Macadoo of the Maury River Page 3

  But Mamere backed down. “No,” she said to me. “I will not strike back.”

  “I knew this Belgian was trouble; stupidest breed on earth. Corner the mare, and I’ll get the colt,” yelled the stick man. He raised his arms and poised the stick in the air.

  I whinnied, hoping the bald, shiny cowboy might still linger nearby. The stick man kept prodding me until I was running and lathered into a white sweat. I squealed for my life, as it was all I could think to do.

  By some miracle — perhaps that star I had wished on — the shiny man did hear my calls for help, and he came to save us.

  “Leave the colt alone,” he ordered the stick man.

  I stopped running, but the stick man immediately came toward me.

  “You heard me. Leave him alone. The mare, too. I’m John Macadoo, I’ve bought ten other horses here today, and I want another look at these two.”

  Stick man angrily left the pen. The bystanders cheered, and I trotted over to kiss my friend who was neither a lady nor a small child, but a man with a golden heart, the heart of a child. He held his hand out for Mamere; she let him rub her long white blaze.

  “You’re a beauty. A real beauty,” he said. He rubbed the top of his head, smooth like one of the balls Janey often tossed in the pasture for us to push and pull and chase. The man said to himself, “I’m crazy for Belgians. Trailer’s hit its limit, but, shoot, I’m crazy for Belgians.”

  Mamere rumbled at him. She closed her eyes and let the man hold the full weight of her head and of what he had done. John Macadoo beat out the kill buyers; John Macadoo won us at auction.

  John Macadoo haltered Mamere and did the same to me. He tried to lead Mamere onto the trailer, where dozens of others were restless and ready to go, but suddenly she refused to join them. My dam had seen more cruelty on this one day than ever in her life.

  “What if I was wrong?” she asked me. “Could I have made a mistake about this man’s intentions?”

  I thought of all of Mamere’s children. Year after year, Mamere sent her children out into the world with a hope for tomorrow told under an August star shower. She had told all of her colts and fillies the story of the auction. Today, she had confronted the terror that all of her children had faced. She needed a different story — one that included a different sort of tomorrow for her.

  I had to help Mamere before John Macadoo changed his mind and sent us back. I may never be king, but I would not desert my dam. “Mamere, let me tell you a story,” I began.

  She raised her head.

  “Come close to me like when I was so much smaller,” I said. I pushed out my chest and held my head up. There was no fire in my eyes or steam from my muzzle, only love for her in my heart. She walked toward me, her eyes and head hanging low in defeat. I wrapped my neck around her, as best I could.

  I told her how our new owner said he had come to Alberta with a mission to save horses by bringing us back to his home in Virginia, where he hoped to find us good homes. Mamere lifted her head.

  “Look at him,” said John Macadoo. “He’s taking care of the mare. Let the colt load her; watch him. He’s a little alpha.”

  Mamere took two steps up, and I stayed right beside her.

  “I would never in a million years believe this,” said one of the handlers. “The colt is leading her.”

  My dam tossed her head, and she told the new story with me. “We will face adversity, and we will face it together. We will be brave, and we mustn’t give up.”

  I nudged Mamere up to the trailer, until I could take her no farther. Only she — she alone — could take this last, great step. Mamere looked back at me.

  “Tell me something more, my courageous son,” she said.

  Two men stood at each side of the trailer. Mamere kept a bittersweet silence while she decided whether to go on her own or be broken into submission.

  I looked back at the auction. The chutes stood empty of all yearlings. Soon enough, they would be full of more colts and more fillies. For a springtime and a summer, they would all race inside the fences by the mountains. In a new season, a different colt might play pretend king. Beyond the auction house, I gazed one last time upon the Alberta mountains.

  “Mamere, walk on. While we have this chance, walk on and I will, too.”

  There is something to be said for having a purpose. A horse on his way to slaughter has a purpose: to endure suffering and torture so that man or animal may eat. Surrendering your life for the nourishment of God’s creatures is a noble purpose. But, such a purpose was not for me, not for my dam, not that day.

