’t, I d-don’t see him that much anymore.”

  Whenever Claire tripped in her words, it seemed to help if she breathed more deeply and slowed down not her mouth, but her mind. I was glad when she leaned onto me and sighed out a long sigh. I sighed out a long sigh, too. I rumbled again. Claire set the brush down, and we leaned and sighed until Claire was breathing evenly.

  Had Claire’s wound been open to the bone, as was the one she was so gently tending on my leg, I don’t know that it could have been any deeper. Yet Claire’s wound could not be seen. I was moved to befriend Claire for as long as she needed.

  We stood together in my room through the early days of spring, watching as the redbud and dogwood, barren among the cedar and pine all winter, once again bloomed, reminding us both why we loved the blue mountains so in springtime. During our time together, while Claire gazed out of my window and into the blue mountains, I began to think of my dam.

  Having lost her so early in life had impacted me severely. Not only did my heart suffer, but I lost my protector. Dam admired my lack of pigment, and it hurt her deeply to see Monique reject me. I was gelded hastily to ensure that my albinism could not further dilute the Appaloosa breed. I clung to my dam and at her death, withdrew into myself. Monique could have sold me then, but I believe we were both clinging to Dam, each in our own way.

  My reflective afternoons with Claire stirred in me long-dormant memories. I remembered standing close to Dam’s barrel, grazing between her feet. She would push her nose under my neck to invite me to try clover or dandelions. In this same way, she steered me from the buttercup patches in our field that grew despite Monique’s effort to keep them down.

  While Claire applied a healing salve to my cuts and scrapes, I wrapped my neck around her and ever so lightly touched my nose to her chest. She smiled. Then the sadness clouded her face again, and she resumed her care for me.

  I repeated this action of reaching out to Claire, each time softly touching her chest with my nose. Every time, it worked. The touching of my nose to her made the smile appear, and I could feel her breath release. I moved closer to her and leaned gently against her shoulder with my neck draped around her neck. She laughed.

  Claire leaned backward into me, and we stood together for such a time that I was greatly content never to move. Claire brought her hand to my cheek. “You’re a good, good pony.” She did not trip in her words.

  Claire reached down for the currycomb; I mimicked my dam’s action and pushed my nose under Claire’s arm, telling her that I preferred to play. Claire laughed. She reached for the hoof pick, and again I dissuaded her, as my dam had once dissuaded me from poisonous plants. Claire laughed again. I observed that when she laughed, her face held that joy only briefly. Always the grief returned, pulling Claire back into its well.

  I touched her neck with my head and the joy returned, this time in a smile. I continued with this pattern until I had proven it true that Claire’s bereavement could be healed with a regular, steady application of healing touch. I resolved that during our time together, I would apply frequent doses of touch in an effort to repel the sorrow and keep her spirit elastic and soft. I would recall how my dam had nuzzled me and repeat the same with Claire by wrapping my neck around hers and blowing into her nose. Always we stood this way in my room, rain or shine.

  Claire preferred, I think, to talk to me of happy things, for then she did not fall in her speech. She told me of her dream of one day becoming a teacher. I nickered my approval, for I could tell that Claire’s kindness and enthusiasm would serve her well in that occupation. I wished that I had been given a bit more of both kindness and enthusiasm myself. Claire described for me how she was learning to make music with a violin. She promised to play for me one day. I listened to all she had to say.

  As is the case with true companions, Claire did not speak only of herself. Claire was interested in me. She asked me about life at Monique’s. She inquired about my dam and wondered how I was feeling about my new home. We continued in this way of grooming and listening, but not working, each afternoon for quite some time.

  Most days, Claire’s mother drove her out to the barn after school just so Claire and I could spend an hour or two with each other. Claire’s mother welcomed me warmly at our first meeting. “Chancey,” she asked me, “are you the pony who has stolen my little girl’s heart?

  “Well, I’m Claire’s mother.” She kissed me on the soft spot between my ear and poll. She did not give her own name, and as I had only heard her referred to as “Claire’s mother” by Mrs. Maiden or “Mother” by Claire herself, I simply considered her to be “Mother,” as did Claire.

  The two of them quickly made up for all that I had ever longed for in my life. Mrs. Maiden accused them of spoiling me, for Claire and Mother brought me not only carrots and apples but also oatmeal cookies saved from Claire’s lunch at school.

  “Listen, Claire!” Mrs. Maiden once reprimanded. “You don’t need to feed Chancey all the time.”

