Taking the Reins (An Ellen & Ned Book)

by Jane Smiley

  I buckled the throatlatch, then led Tater to the mounting block and got on without taking my eye off Da and Ned. They did just what they had been doing in the pasture, wandering here and there. Ned, with his head dropped, seemed very relaxed. Gee Whiz whinnied, and Ned looked up the hill, but he kept walking. I went through the gate and closed it, started walking Tater, and here they came. Tater did not put his ears back, Ned did not put his ears back. They walked (we walked) along together. Because Tater was going straight down along the railing, Ned did, too. When we got to the far end, Da looked at me, I looked at him, and we smiled. This would not be a secret much longer, but it felt like the biggest secret ever.

  Da said, “Trot.”

  I did what I was told. Tater did what I told him. And Ned trotted along beside us. Da sat quietly, even at the trot, like he was glued to Ned’s shiny back. We turned at the next corner, kept trotting, and there was Abby, with her hands on her hips. I glanced at Da. He nodded one time and pushed Ned a little in front of us. Tater and I followed, trotting nicely, until Da sat deep and came to a halt. He smiled, the way the boys who know how to get away with things always do when they are caught. And I smiled just because I thought that.

  Abby said, “What are you doing?”

  Da said, “Watch.” And he rode Ned here and there, all around the arena at the walk and the trot. It wasn’t much, and they didn’t jump, but Ned looked calmer than I had ever seen him. Even when Gee Whiz whinnied and he and Beebop ran down the hill, bucking and kicking, all Ned did was glance in their direction and keep on trotting.

  Abby never stays mad for long, and she didn’t this time, either. She said, “That’s interesting. He looks totally relaxed.”

  I said, “Da has a theory that results from his investigation.”

  Abby chuckled. “What is it?”

  I said, “I’ll let him tell you,” and pushed Tater up into the trot. We went after Da, but even when we came up behind Ned, he just kept trotting along. Abby kept watching us, and I can’t say that we did much—not like a regular lesson—but finally, after we’d been walking for a few minutes, Da went over to Abby and sat deep. Ned halted.

  Abby said, “I’m impressed.”

  Da said, “He’s smooth as silk, isn’t he?”

  “You should try his canter.”

  Da said, “I have.” And he backed Ned, turned him, lifted into the canter, went in a larger circle, and came back. Abby’s mouth was open, and so was mine.

  I said, “I thought he was just walking.”

  Abby exclaimed, “You never told me?”

  But I didn’t have a chance to say anything, because Da brought Ned to a halt, slipped off, and looked at me. He said, “Get on him. I’ll give you a leg up,” and in spite of the fact that I was scared to death, I jumped off Tater, handed the reins to Abby, and stepped over to Ned. I bent my knee, and Da hoisted me onto him, which was a good hoist, and maybe more than Da expected, since he grunted. Now I was sitting there, holding the lead rope, and Ned walked away. Here’s what it was like:

  I could feel his back and his sides, moving forward, shifting left right left right, just a little bit.

  I could feel my own body settle in and relax along with his.

  The lead rope seemed like enough—I held it in my right hand and put my left hand on his mane. I scratched him a little bit.

  When he lifted his head up, I could feel his back get firmer. When he dropped it, I could feel his back get softer.

  I could feel in my own body where each one of his legs was and where it was going.

  A bird flew out of a tree. Ned tossed his head, and I could feel that from the top of my head all the way down to my feet, but then I gripped the lead rope a little more tightly and loosened it, and he dropped his head again.

  I sat deep and he halted and sighed.

  It was not like riding a horse and doing well. It was something else. And I didn’t have to talk to Ned, even in my own mind. I already knew what he was thinking. He was thinking, “How are you? I’m fine. What’s over there? Oh, just a bird. I like that breeze. It’s cool. Where’s Tater? Oh, he’s okay. What is Gee Whiz doing? Oh, same old same old. Sigh. Turn right. Go straight. Turn left. Circle back to the others.” As we walked toward him, I saw Da chattering to Abby, and Abby, I have to say, was paying close attention to what he was saying.

