Loving Spirit

by Linda Chapman

  ‘Well?’ Joe pressed.

  ‘Um, it’s Spirit.’

  ‘He’s OK, isn’t he?’ Joe’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Yeah – yeah, he’s fine. It’s just …’ Ellie chose her words carefully. ‘Look, promise you won’t think I’m mad, but I think I can communicate with him. Really communicate.’ She could feel her eyes sparkling despite her worries about telling him. ‘It’s like I can talk to him. He’s telling me things about his life and …’ Joe’s eyebrows had risen. ‘It’s true!’

  ‘Yeah, right. Hey, look, was that something pink with a curly tail I saw flapping past?’ Joe grinned.

  ‘Joe!’ Ellie exclaimed, stamping her foot in frustration. ‘I mean it!’

  ‘That you can talk to Spirit?’ Joe looked disbelieving.

  ‘Well, not talk exactly.’ Ellie struggled to explain. ‘Not like chat in words. It’s mainly pictures and feeling stuff.’

  ‘So, what’s he been telling you?’ Joe said, but from his tone Ellie could tell that he still didn’t believe her.

  ‘Oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter.’ Disappointment flooded through her. She’d really wanted to share it with Joe. She’d hoped he’d get it. But maybe it was too much to expect. It was pretty bizarre. ‘I’m just being stupid.’ She forced a smile. ‘Joke!’ She saw Joe’s relieved smile in return. ‘So, what do we have to do this afternoon? Did your dad say?’ she asked, quickly changing the subject.

  ‘Yeah, tidy the muck heap.’

  Ellie sighed. ‘Great.’ It was her least favourite task.

  After she and Joe had swept up all the loose straw, flattened the top of the muck heap and made it into the perfectly rectangular shape that Len liked, she went back to Spirit’s stable, still feeling a bit let down that Joe hadn’t believed her. She stood looking at the door for a few minutes, and then fetched some bale string and a screwdriver and a metal hook from the toolbox in the tackroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, she stood back, satisfied. She had removed the bolts and the door was now fastened with a plaited rope of bale string that ran through two hooks. She tied it in a quick-release knot. She could undo it and open the door without a sound.

  ‘Hi, Ellie,’ Stuart said, walking over. He nodded at the stable door. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I think the noise of the bolt was scaring Spirit whenever it was opened,’ Ellie explained. ‘That maybe something happened in his past and the noise of the bolt reminded him of it. He might relax more without it.’

  Ellie hoped Stuart wouldn’t be cross. To her relief, he nodded in approval. ‘Good idea. Look, when you’ve finished can you come and help me with Milly for a while? I need to pull her mane.’

  ‘Sure. I’m done here.’ Ellie followed Stuart up to the clipping barn where Milly was tied up. The little chestnut didn’t like having her flaxen mane pulled to shorten and thin it, and had to have one of her front legs held up otherwise she would move around too much.

  Stuart got out the mane comb and Ellie picked up Milly’s left front hoof. As Stuart worked, pushing the comb down the mane and pulling a few strands out at a time, Ellie studied his face. The more she got to know him the more she liked him; he was quiet but kind and he knew so much about horses.

  ‘How did you come to work here, Stuart?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘I met your uncle when I was working at a racing stables. We got on and he asked me if I’d come and work for him. Racing’s a young man’s game and so I said yes as soon as he asked. He taught me all about the showing world – he knows his horses and he treats them well. He may seem harsh and he hasn’t time for hangers-on, but the horses who are here, well, they have a good life. They go out in the field, work, get top-rate food and lots of grooming. If I was a horse I’d want to be here.’

  ‘Unless you were old or lame,’ muttered Ellie. Joe had told her stories about horses and ponies that her uncle had got rid of when they were unable to show any more.

  Stuart chuckled. ‘Well, there is that. Your uncle’s no time for sentiment, but that doesn’t make him a bad man. And he’s helped a fair few problem horses in his time. Horses other people would have shown the bullet to.’

  Ellie didn’t say anything and Stuart worked on in silence, whistling through his teeth as he thinned Milly’s mane.