  Claire drew her hand down the side of my body. “But Mrs. Maiden, his ribs are st-st-still showing. Ch-Chancey
needs to put some weight back on, doesn’t he? I’ll stop giving him t-treats when he’s healthy again. Okay?” Mrs. Maiden retreated and did not again scold Claire for spoiling me. After that, my treats improved in both quantity and quality.

  Claire talked Mother into buying me a most satisfying treat called stud biscuits, which aren’t really biscuits at all, nor am I a stud. The little balls of molasses, barley, oats, and I believe a bit of corn, too, were pure decadence for a horse who had subsisted on grass and water for entirely too long.

  Mother seemed infinitely content to watch Claire with me. She often brought a book to read or a writing tablet to occupy her time while she waited. Mother always sat some distance away, taking up neither book nor pen, but watching us. I watched Mother, too, keeping one ear always on Claire and the other turned toward Mother. Claire noticed my curiosity and confided in me, “Mother had a bad horse accident last year. She’s kind of afraid now, Chancey. Don’t worry, though; she’ll fall in love with you, too. You’ll see.”

  I had only a moment to wonder if the petition I had uttered in my old field, only a few weeks before, might actually have just been answered.

  Claire threw her arms around me. “Oh, Chancey, I love you! I think you have come here just for me, just like Mrs. Maiden said. You’re the most beautiful pony I have ever known.”

  Had words been available to me, I would not have corrected her that by nearly a hand I am, indeed, considered to be a horse, not a pony. The girl’s heart pressed full into mine and for just an instant I felt as beautiful as I was bred to be.

  Claire’s sweet hand touched the raw marks on my cheek that had been cut into my face by my halter. In that instant, I remembered how ragged I had become. I supposed I had long ago earned my reputation for being hard to catch without a halter. In my alone days at Monique’s, my halter had been left on me much too tightly. Had it been loosened by just a notch, preferably two or even better by three, I should not have minded its constant presence on my face. After a while, my cheeks had begun to sting, far worse than the sting of a horsefly or bee. When I had tried to break free of the halter by rubbing my face against the cedar posts and low tree branches, I expect the rubbing also contributed to the rough shape of my face.

  Again Claire touched the worst of the injuries on my cheek. “How could anyone leave such a beautiful pony all alone?” she asked. Claire kissed my wound. I felt evermore aware of my condition and ashamed of how pitiful I must have appeared to Claire. Not knowing quite what to do in this situation, I pulled my neck out of Claire’s hold and turned my back to her. In this second, I realized how many times in my life I had simply turned away when I felt afraid or confused.

  I wished that I could be so much more for this girl — more like Dam, even more like my younger self. How could I let Claire become attached to an old, broken gelding like me? I walked to the corner of my room. I thought surely she would know that my action was meant to separate us until I was again ready for companionship. Even the most inexperienced rider knows that a swift about-face is the clearest form of communication available to a horse. Most people would have understood my gesture to mean, “Leave me alone.”

  I felt obligated to warn Claire of all that she could not yet see. I had often been noticed, but never mistaken for beautiful. Though my pupils studied under me for months, sometimes years, I was never loved as a child’s favorite. I had known horses and people, too many to count. Yet I had never saved a life of human nor beast. I had taught many girls and boys, but never did I carry a champion on my back.

  In all my days at Monique’s as a school horse, I was a reliable worker but had a reputation of being difficult, even mean. Because my physical body looked so unlike the rest of my band and so unlike my mother, and because my albinism determined me a weaker individual, I was considered even worse than merely common.

  And so I turned away from Claire now. I was not expelling her from my space nor my heart, but faced with my own feelings of embarrassment, I needed to escape from me. I turned away from everything that came with me to the Maury River Stables and from everything it would mean for me to leave the old Chancey behind.

  When I turned from Claire, she did the same to me. Claire walked slowly to the opposite side of my room and, wedging herself as far into the corner as she could, said quietly, “Ch-Ch-Chancey, I thought we were f-f-friends.”

  Characteristically, as I would learn over time, Claire didn’t give up or walk away. My ugliness — in both manner and physical state — had not scared off Claire. On the contrary, Claire had challenged me and decided to love me for everything she could see in me.

  “Ch-Ch-Chancey.” She called my name again. “I’m n-not going anywhere. We’re supposed to be together. You’re my only real f-friend here.”

  I did not move. I stood there in my new room, very much wanting to call out to Claire with my heart, yet unable to do so. I felt Claire approaching on my left side; she squeezed between me and the wall, fully certain that I would not harm her. Most people know that this can be a dangerous predicament; I’ve seen many get pinned this way, both mistakenly and with intent. I did not pin Claire, of course. Instead, I moved off the wall to give her space. Though I was unable, at that time, to recognize how much I needed to depend on someone, Claire recognized it for me.

