Raja, Story of a Racehorse (15 page)

I could feel myself growing thinner and weaker. Just walking across the snow-crusted field was a huge effort. I couldn't imagine running or racing. That was another life, a dream of a life. All I wanted was food, shelter from the cold wind, and a friend.

I really just want to curl up and go to sleep, forever.

My mother's words circled around in my head, mocking me, “You have greatness in you — it's your destiny. Always remember that.”

Then I remembered her other words, “When life is hard, never, ever, give up.”

OK, I decided. Like my old buddy Max, I could be tough and dig deep, too.

March, somewhere in Pennsylvania

Thousands of birds passed high overhead, endless rivers of black dots. The sun lingered longer, teasing us with moments of gentle, caressing warmth. The geese came back, this time heading north more leisurely, stopping for a few days to feast on the tender new shoots growing in the field across the road.

One golden day, with the sun lighting up the delicate light green buds on the trees, Mr. Smith brought out an old, stiff, cracked leather saddle — no saddle pad — and a nylon bridle with a big, heavy straight bit.

“Hello, Raja, are you ready to go for a ride? I think your leg must be better now.” He took a while to put the tack on, as if he was trying to remember how it went. The leather felt stiff and one of the pieces was backward. The bit was too high in my mouth but he didn't notice. The saddle slipped with the loose girth, but Mr. Smith didn't seem to know that he needed to tighten it to keep the saddle secure.

“Whoa, buddy, steady. Stand.” He led me to a fence, climbed up and awkwardly got on. I jigged a little.

“Whoa, Raja, steady.”

Seeming nervous, he took a strong hold of the reins. I remembered my mother's words and tried to be kind, even though it was uncomfortable with him bouncing on my back and the loose saddle pinching my withers. We started down the dirt road lining my field.

It feels so good to get out of that field!

May, somewhere in Pennsylvania

Oo-wah-hoo-oo-oo, echoed the mourning doves as the smells of rich, dark earth, newly mown grass and manure spreading on the fields tickled my nose on warm afternoons. The light green buds on the trees unfolded into leafy canopies as spring greened and deepened into summer. We made a jolly threesome: me, Mr. Smith, and Scrapple, his hyper springer spaniel, sniffing bushes and chasing squirrels as we went out into the golden afternoons with the cicadas and crickets singing us along.

August, somewhere in Pennsylvania

Late one muggy, grey August afternoon a year after I had first come to live in his field, Mr. Smith and Scrapple came out ready to go for their ride. Fat, dark clouds rumbled in the distance as the heavy air warned of approaching bad weather.

“What do you think, Raja? Can we beat the storm?” Mr. Smith looked up at the late August sky.“I think we can make it in time. We'll just go for a short one today.”

We went our normal route around the neighbors' corn field, across the stream, and into the big hay field. As we walked home through the woods, the sky grew darker and darker, almost black. Thunder belched in the distance as the wind swirled around us, picking up and dropping leaves. The trees started swaying and bowing, suddenly restless. I had a strange sense about the afternoon, as though the day was slightly off.

I spooked at a rotten log lying across the path in the woods and felt Mr. Smith slip a little to the side before recovering his balance.

I wish he would learn to do up the girth tighter!

Scrapple raced ahead of us after a rabbit, burning off nervous energy. A branch snapped and a crow's hoarse rasping caw above us seemed to ring out a warning: “Storm's coming! Danger! Danger! Go home!”

I had an odd sense of foreboding.

Something's going to happen. I can feel it in my bones.

I froze, rooted to the ground, head up and ears flicking back and forth.

“Come on, Raja, what are you seeing? Let's get home before the rain starts.”

Mr. Smith gave me a nudge with his heels. I stopped again, looking around, then walked on. When we reached the corn field at the edge of the woods, Mr. Smith's farm came into view. I breathed a big sigh of relief and started to walk faster.

We're almost home.

At that exact moment, a long yellow streak scorched the sky, striking the big oak tree in the middle of my field. The tree splintered and crashed loudly to the ground.

LIGHTNING!

My heart began to pound and a roar filled my ears.

Run! Escape!

I shot off across the hay field. Running blindly, I forgot Mr. Smith. I forgot everything except the need to escape! I dodged to the left to avoid stepping in a groundhog hole and felt a movement on my back, then a heavy weight sliding to the side and dragging on the ground behind me. I ran faster through the thick wall of rain, my heart pumping wildly as if being chased by a demon. Another crack of lightning lit up the sky. The fence was directly in front of me. With barely enough time, I rocked back on my hocks and jumped. The weight hit the fence post, breaking it along with the saddle.

