A Kingdom in a Horse (11 page)

One night, when the moon was full, David decided to try Gypsy out with a lasso. He was going to work from the saddle. It was one of those brisk autumn nights, with frost in the air, a clear night that foreboded the coming of cold weather. The boy and the horse had wandered off quite far, and finding the flat stretch of a field, had practiced barrel turns and then roping. David had discovered that Gypsy knew very well how to act when a rope is thrown. As he threw the lasso, the other end of the rope being tied to the saddle horn, she would come to an immediate stop, even before he jumped down. Rushing to where the loop lay on the ground, he would pretend to be a calf, struggling against Gypsy’s pull. And Gypsy would steadily back up until the tugging stopped. Then she would stand waiting for her reward, a pat on the neck. That night, as they were coming back, David was a little worried. The field on which they had played was cut by a stream, and Gypsy’s feet had gotten wet. He had nothing with which to dry them, and he realized that the cool breeze and frosty air could make her founder. Once back in the stable, he rubbed her feet, but the damage, if there was any damage, had been done.

Next evening when he was eating dinner with his father, the telephone rang.

“It might be for you,” his father said.

“Nobody’d call me,” David said.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Tierney,” he heard his father say. David had been praying she would not call. Her call could only mean one thing—Gypsy had foundered. “When did you notice it? … It might be a stone. Did you look at her hoofs? Yes … How stiff does she seem to you?”

It did happen! Gypsy did founder! And it was his fault!

“I’ll come right over,” his father said and hung up. “Can I go with you?”

His father looked surprised and then pleased. “Sure,” he said.

What will I do, David thought, what will I do if I have ruined Gypsy forever? Once during the first year of his travels with his father, a roper he knew foundered his horse, and rather than see it in pain, he shot the animal. David had not known what was about to take place as he stood and listened to the men, as he watched the roper pull a gun and fire into the horse’s ear. He did not know what had happened even after the horse fell down. And when he did realize that what he had seen was death, violent and unjust death, he had been sick.

“She will be blaming herself,” his father was saying. “Mrs. Tierney will think that she has hurt Gypsy if she has foundered….”

“It wasn’t her fault.” David had spoken before realizing what he was saying.

“No, we mustn’t make her think it’s her fault. It can happen anytime, even with the best of care.”

His father had not guessed what he had started to say.

“What did she say on the phone?” David asked calmly.

“That Gypsy seems to have difficulty walking. She noticed it this morning and thought that she was just stiff, but this evening, when she was riding her, she decided something was really wrong.”

“Do you think she’s foundered? ”

“Sounds like it to me.”

He should admit his guilt now. And he should also confess that the incident with the corn had been his fault. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to speak to his father.

He looked at the profile of his father’s face. The scars seemed to make it a hard, rugged face. When the bull had torn into his father that day when David was eight, and when he saw him getting up, faceless, in a red mask of blood, David had fainted. It was the one and only time in his life that he had done that. And when he came to, the first thing he saw was his father, holding a towel to the side of his face and smiling down at him. Before they took him to the doctor, he had said, “Don’t worry. I’m all right.” Coming out of that unconsciousness and seeing him there, seeing him swaying on his feet, seeing him and not some stranger, was the beginning of David’s pride in his father. The pride enveloped his love for him, as if love needed to be protected, as if love alone were not enough. A wave of that old love swept over David now, and he turned his face away toward the window because he felt hot tears in his eyes and he certainly didn’t want his father to notice that he was crying.

She was waiting for them in the stable. It was the first time David noticed that the woman looked tired and old. It was the same look of tiredness he used to see on the faces of the older men who competed in rodeos, the ones who never won any purses, the ones who got hurt when falling from a bucking bronco, the ones whose hands shook as they worked the ropes. They were the old-timers, maybe good once but now robbed by age of their abilities. They wore a perpetually tired expression, and he always hoped that expression meant, “I know I am old and I know I am tired, but I want to try once more.” He did not want to pity them, and he did not want anyone else to pity them. There was something fiercely possessive about that, about his desire to protect them from pity. And now seeing the woman’s tired face, the worried look, the softness of her, the vulnerability of her age, he felt a surge of compassion. He wanted to throw himself in the path of any misfortune that might befall her or her horse.

His father was in the stall examining Gypsy’s feet, then taking her out, talking to her gently, stroking her neck. He walked her by the light of the headlights, holding her by the lead line, watching her every step, seeing what David was seeing, a stiff-kneed walk, a stumbling movement of her front legs. There was no doubt in David’s mind that the horse had foundered. He waited breathlessly for his father to confirm this.

“What do you think?” The woman’s voice was no more than a whisper, yet to David it seemed that she had cried the question out loudly.

“It’s hard to tell,” Lee said, leading Gypsy back into her stall. “I had hoped that only one leg was affected, but it looks like both are. And that could mean founder.”

“What’s that?”

David looked away from the woman’s expression of fear.

“I don’t say it is, mind you.” Lee smiled encouragingly.

“But what is it and how could she have gotten it?”

“Blood gets coagulated in the legs. And most horses founder for one of three reasons: they haven’t been properly cooled off after being ridden, or they have been given too much water or food too soon after being ridden, or they have gotten chilled, especially if they stood in cold wind or water after a long ride.”

“But I’ve tried to be so careful about her,” Sarah said, and then, approaching her horse, she put both arms around its neck and buried her face in Gypsy’s mane. She turned sharply to Lee, “Is she in pain?”

“Oh, yes, she’s in pain if she has laminitis.”

“Laminitis?”

“That’s founder. But she might not—”

“How can I find out?”

“We can call Doc King.”

“Oh, no, not him! I couldn’t ever trust him. Isn’t there anyone else? Isn’t there a good vet anywhere around?”