  “Ch-Chancey,” she said. “Mrs. Maiden said for me to let love come b-b-b-back; that goes for you too, p-pony.” Then Claire embraced me and whispered, “Don’t worry. I will n-never leave you.”

  Age and experience had taught me by then that “never” is a word often wielded, seldom honored, by little girls. While I was, and still am, certain that the day will come when Claire in fact will leave me, her abiding devotion to me thawed me just enough. I reached my head to her chest, pressed her lightly, and closed my eyes. Claire kissed my cheek again, in the same ugly spot that previously had driven me to retreat from my shortcomings and from her. This time I did not turn away; I held my head to her heart and sighed a long sigh. Claire did the same. I decided that perhaps Mrs. Maiden was right: perhaps it was time to let love come back to me.

  My days at the Maury River Stables settled into a familiar routine, not altogether unlike the way in which I had lived at Monique’s. On the surface, all seemed very much like the school horse’s life to which I had become accustomed. My mornings were devoted to eating and learning about my new home. The afternoons were reserved for Claire. And my nighttime hours allowed me time to reflect on each day. Aware that I had been given an extraordinary opportunity to start over late in my life, I was determined to belong, in a way that I had not at Monique’s.

  At Monique’s, I had been unable to overcome my dam’s death. That loss grew, over time, into a resentfulness that would not loosen its grip. While Dam was alive, I had lived happily among the mares. The mares knew of Monique’s disappointment at my albinism, and they colluded with Dam to shield me from her rejection. As a colt, I felt protected by all of them. Had I remained with the mares, perhaps I would have found my way after all, for the mares loved me. I did not understand how different I really was until after Dam’s death, when I was taken from the mares and placed with the band of geldings.

  None of the geldings at Monique’s were inclined to protect me. They considered my introduction into their field a direct threat and used all available means to make it clear that my place with them was at the bottom. There I remained for my entire life.

  I began my new life at the Maury River Stables on the bottom as well. I had no ambition to secure the top spot in my new home; nor did I wish to live as an outcast any longer. I resolved to find my own place as a member of this band of horses.

  I observed that the Maury River Stables was a small operation, with only twenty horses, as opposed to the fifty or so at Monique’s. I found the facility adequate, providing everything necessary to enjoy a good quality of life. There was one large, simply built barn, which encircled a small indoor riding ring. Six rooms lined each side of the barn; every room, though small
, offered a splendid view of the blue mountains. Saddle Mountain could be seen from the window in my room, for which I was grateful. There was also an indoor wash stall, a cross-tie stall for grooming and shodding, and a tack room. Plenty of barn swallows made their home inside the barn, which Monique would never have allowed. I rather liked the presence of swallows and found their acrobatic performances mesmerizing to watch, especially on days when I was forced to remain indoors.

  Outdoors, as at Monique’s, all the horses were divided into fields by their gender. The social complexities of geldings and mares are too burdensome for most people to manage successfully, and thus we are more easily managed if segregated. Each field had its own hierarchy of order, and the reasoning behind segregating new horses upon their arrival was to slowly allow the others to acclimate to the idea of opening up to include a newcomer. Right away, I learned that because it was small and tight-knit, the Maury River Stables was a tough band to join, especially for an older horse.

  Claire, Mother, and Mrs. Maiden had welcomed me with such enthusiasm that it seemed as if they had been expecting my arrival. Among the horses I encountered some resistance, for all newcomers must endure a period of testing before some place is made. As the mare and gelding fields shared a fence, it was easy enough for the mares to pester me, and they all did, save an old Hanoverian by the name of Gwen, who appeared nearer my age than the other mares. A striking blood bay, Gwen possessed the athletic conditioning of a Thoroughbred and the imposing stature of a draft horse. I thought she represented the warmblood breeds quite regally. Though I could tell that her position with the mares was not what it once was, Gwen still maintained a strong presence among them.

  The mares did not introduce themselves, but repeatedly commented, within earshot, on my wretched condition. No doubt they knew that I could hear them, and though they never addressed me directly, I understood that their insults were intended to discourage me. “Look at him; you can see his ribs.” Daisy curled her lip as if my smell repulsed her, too. “Why is Mrs. Maiden bothering with him anyway? Horses like him never win at hunter shows or horse trials, and who wants an Appaloosa without spots?”