  I felt very brave. Just to try it, I pressed my legs against his side and said, “Trot.” He picked up a trot, and it was like no trot I’ve ever ridden—smooth and easy and moving along. I shifted to one side, and Ned turned. I put myself back in the middle and Ned went straight ahead. I thought, “Sit deep,” and he halted. He blew out some air. We were facing away from Da and Abby, and for a second, I thought that I had no idea how to get back to them, but then I turned my body and laid the lead rope across Ned’s mane, and he turned, too. We walked back to Abby and Da, easy as you please.

  I slid off Ned and then handed Abby the lead rope. Here’s a thing that I’ve noticed over the years (“Ha,” my grandma would say, “not many years, you’re only eleven”): some grown-ups get upset just because you are being disobedient. What it seems like to me is that because they’ve told you not to do something, you’re in trouble because you did it. A perfect example of this is something that happened in the spring. It was afternoon recess, and I saw one of the boys—Arturo—bounce a golf ball off the wall of the school and catch it. Mr. Oakley walked over to him, stood by him, and then held out his hand for the ball. He was behind Arturo, so Arturo didn’t see him, and he threw the golf ball against the wall again. It bounced back, hit a crack in the pavement, and I guess because it was a golf ball and not a tennis ball, it flew up and broke one of the school windows. Mr. Oakley grabbed Arturo by the arm. Arturo was staring at the ball, and he was startled, so he bumped against Mr. Oakley and knocked him down. About six of the boys started laughing at Mr. Oakley, and I was the one who said, “Why did you grab him? He didn’t see you!”

  Yes, my voice was loud. Ruthie put her hand over her mouth.

  Mr. Oakley got to his feet, pointed to the golf ball, and snapped, “Pick that up, young man.”

  The boy next to Arturo, Dougie, bent down and picked it up, handed it to Arturo. Then Mr. Oakley said, “Douglas! Did I tell you to pick that up?”

  Dougie is pretty shy, and it looked like he shrank into himself. Well, I couldn’t help myself; I said, “He was being nice! You should be nice!” And then all three of us got sent inside to the principal’s office, and I got a note to take home that said I’d been “insubordinate.” When she read the note, Mom laughed and said, “Nothing new there,” but then she sat me down and we talked about tact and asking questions instead of telling people what to do.

  But Abby isn’t like Mr. Oakley. She just got on Ned and said to Da, “Show me what you’ve been doing,” and they walked around the pasture, talking. I got on Tater and followed them. Da walked along beside Abby and Ned, and he would talk, but he would also move, to demonstrate how he was using his body to get Ned to do things. Ned stayed quiet until Gee Whiz screamed out a whinny, and then he pinned his ears and tossed his head, but he didn’t run off. I did see Abby tense up.

  I said, “Gee Whiz is mean and Ned is afraid of him.”

  Abby asked Ned to halt, then looked around.

  I said, “He told me that. He wants to be with Sissy. All the geldings are like a gang, and they bully him.”

  Abby didn’t tell me I was crazy. She said, “I’ve seen that, but you don’t put geldings in with mares. My dad wouldn’t allow that.”

  And then I said, “Well, your dad won’t be around for a few days. You could try it.” And Ned tossed his head, just like he was saying yes.

  Since it was really weird to think that Abby was having a lesson that Da was giving her, I decided to tell myself that what we were all doing—Abby, Da, Ned, me, and even T
ater—was gossiping. And then it was fun. Abby did try a little canter on Ned (he was good in both directions), and I cantered on Tater, three big figure eights with only two trot steps for the lead change. Then it was so hot that Da went over to one of the trees and lay down under it, and Abby and I took Ned and Tater to the water tank before we untacked them. After that, I took Da a glass of water that Abby’s mom came out on the porch and gave me. Da sat up and drank it all the way down—not exactly gulping, but more like pouring it in. I said, “Do you think I was crazy to say that Ned is talking to me?”

  Da said, “No. One thing is, you can think whatever you want. The other thing is that horses do communicate all the time. Maybe what seems like talking to you is just you seeing how they’re behaving and understanding it in your own way. You talk all the time, so that’s your way.”

  I said, “I do talk all the time, even when I don’t know that I’m talking.”

  “You think I haven’t noticed that?”

  And then we both laughed.