Free! I'm free. The weight is gone.

As I ran to the next field, I gradually regained my senses.

Where is Mr. Smith?

I turned and saw Scrapple in the distance next to a broken fence post, sniffing at a heap of clothes on the ground and I trotted back to see what he was doing.

It's Mr. Smith! He isn't moving.

Not knowing what to do, Scrapple and I waited next to Mr. Smith. It seemed like hours we stood in the rain with Scrapple persistently licking Mr. Smith's face, trying to wake him up.

Wake up. Wake UP!

As I was thinking about sheltering under the cherry trees to go to sleep, a flash of headlights, then Tom's voice came through the wet darkness.

“There you are. I've been lookin' all over.” He stepped out of his old, red, dented pickup truck.

“Oh LORD! What have you done to him?!” He knelt down and put his hand on Mr. Smith's neck. “He's breathing, thank goodness. I wonder how long he's been lying here?” He wearily pulled out his cell phone. “Mike? It's Tom. Hey, you need to come right away. Got a man down. Fell off a horse and hit his head. He's unconscious. What's that? The Smith farm. You know, Mr. Smith, that city lawyer who bought the old Miller place? Yeah, that's it. I'll be here in the back field. Hurry, looks serious.”

Soon the night was filled with loud wailing sounds and flashing lights and vehicles and busy-looking people fussing around Mr. Smith, putting him into a van. I stood watching and waiting, confused.

I couldn't remember what had happened.

The next day, Tom caught me, roughly throwing on a stiff rope halter and leading me out of the field, then tugging me up the ramp of his old, rusty stock trailer.

I don't like this. It's time to stand up for myself.

I reared and pinned my ears.

What makes you think I'll go anywhere with you?

He tugged harder, clipping the chain lead shank over my nose and yanking it sharply three times. “Come on, now,” he growled, “get on the trailer. I don't have time for any guff. I'll use the winch if I have to, you stupid Thoroughbred.”

I reared again, striking out with my foreleg. Then I felt a prick in my neck and saw Tom throw a plastic tube and needle onto the ground. Clipping my halter to a cable, he started to turn a handle on his truck and drag me into the trailer. It hurt if I pulled back. Besides, I was too sleepy to fight. I was so tired, I could barely stand. Who was that trying to get me in the trailer? Did I know him?

I got on the trailer, weaving unsteadily. A round sweaty face and cold narrow slits of eyes came closer, then faded away, out of focus, like a bad dream. I didn't know where we were going, but as the trailer lurched and banged down the road and I struggled to stay awake, I knew that this wasn't going to be good.

Strange visions flitted into my head: my mother; Princess Ayesha, smiling through her tears in the winner's circle; Bob, Pedro, Michelle, Oakley, Speedy.

Where are you? Take me home. Help me!

I despaired as the dreams floated in and out. I just wanted this dream to end.

But it wasn't a dream. This was real.

August, New Holland, Pennsylvania

 

“Tom, haven't seen you in a while. How're your pullin' horses doin'? See they won at the county fair again this year.”

The man speaking looked like his belly was about to pop out of his overalls. He scratched a thick ear with a shock of hair bristling out of it, then threw a cigarette on the ground and stepped on it with a boot that looked and smelled like it had been dipped in cow muck.

“Lemme know if you need another horse — I got plenty to sell. What's that skinny nag?”

“Hey, how's it goin'? Can I bum one of those? Thanks.” Tom accepted the cigarette and stopped to cup his hand and light it, squinting in the low afternoon sun. He ain't mine. Doin' my neighbor a favor. That sucker's lucky he weren't killed. Dang Thoroughbred ran off with him and drug him clear across a field into a fence post.”

Nodding to the man, he continued leading me past a row of old, mud-splattered stock trailers and pickup trucks, then into a long building lined with horses chained to the wall. He clipped me to a metal ring in between a sad-looking Palomino pony and a Percheron with a big, ugly, painful-looking lump on his knee. The overwhelming stench of cow and pig manure mixed with diesel made me light-headed. Another scent I couldn't identify came to me. Then it struck me.

Fear — it was the smell of fear! This is a bad place.

Suddenly a loudspeaker crackled to life, its voice speaking rapidly.

“A registered Paint. Sound, safe for kids, do I hear eight hundred? Five hundred? Four hundred? Four hundred now bid, now four twenty five. Do I hear four-fifty? Four fifty, will you give me five. Four fifty...four fifty. Last chance. SOLD! For four hundred and fifty dollars to the man in the red shirt.”