Escape Artists

“Do you think she’ll be ready soon, Pops?” asked Tucker.

“Who’s to say? Life ain’t nothing but a gamble,” Raif replied.

Tucker reached up to place his small hand on the dark horse. She was blacker than a moonless, snowless night. The child’s hand floated with her moving belly. Lately the foal inside her would’ve been kicking up a storm, but the pregnant horse was just breathing now. Her exhales filled the freezing barn aisle, manifesting as plumes of warm fog. She looked like a dragon emanating smoke.

“Hand me some nails, son,” Raif said. He was bent over behind his horse, balancing one of her back feet on his leather-protected knees. Beads of sweat rolled down Raif’s face. Between holding her immense weight, trimming her rock-solid hooves, and nailing in her shoes, the frigid barn felt more like a sauna to him.

Tucker brought a handful of short iron nails to his father and watched him complete his task. Wind whistled through the ramshackle barn and clanks rang through the air as Raif worked metal into the horse’s feet. First, Raif would tap the nails gently into her hoof with his hammer. These sounds were faint. Then, once the nails were placed in perfect alignment, he put all his strength into driving them through her hooves. These were thunderous bangs. To Tucker the noise was better than music.

This horse wasn’t just pregnant. She carried their livelihood. In a land full of caves and coal, some families took to the booming racehorse industry. Raif grew up in the mines. Just like a horseshoe, he was forged in fire. He learned to ride on the backs of mules who towed loads of coal through mountainous terrain. It was hard work. He didn’t mind that. The air got to him. Every breath in the mines made him weaker. Water could wash soot from his skin, but Raif never got it out from his lungs. He never wanted Tucker to cough like him. So, Raif tried his best with the horses.

The most worthwhile horses weren’t born to carry coal. They were bred to bear the weight of bets. From Eastern to Western Kentucky, all eyes were on the derby. Everyone dreamt that their horse would be the reason women in decadent hats spit out their mint juleps.

“Now take her around. Let me see how she looks,” Raif said as he dropped her foot to the ground.

Tucker sprang into action. He moved to the horse’s shoulder and led her up and down the aisle. The child had a certain affinity for horses. They listened to him. Even up on tip-toes he was far from reaching her back, but with only confidence and a thin rope he marched alongside the magnificent creature. Raif was examining her gait, her balance, and his handiwork. She got new shoes two months ago when her belly was smaller. She moved with more caution now.

“Remember what I always tell you, Tucker?” Raif asked.

“No hoof, no horse.” He replied.

“That’s right. She’s good. Go ahead and turn her out,” Raif said. He winked at his son, “Then sweep up this mess.”

Tucker lead her out of the barn. Wind howled. It brought a cold rush to Tucker’s nose and whipped the horse’s shadowy mane. As he unclipped her halter, she turned to sniff him. Whiskers tickled at the boy’s face until he started to giggle.

“Go on now,” Tucker said with a smile. With a final snort she was off, trotting away into the sunny, snow-clad field. Beneath the snow was dormant Kentucky bluegrass. Beneath the bluegrass were deposits of limestone soil. Above it all she seemed to fly. She moved with grace and, like all horses, took a breath with each stride. She was a creature of air; hooves were her wings.

Normally, at this point in the season, the family would be busy clipping whiskers, grooming, and readying one-year-old horses for the auction house. But Raif and Tucker weren’t going to the auction house this year. They hadn’t been raising any young horses at all. They’d spent the whole season rebuilding their barn.

Their herd was gone.

A tornado tore through their farm ten months ago.

The family watched in horror. It headed straight for their barn. Their precious horses were surely whinnying, crying for help, and squealing. But nobody could hear. The tornado dominated and deafened. It all happened so fast. By the time the tornado was upon them, it was too late to free the horses. There was nothing the family could do. It was all over. Eleven horses, some young, some old, some pregnant, were carried away that day. But, just before the barn was engulfed, one horse kicked her stall door wide open.

Her name was Black Breath. She hit the horizon like a streak of lightning. God has never created a horse faster than Black Breath outrunning the wind.

She was a thoroughbred, a way-down-the-line descendent of a famous racehorse. Though she was fast, her racing career was over before it even began. That is because Black Breath wanted to be free. There wasn’t a knot she couldn’t untie. So, the staff at the track started using chains on her. Quickly she figured out how to use her teeth to unclip them. She kicked through several stall doors, too. No eye could be kept close enough on her. She moved as soon as backs were turned. After each crafty escape, Black Breath would simply find a nearby patch of grass to graze upon. Nonetheless it was too much of a liability to have a loose horse on the facility, so the racetrack banned her.

Rumors spread like wildlife. The whole countryside was talking about a ‘Houdini Horse’ who was destined to go from track to slaughterhouse. Her owners thought she was bad luck, had plenty of other promising horses, and wanted nothing to do with her. Some said she was cursed. Others said she ought to be. Nobody wanted to breed her, superstitious a newborn might inherit her mischievous nature. But Raif had a gut feeling. He tracked her down and, just in the nick of time, bought Black Breath right off the back of a meat truck.