  Mamere stepped into the trailer, and she did not look back. I whinnied good-bye to Alberta. We set off with John Macadoo, wearing halters with his name on them, packed tightly in a trailer and headed for a new life in Virginia.

  On our second day in Virginia, I heard, then saw, a child. And, he saw me. An old man, using a cane to steady himself, walked beside the boy. He rested against the wood whenever he stopped. He walked with a limp, yet managed to almost keep up with the boy, who came running up to me.

  “Poppa, look, a pony! Come with me!” The curly-haired boy ran in circles, then raced past John Macadoo.

  “Slow down, Izzy, wait for me,” his poppa shouted.

  Izzy. The boy reached me first, then the man. Out of breath from trying to catch the child, he corrected the boy, “That’s a colt, Izzy. A Belgian, I believe. What a breed — half love, half work! He’ll be a very big and very fine horse one day. He’s like you, Izzy; he’s big for his age.”

  John Macadoo came into my field and haltered me while the older gentleman introduced himself.

  “Young man, I called you earlier today. My good friend, Russ Ramsey, says you’ve brought back some nice horses from the draft sale in Alberta,” he said to John Macadoo. “But, allow me to introduce myself. Harry Isler from over in Buena Vista. And this is my grandson, Isler. He goes by Izzy.”

  John Macadoo nodded and said, “Judge Isler, good to meet you, again. I believe I was in your courtroom when I was a teenager. Driving too fast.” Then he asked the boy, “How old are you, Izzy? About twelve?”

  “No, sir,” Izzy answered. “I’m only nine, but I’m almost ten.”

  “Well, you sure are tall. Would you like me to bring the colt out so you can get a better look at him, Judge Isler?”

  Izzy answered before his Poppa could. “Oh, please, bring him out!” John Macadoo led me out of the paddock and over to the boy and his grandfather.

  I spurred a quiet puff of air on the older man’s wrist. He patted my neck and Izzy did, too. The thick calluses I felt on the pad of the judge’s hand told me that he worked hard every day. The soft, quiet manner in which he handled me told me that he loved horses.

  “You’re not afraid of the colt, son?”

  “No, Poppa. He’s not afraid of me either.”

  The judge said to John Macadoo, “I’d like to purchase this Belgian colt.”

  John Macadoo forced a smile. “What’s your intention, Judge Isler, if you don’t mind my asking? This colt is finely bred. Even though I don’t have his papers, I know he’s purebred. He needs a home that appreciates him and that understands the breed.”

  Izzy’s Poppa nodded. “I’ll definitely use him on the trail when he’s ready; possibly train him as a hunter. We’re horse people — well, Izzy will be soon, I hope.”

  “You know, I bought this one and his mother intending to keep them together. If I’m going to let the colt go, I want to know that he’ll be well cared for. Belgians need a job, you know. If you treat him right, you’ll find his heart is as strong as his work ethic. Do you have enough work for him?”

  Then, placing his hand gently on the back of the boy’s head, the judge turned to the boy. “Izzy, I want you to feel like Cedarmont is your home as much as it is mine and as much as it was your mother’s when she was growing up. I know you miss her very much. I do, too. I can tell you for sure that there’s no better friend than a man’s horse and no bette
r salve for his grieving heart. What do you think?”

  Izzy wrapped his arms around his poppa. “Thank you so much. I love him already.”

  I hadn’t an extra day or an hour but only a few minutes in the field to say good-bye to Mamere while John Macadoo and Izzy’s poppa finished their business of exchanging me.

  My Alberta wish had seen us through the auction together. Now, though, we would live apart. Mamere would stay with John Macadoo, and I would go with Izzy and his poppa.

  Mamere closed her eyes, and I closed mine. For a moment, I wished us back to Alberta, when my ear was still whole, and I didn’t know any of Mamere’s stories. When I opened my eyes I was ready.

  “Oh, Mamere. I’m leaving soon. I thought I would be here with you forever.”

  “Sweetest one, my entire life was lived in fear of tomorrow. You helped me see that there is only today. How many todays have I been granted because of you? Your wish came true, and now you must let your work be your joy, my darling.”

  “What if I don’t want to? I don’t think I like the Belgian way.”

