Raja, Story of a Racehorse (14 page)

Something bad is going to happen, I can feel it.

Suddenly, a jagged yellow arrow of lightning hit the stabling tent, followed by an earth shaking boom.

LIGHTNING!

My heart started to pound and a roaring sound filled my ears.

Get out! Now! Run!

I forgot about Gabriella and bolted across the showgrounds and out onto the road, running as fast as I could. Past a blur of colors and sounds: cars and trucks honking; and big houses hidden by tall hedges. I ran for miles until I reached a big sandy area next to a huge expanse of water.

The sand is deep!

I kept running, laboring through the heavy going. Everywhere I turned, people were sitting on the sand on towels or packing up their picnics as they looked at the approaching storm clouds. I heard a scream as a woman snatched up her child after I jumped over their towel and plastic box. I swerved left, narrowly missing a big pile of sand shaped like a house and kept running, jumping right and left, dodging people and umbrellas. I heard voices shouting, “Catch him! Heads up! Watch out! Runaway horse!”

A man with his nose painted white blew into a whistle and jumped off a wooden stand, running straight at me waving his arms. “Stop! Stop right now!”

I cut left then right, passing him.

Ow!

As I passed him, I twisted my front leg in the deep sand and felt a shooting pain, like something popping.

Ow! That really hurts.

I limped to a stop, suddenly realizing that Gabriella was still on me. She slid off and collapsed onto the sand.

The man with the white nose and whistle came over to us. “Are you OK?” Gabriella just sobbed. “I've called the police and animal control. Would you like to use my cell phone?”

She nodded and sniffed, taking the phone from him and punching in a number. “Claire, hi, it's Gabriella. I'm OK. Raja ran off with me for miles,” she sobbed into the phone, sniffing louder. “We're at the beach and he's hurt. Can you come get us?”

As she and I waited and watched the seagulls circling above us and surfing on the waves and the sandpipers pecking at clumps of green and chasing each other across the sand, I realized that this was the longest time we had ever spent together.

The next morning, I couldn't put any weight on my leg. It really hurt. I stayed in the stall all day until Oakley came over to visit.

“Raja ran for miles and came home lame. Aren't you going to do anything?” Claire just shrugged.

“Well,” said Oakley, trying to contain his anger, “would it be OK if I look at him?”

“Whatever,” she replied, smacking her chewing gum and lowering her sunglasses slowly with one hand, the other hand on her hip.

“The leg is hot and swollen. It looks like he might have strained or even bowed his tendon. He needs a vet to look at it and may need months, or a year off for it to heal.” He looked at her with disgust. “You should be ashamed.”

For the rest of the show, Oakley grazed me every day and fed me carrots.

“Raja, you are the most incredible horse I know. These people don't deserve you. I wish I had the money to buy you,” he whispered angrily.

Destiny, hah! What was my destiny now? Was I destined for despair, not glory? Maybe I had been wrong all along.

September, Fairfield County, Connecticut

Now that I was on stall rest back at Karl's farm, I didn't see much of Karl or Gabriella. I heard that they were going to Germany to buy a Warmblood.

I was miserable, in pain and lonely. And bored!

Karl was speaking on his cell phone, with an incredulous look on his face.

“What? A crook? Really? He did what? I knew he was a jerk, but a crook?No wonder my bills haven't been paid for months. I guess I'd better cancel my trip to Germany. Thanks, 'bye.”

He turned to Claire, clenching his fist in anger. Get this: Tony DeVito has been stealing other people's money, telling them he was investing it and spending it on fancy houses, horses, and even that plane. Twenty-five million, he stole! He's going to jail.”

Prism had been right. Tony DeVito was bad news.

The sunlight reflected sharply off Karl's sunglasses as he looked over in my direction, flipped his cell phone closed and tucked it into his back pocket.

“That horse is no use to me. He's just costing me money and taking up a stall that should be filled by a paying client. Get rid of him.”

September, somewhere in Pennsylvania

 

A loud chorus of cicadas seemed to get louder and louder as I came off Karl's shiny horse van onto a cracked cement pad and looked around at the expanse of overgrown green brambles and vines that crowded an old paint-chipped bank barn. The ominous sound reminded me of the Florida night when my mother was killed. I felt the stone in my belly.

I don't like this place.

I stood for a moment, taking it in.

“He's kind of fragile looking, don't you think?” Tom sneered. He curled his lip while he lit a cigarette with the humid, late August afternoon hanging heavily around us. If my new owner, Mr. Smith, a friend of Karl Arnaquer's lawyer, noticed how rude his neighbor was, he didn't acknowledge it.

Tom shook his head in disgust. “Why would anyone want a thin-skinned Thoroughbred when they could have a real horse like my Belgians, Buddy and Pete?” He tilted his head and squinted, his narrow, icy blue eyes coldly appraising me. His grease-stained fingernails, muck-covered work boots and sour, unwashed smell contrasted starkly with Mr. Smith's polished leather shoes, crisp, clean button-down shirt with a wet patch beginning to show under his arms and clean smell I couldn't identify — a little bit like horse shampoo.