  Ellie wondered what he would say if he knew about Spirit talking to her. ‘Stuart,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Have you ever heard about people talking to horses, properly talking?’

  Stuart frowned. ‘You mean like when someone’s a horse whisperer?’

  Ellie shook her head. She knew horse whisperers were people who worked with problem horses by building up a relationship with the horse and trying to figure out what was going on in the horse’s head. She’d never heard of them actually talking to a horse the way she had with Spirit. ‘No, I mean have you ever heard of anyone who can really talk to a horse, ask it questions and stuff?’

  She waited for Stuart to laugh, but he looked thoughtful.

  ‘There was a lady I met when I was at the racing yard. She reckoned she could talk to horses. She was a friend of the trainer’s.’

  Ellie was astonished. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. Nice lady. Quite normal-looking, you know. Like someone’s mum. She used to come down to the yard and then stand there, listening to the horses who weren’t behaving right. She’d ask them questions in her head and afterwards she’d tell you what was wrong with them.’ Stuart shook his own head. ‘I don’t know. It was probably just a fluke, but a lot of the time she did seem to work out what was the matter with them. She used to say that everyone could talk to horses if they tried but that some people were better at it than others; it was a case of …’ He frowned for a moment, trying to remember. ‘Tuning into the horses’ energy or something. She’d been doing it all her life.’ He grinned at Ellie. ‘Why the interest? You thinking of getting someone like that for Spirit? That’d finish the boss off, that would. He doesn’t hold with any of that stuff, you know.’

  Ellie smiled quickly. ‘It’s OK. I’m not thinking about it.’ She looked down quickly at Milly’s hoof. Her thoughts were buzzing. Perhaps people could talk to horses then. If the lady that Stuart had met was to be believed lots of people could, although it seemed some people could do it more easily than others. Maybe I’m one of those people, thought Ellie. She wondered if she could talk to horses other than Spirit.

  Stuart chuckled and nodded at Milly who was looking very fed up. ‘Glad I can’t hear her talk. Right now, she would be saying, “Get off my bloody mane!” and a whole load more besides.’ He patted the pony. ‘All done now, though, girl.’

  Ellie put Milly away and then went to groom Picasso. There was no one else in the ponies’ barn. It was the perfect opportunity to try and talk to him. Ellie tied him up and, remembering what she had done with Spirit, tried to stand still and make her mind go blank. Talk to me, she thought eagerly to the pony. I’m listening.

  Nothing happened. Picasso watched her with his usual aloofness. She tried stroking him, talking to him in her head.

  She waited some more, but the change in the atmosphere never came. She never felt that strange sensation of their minds merging and becoming one.

  Disappointment surged through her. Maybe it didn’t work with other horses. But she comforted herself with the thought that at least she could talk to Spirit, and maybe one day she would learn how to talk to others too. Perhaps I just have to get better at it, she thought hopefully.

  Picking up the body brush and curry comb, she began to groom.

  That evening she went to Spirit’s stable. He was pulling at his haynet and his eyes looked calmer. It was as though the very fact that he had been able to share his thoughts and fears had already helped him in some way.

  ‘And your legs are definitely looking better too,’ Ellie murmured happily, glancing at his tendons. Going into the stable, she ran a hand down them. The poulticing had done them good and they felt harder and cooler to the touch. Spirit nuzzled her back as
she knelt beside him. Smiling, she rubbed his neck. Then she waited, emptying her mind.

  Gradually she felt Spirit’s thoughts come to her. He showed her a picture of his stable door with the bale string she had fixed and she felt an intense feeling of relief. Thank you.

  That’s OK. I just want to help, she told him.

  A thrill ran through her as she realized she was talking to him again, really talking. She thought back to the memories they had shared that morning. Where were you before you want to the trekking centre?

  A picture of the tall man with the whip came into her mind.

  Who was he?

  Ellie saw Spirit travelling in a horsebox. The journey ended with a jolt and there was a rush of light as the ramp banged down. A groom led him out on to a smart yard. She could sense the nervous energy about the Arab horses looking over the white stable doors. They paced around, tossing their heads.