  Mamere flicked at my heart with her tail. “My precious child, I am right here, always. You are made from me; I am always a part of you. Be brave.”

  “Oh, Mamere.” I blew onto her. “I will miss you.”

  For the last time, I found Mamere’s breath and returned her one of mine.

  “Turn away, now, my favorite son. Walk on,” she urged me. “Wherever you go, that is where you are needed. You are a Belgian born to serve, born to heal, and to bring a gentle peace to those in need. Remember who you are and you will never be forgotten. Walk on, son.”

  The sun touched Mamere’s poll and crowned her with its golden light. John Macadoo slipped my halter over my head and loaded me into the small trailer that Poppa and Izzy had brought. I had hardly arrived at John Macadoo’s before I departed, bound for a different farm in Virginia.

  I arrived at Cedarmont Farm, home to Izzy and Poppa. Poppa led me toward the barn downhill from the house. While keeping a loose hold on me, he opened the gate and turned me out, alone in the paddock directly behind the barn. Tall grass and white clover filled the small pasture.

  “Here you are, Macadoo. This is your field for now, just until you get comfortable at Cedarmont. I call this the salad bar, but don’t overeat in here with all this grass!”

  From my small field, I could see the house and the barn, both painted white. I couldn’t see other horses but heard them eating and kicking and clanging their grain buckets against the barn walls. Were they Belgians, too?

  I stood atop the boulder in my paddock. Cedarmont Farm covered the earth for as I far as I could see. Fields to run in and downy blue mountains to gaze upon surrounded me. I had been given a new home by a kind sir and a small child.

  But, it was a home without Mamere.

  Withdrawal is not the natural state of horses. Equines need to belong. We are whole when we are part of the whole. But, without a herd — or Mamere — I withdrew.

  I had never grazed or stood without Mamere nearby. Even breathing was hard without her.

  I paced the fence line up and down, calling and whinnied for her, and it did no good. I refused the grain and hay and water the boy and the old man offered me. And I left the salad bar untouched.

  The coils inside a horse are many, and the tangles know the fastest way to bring a horse down. I dropped to my knees and laid down. How could I go on without Mamere?

  “Is he colicking, Poppa? Help him!” Izzy cried.

  Poppa walked to me. In his limp, I saw that he knew something of pain, too. He dropped his cane and knelt beside me. “Let me help you,” he said. He lightly pressed his hand on my belly. “Hard as a rock. Here, Izzy, use my phone to call Doctor Russ. Your colt’s bowels are twisting, and nothing can get through. I’ll get him moving until the vet arrives.” Poppa and Izzy led me around and around the field.

  “Why do we have to keep him walking, Poppa?” Izzy asked.

  “He’s in extreme pain. If his intestines are tangled, they’ll remain that way if he stays down. Keeping him walking gives his gut a chance to untwist and let everything pass.”

  Finally, the tangles did subside. Doctor Russ, the vet, arrived, just as my stool started to move. The doctor put his bare ear to my side. “Lots going on in there. That’s a good sign,” he observed.

  “What do you mean?” Izzy asked. “Can I hear, too?”

  Doctor Russ handed Izzy an instrument made for listening. “Try my stethoscope. Now, move it up and down your colt’s barrel. What you’re listening for is silence.”

  “I hear gurgles and growls.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I hear, too. I didn’t even need the stethoscope. That’s the sound of a happy horse. No distress in there. Now, if you didn’t hear any of those loud noises, know what you’d be hearing?”

  Izzy shook his head.

  “Blockage. Silence in a horse’s gut is the sound of blockage. You did the right thing to get him moving. Keep a good eye on him. Make sure he gets plenty of water and is eating normally,” Doctor Russ instructed.

  After that, Izzy came to my paddock night and day to help me adjust to this new life in a place far away from everything I had ever known.

  Some people are like horses, made for joining up with another. Made for belonging. On my second day at Cedarmont, Izzy followed me around for the entire morning. He didn’t let me out of his sight.

  I let the child come near me.

  “I see you,” he said, and reached out his hand.

  When Izzy held his palm open to me, I saw it was empty and felt it was full. Full of love and friendship.