  I saw Abby do it. I saw Abby lead Ned over to the mare pasture and open the gate, and Ned walked right in. Sissy came over to say hi. She didn’t pin her ears or threaten him; she just wandered around, nosing for this and that, and after a few minutes, Ned started to follow her—at a distance, because Ned is always careful, but as if he was her friend. Abby watched them for a while, and then for the rest of the afternoon, one or the other of us would go check on them. He seemed to fit in. He didn’t boss them, and they didn’t boss him. Abby said that that was because Sissy is the boss mare, and if she accepts someone, the others do, too. When we were walking back to the house for dinner, I said, “Are you being insubordinate?”

  Abby said, “I think I’m being independent.”

  That is a good word, much better than “sassy,” “disobedient,” “contrary,” or “willful.” There is, after all, the Declaration of Independence. We learned about it in fifth grade, and there isn’t a Declaration of Sass. I decided I was going to be independent for the rest of my life.

  For dinner, we had baked potatoes and petrale sole, which is a fish that they catch out in the bay where we used to live, so of course that started me talking about whales and boats and dolphins and sardines and herring, and then I realized that everyone else was being very quiet, so I shut up and ate my fish, which was very good. After dinner, Abby and I went out to check on Ned and the mares again, and Ned said, “Why bother? Everything is fine. I like Sissy, and she likes me.” We walked around in the twilight and listened to the birds. Abby said that she was going to buy a book that would help her be a bird-watcher, and I said that maybe Colonel Dudgeon would give her bird lessons, not riding lessons.

  She said, “I would pay for that.”

  When we came back, Abby’s mom had finished the dishes, and everything was quiet, so quiet that I thought it was rather spooky. Abby’s mom had been knitting on the couch in the living room, but she was dozing off—her hands were in her lap and her head was on the back of the couch. We tiptoed through the room. The spookiest thing was Da, in the kitchen, sitting at the table, reading The Hound of the Baskervilles all by himself. He didn’t seem to notice us, so I kept tiptoeing, and touched him on the back of his neck, very lightly. He jumped and made a noise. I sat down at the table.

  He pushed the book toward me.

  I said, “Were you reading without me?”

  “No. I was looking at the parts we already read.” He pointed to the next part, and the first interesting words that I read aloud to him were “Waterloo Station.” This part was about someone who now owned the yew alley and the house and everything, was “coming to claim it.” Sherlock piped up and said, “In your opinion there is a diabolical agency which makes Dartmoor an unsafe abode for a Baskerville.” I said to Da, “Would you like me to translate?” And then I did: “You think the devil makes Dartmoor a dangerous place for a Baskerville to live.” But I did like those words, “diabolical,” “agency,” and “abode.” I kept reading, and Da paid attention the whole time. We went to check on Ned again. No diabolical agency or unsafe abode. Sissy and another mare were lying down, Ned was finishing his hay, and the breeze, at last, was cool.

  I had a good night’s sleep and got up with Abby to give out the morning hay. Everything in the mare pasture was still fine, and I could see no evidence of kicks or bites on Ned. We passed out the hay, as always, to the geldings first, and then to the mares. I carried the hay across the pasture while Abby watched. The mares went to their piles. No one tried to shoo Ned away from his pile. In the meantime, over in the gelding pasture, Gee Whiz and Beebop were having an argument—lots of squealing and whinnying and running around over what looked like a regular old pile of hay. At least Gee Whiz knew enough to stay away from Beebop’s hind end. Ned looked up the hill one time, and I am sure he said, “Good riddance,” but maybe that was me talking.

  When we went back to the house for breakfast, I was ready (and imagining blueberry muffins or popovers, or something else delicious), and then when we came into the kitchen, there were a woman and a man I had never seen before—the woman looked like Da, so I knew she was Da’s mother, and the man looked like a leprechaun. He was so short and spry, as my grandmother would say, that I expected him to jump onto the table and do a dance. But it was true that when he opened his mouth to introduce himself to Abby, he had the Colonel Dudgeon voice. Boom boom, all around the kitchen, “Nice to meet you, young lady! I’ve heard about you!”