  Pictures flashed through her mind like a slide show. The horses being led out in hand and ridden, taken to shows, but never going out in the fields, never being allowed to roll and play. They had good food – lots of it. It fattened them up, but also gave them so much energy that when they did go out of their stables they pranced and fought for their heads. The tall man was in charge. He was a good rider but hard, demanding instant obedience. The bit in Spirit’s mouth was harsh and the man wore spurs. Ellie felt Spirit’s confusion, torn between the energy that was rushing through him and the man exerting absolute control.

  The picture changed and she saw Spirit one night, lying down in the stable, stuck against the wall. He kicked and struggled before finally freeing himself with a twist and getting to his feet, but she could sense the pain in his back now. When the man came the next day, no one could see the pain but it was there. As the saddle was put on, the pain increased. Spirit kicked out but the groom just shouted and hit him in the stomach.

  It hurt.

  The tall man took him to the school and tried to mount.

  No. Spirit sidled round and was smacked again. The man swung himself into the saddle and Ellie gasped as a red-hot needle of pain shot through her own back. She saw Spirit squeal and buck, throwing the man off on to the ground. The man got to his feet, shouting. He walked over, Spirit tried to shoot away.

  I tried to tell him. I tried to stop him.

  The man called two more grooms to help. They forced Spirit still while the man mounted again, but the second his weight hit the saddle the pain jabbed again. Half-maddened, Spirit reared up and then plunged forward, bucking like a wild thing until the man hit the ground. This time he didn’t get up so quickly.

  Spirit was led back to the stall. Ellie felt his relief at having the saddle taken off and then his fear as a tall figure loomed in the doorway. The bolts slid back and the man came in, whip in hand.

  I’d tried to stop him riding me. I tried to tell him about the pain. I didn’t mean to be bad …

  She saw the whip raised, heard it slashing down through the air and felt it bite into her, and then the pictures stopped.

  Ellie took a deep trembling breath. She knew the physical pain from the beating had left Spirit, but the fear and confusion still filled his mind.

  He looked at her. Why?

  Ellie swallowed, not knowing what to say. What answer could she give? Because people can and do? She hated it but it was true. Sometimes bad stuff happened because people were ignorant or cruel. And sometimes it just happens because life’s like that, she thought, feeling desolate as an image of her mum and dad filled her mind. She had a flashback to the day before they’d died in the crash. They’d been getting ready to go away, arguing in a good-humoured way as they packed.

  Ellie’s eyes stung with tears. She started to force the memory away, but just then Spirit turned his head and nuzzled her shoulder. She could feel the softness of his skin, feel the love coming from him, and sensed him asking her about it. Swallowing, she let herself remember.

  ‘Come on, Ellie. Your mum doesn’t need all these things. Tell her.’ She could hear her dad’s voice. ‘You’re on my side, aren’t you?’ he’d appealed.

  ‘Nope!’ She’d darted over to the bed and picked up the pile of books and clothes her dad had just taken out of her mum’s packed suitcase. ‘You can never take too many books and clothes.’ She’d dumped them back in the suitcase and her dad had tickled her.

  She’d squealed and tripped over, almost falling on top of her mum who’d grabbed a hairbrush and brandished it at Ellie’s dad. ‘You will not take my clothes and books!’

  ‘Honestly! You girls!’ Rolling his eyes at them both, her dad had left the room.

  Her mum had laughed and put her arms round Ellie. Ellie remembered the faint scent of her, felt the softness of her cheek against hers.

  ‘I’m going to miss you, sweetie. Are you sure you’ll be OK without us?’

  Ellie knew she had grinned. ‘Course I will.’

  Now her throat constricted. I didn’t mean forever, Mum. Grief overwhelmed her. Why did it have to happen? Why? Oh, Mum. Dad. I want you back.

  Wrapping her arms round Spirit’s neck, Ellie sobbed. Not the hopeless tears she used to cry in the nights when she had first arrived at the farm – not the tears that had seeped silently down her cheeks like water overflowing from a too-full cup, but great wracking sobs that came from deep down inside her, shaking her shoulders, contorting her face, making her gasp for breath.