  He said softly, “It’s okay, boy.”

  I believed him. Izzy moved slowly. He advanced one step and lowered his head. He looked down, and when he did I instinctively relaxed my desire to run — a desire that’s always close by. I gave slightly toward him.

  He came close enough for me to hear his breath, but not near enough for me to give him mine. Again, he offered his hand, empty of grain, but with a lingering sweetness of fresh hay or oats and kindness.

  I waited beneath the old, broad cedar and pretended to graze, though the ground around the tree’s roots offered nothing grazeable. I pretended to nibble at granite, dry needles, and black ants. I nibbled at the nothing, and Izzy came closer.

  When I retreated, Izzy did, too. I stepped back. One left, one right, one left. The boy did the same. He walked back three steps and looked at the ground. I rumbled soft gratitude.

  We were speaking. We were sharing a language. He knew me. I knew him. From the beginning, then, it was Izzy and me.

  I stepped out from behind the cedar. I asked myself which would take the most courage: to flee, to run off? Or, would it be braver to lower my head to the boy’s shoulder and follow him? Izzy walked up to me, and I let him clip a lead to my halter.

  “I know your name,” said Izzy. “It’s right here on your halter, the one you were wearing when we bought you.” He pointed to the nameplate. “Macadoo. Says so right here.”

  And, with that spoken word, I had a name that would never let me forget that I had come through death, a name that would remind me of leaving Alberta with John Macadoo and Mamere.

  Macadoo. The sound of my new name also bound me in service to this boy.

  Can I just call you Mac?” Izzy asked me one day.

  I kept eating, with Izzy holding me on a long rope. He apologized for not letting me graze freely. “Poppa thinks you need to get used to me and I need to get used to you. He thinks you can help me.”

  While Poppa rode into the mountain every day for exercise and fresh air, Izzy would stay behind at Cedarmont, content to observe in the field. “I’m practicing science, Mac, and you can help me,” Izzy would say.

  He may not have been a horseman yet, but Izzy had become a disciplined observer of the natural world. He carried his notebook everywhere and noticed even the smallest details of the day. In some way, I think, the natur
al world eased the great grief that lived inside him. Being with Izzy eased my grief, too.

  For hours, until well after lunch, which we ate in the pasture, Izzy would lean against me and read his findings aloud:

  “August twenty-fourth, three p.m., Mac’s field, Cedarmont Farm, Buena Vista, Virgina. Ninety-five degrees: full sun, no rain, no clouds. Lots of grass still in the salad bar. Mac likes hay, too. A green inchworm, with yellow eyes, crawls across Mac’s front left hoof. Mac doesn’t mind. A kingbird sitting on the wood post flies out for a bug, goes back to the post, flies out. Goes back. Poppa’s roses are blooming but with black spots on the leaves. The sun has turned Mac golden.

  Birds I’ve seen today:

  Kingbird — one.

  Wood pewee — one.

  Blue jay — one.

  Mockingbird — one.

  Canada geese — ten.

  Downy woodpecker — one.

  Carolina wren — one.

  Wild turkey — three (at the top of the hill on the other side of the fence).

  Northern bobwhite — not sure how many. I hear the call, but don’t see the bird or birds.

  Barn swallows — too many to count flying through the barn.”

  Izzy never left his field book behind, for the pasture, the mountains, the forest, and the barnyard changed by the minute, and Izzy wanted to keep record of it all.

  When he moved, I followed. He’d shift his leg or blink his eye, and almost without request, I, too, would move, would blink, would lift my head. I’d go left to where the grass grew long and moist; Izzy’d lean that way, too. We’d go like this, grazing, walking, standing, for a morning, an afternoon, and — I hoped — a lifetime. He was different because of me, and I was different, too.

  The boy never spoke of how he lost his mother, only that he missed her, too. He never uttered a word of his life before Cedarmont Farm. He never wished out loud for anything else but to be standing near me, but I sensed his suffering.

  There were moments in the field when a drop of grief, and sometimes more, traveled through Izzy and into me, never breaking out of either of us. Never forming a sound, a sigh, or any sign that anyone but Izzy or I could detect.