  Da’s mom came up to me and said, “You must be Ellen. Jane told me about you.” She was nice—she was the kind of woman who takes your hand in one of hers and pats it with the other. She had a big smile that made her whole face light up. Da looked really happy to see her, and I could completely understand why Jane would be friends with her. She was also about a half a head taller than Colonel Dudgeon. I decided that it was her job to ride the big horses and his to ride the small ones. We sat down for breakfast, and yes, there was a treat, something I’ve never had before called pigs’ ears, which didn’t have a thing to do with pigs. They were crispy, crunchy cookies shaped a little like hearts and about as yummy as any cookie I ever ate.

  Abby’s mom gave us scrambled eggs and bacon and peaches and Gravensteins, plus some toast. Colonel Dudgeon ate like a horse; Da’s mom ate like a bird—that is, she pecked at this and pecked at that, including a pig’s ear, but no bacon. Colonel Dudgeon never stopped moving or talking—you could see why he needed the feed. But when Abby asked what horses they had found, he zipped his lip, and Da said, “He never tells.”

  After breakfast, we got dressed and went out for our lesson—me on Tater, Da on LB, Abby on Gee Whiz. Of course I wanted to do a good job—I felt sort of like I was at a horse show and Colonel Dudgeon was the judge. Once we were in the ring, Da’s mom called out the commands—sometimes to all of us, and sometimes to one of us—and Colonel Dudgeon stood in the middle. Well, maybe he thought he was standing, but really, he was walking around and hopping here and there. I was sure that he’d had a miserable time in school because there are those boys (mostly boys) who look like their desk seats are on fire and they can’t sit still for more than a second or two. If I were the teacher, I would let them do all their work walking around the room, but no one has asked my advice, at least not yet.

  Tater was his usual good self, did everything as soon as I asked, and once I had watched Da pushing LB to lengthen his stride, I tried the same with Tater, and of course Tater was very agreeable, and stepped under and moved forward. I did loops and serpentines, and cantered when I was told to, and trotted and halted. The colonel watched Da the least, me the second most, and Abby on Gee Whiz the most. He would stare at Gee Whiz for a long time, then look at me. It was like his eyes were binoculars, wide open. When it came to the jumping, Da’s mom told Da the course: not too high, but complicated, or intricate, as my mom might say. He jumped it while I watched, and then I jumped the same
course. We came down to the walk and left the ring. Colonel Dudgeon raised the fences to four feet, and Gee Whiz began his round—eight jumps, three loops, his ears pricked, his mane and tail flying. Didn’t touch a thing.

  When Abby came down to the halt and dismounted, Colonel Dudgeon was on Gee Whiz in a minute. He leapt on like he had springs, and he rode the same course, and then two other jumps, an oxer and a coop with poles across the top. I’m guessing that the coop jump was four feet six inches, maybe four feet nine. And Gee Whiz was almost but not quite himself. He went fast, but he was a little more limber and paid a little more attention to the colonel than he had to Abby. But maybe that was because the colonel was curled on top of him like a jockey, his arms stretched forward and his head up, like he was staring right between Gee Whiz’s ears. He came down to the trot and then the halt and jumped off. He said, “Decent fella.” But I could tell by the glint in his eye that he meant more than that.

  I said, “How high is that coop jump?”

  Da’s mom said, “Four feet nine inches.”

  I said, “That’s high.”

  She smiled one of those grown-up smiles that means, “Well, okay, if you say so.”

  Da had dismounted, too. He said, “Tell her the story.”

  His mom smiled. I could see that “don’t encourage her” look in her eye. I said, “I guess I can’t dismount until I hear the story.”

  So she clucked, but she said, “Oh, my. Well, when I lived in Australia as a girl, they had a kind of class where you choose your own course, and all the fences are a different height.”

  I said, “I saw one of those at the show. It was called Gambler’s Choice.”

  She went on, “Yes. The more you jump, the more points you get, and you get the most points for the highest ones. So, my horse was about fifteen hands, small, but not a pony. Lovely jumper, though. I trotted into the arena, and he was just feeling so perky that I turned and went over the biggest one, then the second biggest, and so on. My trainer was furious, because he had told me to go slow and try out the smaller ones, but we did win.”