  Eventually she became aware of Spirit breathing quietly on her back. Her sobs quietened until she was simply resting against him, her tears drying on her face. She felt exhausted, drained, like her mind had somehow been emptied.

  Spirit’s neck was solid under her fingers and she leant against him, drawing comfort. Her parents and her old life might have gone, but Spirit was real, warm and alive, and neither of them were alone any more now they had each other.

  Chapter Eleven

  Over the next few weeks, Ellie was kept very busy on the yard. Joe had his exams coming up and was revising hard, and her uncle was intent on getting her ready to go in the first big spring show on Picasso. ‘It’ll be good to get a win under your belt early on in the season.’

  If I win, Ellie thought. But her uncle wasn’t the sort of person who dealt in ifs. She did all she could, schooling Picasso and hacking him out, grooming him until he shone. And she wasn’t just busy with Picasso; there were the other ponies to ride too, and the larger horses were all back in proper work now with their show season fast approaching. Ellie helped with exercising them. But no matter how tired she was, or how hard she had been working, she went to Spirit’s stable every night after supper to speak to him.

  Sometimes she learnt more about his life and past and other times she would talk to him, telling him about her mum and dad, showing him the pictures in her head – the times she’d been out with her dad on his vet rounds, riding with her mum, bedtime stories, even the times when she’d got into trouble and been told off or the times she’d argued with them. And when the memories made her cry Spirit would stand still, breathing gently on her skin.

  Equally, Ellie listened as he told her about his life. She worked out that he must have been at the trekking centre for four years because he showed her four cold winters passing. After he had fallen on his shoulder and been too lame to ride, he had been put out in a muddy field until he had been taken to the sale, lame, half-starved and neglected. Ellie felt his suffering as he showed her his past and she gave him all the love she could.

  Was your life always bad? she asked him one day.

  No.

  He showed her times when he had been at a large riding school and treated fairly, but then a blurry picture of a green field filled her mind. There was a white-grey mare and a middle-aged woman in it. A glow seemed to surround them, and as she looked at the picture Ellie felt deep love and deep loss. These were long-ago memories of soft hands, soft voices, laughter. Joyful at the time, but edged with sadness because they were gone.

  They were happy times
for you, she thought to him. The best?

  Not the best.

  A picture of herself suddenly appeared in her mind. She saw herself as Spirit saw her, blonde hair coming out from under a woollen hat, jodhpurs covered with hayseeds, gloves dirty. She felt a deep sense of love and happiness coming from him.

  ‘You mean now is the best?’ she whispered.

  Spirit breathed on her hands. Yes.

  Whenever she had the time, Ellie led Spirit out down the lane, gently exercising him to build his muscles up. As February changed to March, Spirit’s lameness disappeared and he started to put on weight. He was devoted to Ellie but still wary of most other people, although he would tolerate Stuart leading him out or rugging him up if Ellie was at school. He was a different horse in the field, though – relaxed and confident. Whenever he was grazing, there would usually be at least three or four other horses around him, and wherever he moved they would follow. His fan club, Joe joked.

  ‘Spirit’s a good horse,’ Stuart told Ellie as they groomed Picasso before the big show in mid-March. ‘The others trust him. He’s like Merlin in that I know I can put him out with anyone. Horses like that are worth their weight in gold on a yard.’

  Ellie glowed. It was rare anyone said anything nice about Spirit. She knew Sasha and Helen didn’t like Spirit because he put his ears back and threatened with his teeth if they went in the stable with him. Luke just laughed at him and called him ‘the old nag’. Len ignored him.

  ‘You’ve done a good job with him,’ Stuart went on. ‘He’s not an easy horse, but you’ve made a real difference so far. Have you tried riding him yet?’

  Ellie shook her head. She was longing to but she didn’t want to rush things.

  ‘You should.’ Stuart patted Picasso. ‘Right, that’s you ready, lad.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll go into the horsebox?’ Ellie asked.

  The bay pony was still completely refusing to load.

  ‘If he doesn’t, there’ll be no show tomorrow. Joe and I are planning to have another try at getting him in at lunchtime today. If we take our time, hopefully we’ll manage it.’