“There is a fine one in Burlington.”

“I’ll take her there.”

“We’ll have to rent a horse trailer.”

“We’ll rent one.”

“He’ll take an X-ray.”

“And then we’ll be sure?”

“Yes, then we’ll be sure.”

“And—” she hesitated, her eyes very large, frightened now—”if it’s bad. Then what?”

“It won’t be bad,” Lee said firmly, “Gypsy’s a healthy mare. It might be a number of things. Sprains or fever or a pulled tendon.”

“Will you come with me to Burlington? ”

“Of course. You’ll need my truck to hitch the trailer to.”

“Tomorrow? Can you make it tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be here with a trailer a little after four.”

David heard their words as if from a long distance. He had decided to run away. It was the only thing for him to do. He was no longer fit to live among people. He had become like some sort of disease, inflicting pain on the people around him. He would run away and live in the forest, like a wild animal. And his punishment would be not knowing what happened to Gypsy. His punishment would be wondering, as long as he lived, whether she got well or whether she had to be destroyed. And if the latter was to happen, it would also be the end of the old woman. She would most certainly die from grief.

It was after nine thirty when they got back to the house.

“Will you come with us tomorrow?” his father asked.

“I don’t know if I can,” David answered, not looking at him. “It depends on how much homework I have.”

“The homework could wait for once! ”

“Then maybe I’ll come along,” David said and then added quickly, because he was afraid he’d start crying, “I’d better turn in now. Good night, Dad.” He had not called him Dad since they had moved to Vermont. And, he thought, he would never get to call him that again.

David decided to leave a note. When he tried running away before, he was going in anger. Now he was going because he didn’t want to keep on hurting his father. But he could not say that in a letter. He stared at the blank piece of paper in desperation. Finally he began to write.

When he signed his name, he reread the letter. He had not told his father that he still loved him, like before, but maybe, he thought, he’d guess that. He lay on the bed waiting for his father’s footsteps. He would not leave until his father had gone to bed. He almost fell asleep waiting, and this made him mad at himself. How could he ever be able to sleep after what he had done? Only people with clear consciences should be able to sleep. He got up and threw sweaters and two shirts and a pair of socks into his book bag. He put on his leather jacket and waited five minutes after hearing his father close his bedroom door. He carried his shoes in his hand, walking down the stairs.

He took his bike. The bike would help him get farther away. Still he didn’t know where it was that he was going. Toward the mountains, he decided. But that would mean passing Mrs. Tierney’s property. He pedaled fast, trying not to think of all the other times he had hurried down the highway toward Gypsy. It was just before reaching the woman’s driveway that he changed his mind. He would go and see her. He owed her that much. He owed her admission of his guilt. Otherwise she would go on blaming herself. He didn’t want her to do that, not even for another hour.

There was a light in the stable, but the house was dark. He opened the door. She was asleep in her rocking chair, and Gypsy was lying down in her stall. He watched them both for a moment, the old woman, a black shawl around her shoulders, looked very fragile, very small. And the horse, having lifted its head, had put it down again and closed its eyes. There was so much beauty in her big brown body extended on the straw, the legs drawn in, the hips round and smooth, shining by the light of the oil lamp. David swallowed hard, approached the woman, and touched her shoulder gently. She opened her eyes immediately.

“Oh,” she sighed. “I was just dreaming about you, David.” She smiled. “You’ll never believe it, but this is the very first time I’ve ever remembered a dream. We were riding together and—” She suddenly straightened up and a worried look replaced the smile. “But David, what are you doing here at this hour?”

“I came to tell you.” He shivered involuntarily and spoke very fast. “I’m going away and I wanted you to know that it was my fault. I took Gypsy out riding last night. She got her feet wet and that’s why she foundered.” A tremendous sense of relief suddenly came over him. And oddly enough Mrs. Tierney was looking at him kindly. “And the other time,” he continued, more loudly now, “the time she got into the corn, I had been riding her that day too. And I forgot to close her gate.”

He waited for her to say something but she didn’t.

“And that’s why”—he raised his voice, almost shouting now—”I’m running away.”

“You’re not doing anything of the sort,” she said quickly, a little angrily. “You’re staying right here. You’re going to do everything possible to make Gypsy well again. That’s what you’re going to do.”

“But-”

“David!” She reached both hands out to him. “David, don’t you see? It’s all right now. You told me, and in telling me you punished yourself. I am very glad that you have been riding Gypsy.”

“You are?”

“But of course I am. I asked you to. You know, I’ve always felt that she is your horse as much as she’s mine. She was meant to be yours. Your father wanted to buy her for you.”

She stopped speaking and began to smile at David.

“You know, David,” she said very quietly, “I thought I was the luckiest person in the world, having found Gypsy. But you are even luckier than I. You are needed more than I. Your father needs you. And now both Gypsy and I need you too.”

He knelt beside her chair and she hugged him then, and while she held him there came over him a feeling of absolute peace. He clung to her and felt safe and saved, as if some awful danger had been removed, as if nothing could ever go terribly wrong again.

“We will make her well,” he said. “I just know we will. We’ll soak her feet and rub her and walk her and do everything—”

“And you’ll come to the doctor tomorrow?”

“Of course I’ll come with you.”

And then Gypsy got to her feet and yawned. They both laughed, watching as she yawned again and again, her large face seeming to laugh too as the yawn stretched her mouth wide.

It was well after midnight when David came home. Sarah had driven him back.

“You know,” David said to her as he was getting out of the car, “you’re right about being lucky when people need you. And I know he”—David nodded his head toward the house—”can use me around the house. And you and Gypsy, you’ll need me too.”

“Yes, David, all three of us depend on you.”