“It's a shame I only get out from the city on weekends, I'd love to spend more time at the farm getting to know Raja. Thanks, Tom, I appreciate your willingness to care for him along with your drafts, and I'm looking forward to enjoying the countryside with him when he's had time off to heal.”

“Come on, now,” Tom growled, roughly leading me toward a rusty gate that guarded a big weed-filled field.

On edge, I skittered sideways to avoid stepping on the purple thistles bursting out of the cracks in the cement. Tom snatched my lead shank and gave it a jerk, growling again, “See here, now.”

I took a step forward and let him lead me across the cracked concrete barnyard littered with peeling red paint and broken glass, past a forest of thistles and burdocks camouflaging the neglected, but once glorious, old bank barn. A big wooden door, pockmarked with holes used by generations of raccoons and squirrels, hung precariously from broken hinges, barely hiding the cobwebbed interior crammed full of old, rusty farm equipment. He strode purposefully through a brown puddle as if to make a point, while Mr. Smith tiptoed behind, trying to avoid stepping in the mud.

Tom opened the gate, and led me into the field. He took off my halter and smacked my hindquarters with the lead shank.

“Yah!”

I stood for a moment, glancing at Mr. Smith, who looked kind, but unsure. He looked back at me, admiringly. “He's beautiful, you have to admit. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Keats. Welcome, Raja,” he smiled shyly.

Tom rolled his eyes as he took a drag of his cigarette, holding it with his thumb and forefinger before flicking it into a patch of thistles by the gate.

“Yeah, whatever,” he grunted.

First, a good roll — it felt great. The last time I had been turned out in anything other than a small paddock was at Michelle's. Six months seemed a lifetime ago. After the roll, I trotted over to meet Buddy and Pete.

Whoa! They're giants! Are they really horses?

Long, blond manes spilled, disorganized, over their light brown coats, while their feathery fetlocks topped massive hooves. We sniffed noses for a few minutes, then they squealed, spun around and tried to kick me.

Great. They not just big; they're territorial.

“You pleasure horses don't know about real work,” scoffed Buddy. “Pete and I have been the champion pulling-horse team at the state fair three years in a row. We can pull ten times the logs you could. Pete and I don't talk to sissy horses.”

Torture. I'm being tortured.

Mosquitoes, deerflies, greenheads, ticks, and big bomber horseflies bit me; gnats and bot flies annoyed me; ground bees, hornets, wasps, and yellow jackets stung me. No fly masks or fly sheets, not even fly spray here.

“What's your problem, sissy horse?” Buddy and Pete taunted. They stood head-to-tail swishing flies off each other, not seeming to mind them with their thick, draft horse coats and long manes. Welts and bites covered my body; sharp, itchy pricks. When the flies were really bad, especially at dusk or after a big rain, I learned to roll in the mud. It helped a little, but not much. My hooves began to crack and my feet got so sore that I had to walk on my toes. After walking around with two shoes clinking from loose nails for weeks, my shoes fell off, one by one.

November, somewhere in Pennsylvania

Giant flocks of geese honked loudly overhead, sometimes landing in our field to rest for the night before heading on, hurriedly, in the morning. Tom's chainsaw whined and complained in a high-pitched growl as he sawed, split and stacked a pile of wood next to the barn. Squirrels rushed around anxiously getting ready.

Ready for what?

Winter! They're getting ready for winter.

I suddenly realized. The trees turned orange and brown and then surrendered their withered leaves to the cold wind that rushed impatiently across our big open field. Buddy and Pete, coats thick and fuzzy, huddled next to each other. My coat stayed fine and thin. I seemed to always be shivering. It was freezing.

One grey, woodsmoke-scented day, I was huddled next to a big oak tree trying to shelter from the bitter wind. Something white drifted in front of me and landed on my nose. Then another one twirled gracefully to the ground. A few more followed and soon there were hundreds of them. I looked up.

The sky is falling! Whoa! What's happening?

Cold, pieces of sky fell until they covered the ground. I stood still, watching and snorting, wondering what to do. Finally, I ran over to Pete and Buddy.

“Haven't you ever seen snow, you thin-skinned ninny?” Buddy scoffed cuttingly, rolling his eyes at Pete.

I wasn't just cold. I was hungry and I was thirsty, so thirsty. My mane and tail were heavy from the burdocks tangled in them. Just grazing was a huge effort for not much reward, pawing through four inches of snow for an hour for only a couple of withered blades of grass. At first, I loved rolling in the light, fluffy snow, but after a few days it got crusty and the snow packed into hard ice balls in my hooves, making it almost impossible to walk. I tiptoed for an hour down to the stream only to find it frozen solid. Walking back up the hill, I slipped, falling to my knees.

I don't want to get up. I just want to go to sleep.

But I got up and walked slowly, dejectedly, to the gate where I stood for hours, head down and hind end into the wind until Tom brought us a round bale of dusty hay and filled a tub with dirty water. Pinning their ears, Pete and Buddy bared their teeth and warned me to stay away from their hay and water.