Black Breath was happy on the farm, in the fields. She was free. Nobody bothered tying her up. She got along with the other horses while they were still alive. After some time in the pastures, it was time for her to carry a foal for the family business.

Tucker walked back into the barn and got to work with his broom. The aisleway was littered with nails from Black Breath’s last pair of shoes, crescent-shaped clippings from her hooves, and horsehair. While sweeping, a golden feather fluttered into his pile. He looked up. Tucker’s eyes scanned the loft, but nobody was around.

Black Breath wasn’t the only one who made it out of the barn during the tornado. A golden, pale-faced owl flew to safety too.

*****

“Let me teach you something, Tucker.”

“Okay, Pops.”

“It’s always better to rise as an underdog than to start out on top,” Raif said. His gloved hands gripped a pair of pliers, twisting barbed wire back into place.

“Why’s that?”

“You’ll win more when the odds are against you,” Raif spoke.

“What do you mean?” Tucker asked.

“You’re gonna find more meaning in victory if you have to put up a good fight beforehand,” Raif continued, “I promise you son, when life’s hard in the end it’ll pay off to be even harder.”

“So, you’re saying we gotta be tough?” Tucker pressed. His words were lighthearted. He was strong in the flexible way of all children.

“That’s right, my boy,” Raif said.

Raif was concerned. Without any young horses going to the auction house this year it was hard to make ends meet. Next year didn’t look much better either, seeing as they only had one pregnant horse in the barn. Everything was riding on her. One hearty sale could support their family for a whole year. But if her foal wasn’t healthy, Raif had no idea what they’d do. They were getting by on rice, beans, and fowl shot out in the fields.

“Need help?” Tucker asked. They were several acres deep into a snowy field, repairing fence lines for a neighbor. No matter how troubling the times, Raif always found comfort in serving his people.

“No, we’re just about done out here,” Raif answered.

“Time to go?” Tucker asked.

“Yup. Need a leg up?” Raif asked his son. They had borrowed their neighbors’ horses to reach the outermost fence. The horses were glad to get some exercise. Their owner was an old cowboy, becoming less fit for ranch work as each day passed.

“No way, Pops,” Tucker said. He climbed onto his horse like a small monkey. Once atop, he brushed snow from the horse’s mane with his small fingers. Tucker was a young boy, but Raif had him up on a horse before he could walk.

They started a slow ride back. Pensive air carried flurries of snow between them. A trio of crows flew in the distance. Their caws traveled far in the winter air, drifting across flat, snowy Earth like skaters on ice.

“Pops?” Tucker broke the silence.

“Yes, my boy?”

“I wish we were birds,” said Tucker.

“Why’s that?” His father laughed.

“Well Pops, if we could fly, then we could go anywhere.”

“Don’t be silly, Tucker,” Raif said, “Horses let us fly.”

Raif looked back at his son. The young boy was calm, cool, and collected on his horse. Tucker’s seat was firmly planted in his saddle, yet supple enough to roll with the horse’s slow steps. His gaze was fixed between the horse’s ears. Tucker was ready.

“YIP,” Raif shouted. He flicked his reigns, gently spurred his horse, and laid a firm hand on its rear. A thunderclap of hooves broke loose. Like a bullet leaving a gun, the creature started a mad dash. Tucker’s horse followed.

To be classified as a gallop all four hooves must leave the ground mid-stride. Horses fly, fully extended, reaching for the paths they make. They reach with their lungs just as much as they reach with their legs. While suspended in the air, horses inhale. Then, as soon as hoof touches Earth, horses exhale. They ran like this, father and son, breathing life into distance.

*****

Dawn broke, transforming fluffy piles of snow into muddy slush. Robins sang for the new day, dancing between branches of holly and beech. The red-bellied birds were a clear sign.

Spring had arrived.

Amid changing seasons, a small child was on a mission.

Tucker never ran so fast in his whole life. He would’ve wondered if that’s what racehorses felt like, if he had any time to think at all. Tucker slipped and scurried through mud. No matter. Nothing could deter the boy. He pushed faster towards the house.

“Pops! Pops! You have to come see!” Tucker shouted. He burst into the kitchen, giddy with enthusiasm. He couldn’t even spare a moment to close the door behind himself.

“What’s going on?” Raif asked, pausing in the act of pouring himself a cup of black coffee.

“Just come with me!” Tucker said. He pulled at his father’s sleeve.

“But first tell me what’s got you acting like this, my boy.”

“I don’t want to tell you! I want you to see!” Tucker said. Raif had his suspicions, but he knew better than to jinx it. Or get his hopes up.

“Don’t you know better than to wear muddy boots inside?” Raif asked when he saw the mess trailing behind his son.

“Never mind the mud! Come quickly! You have to see!” Tucker said. He bolted back outside, splattering a mess with each step.

Deep coughs erupted from Raif’s chest as he pulled on his coat. They shook his whole body. He took a moment to steady himself, gripping the countertop. He reminded himself to breathe. His lungs were always doing their worst at daybreak. A sip of coffee to soothe his breaking body, and he followed his son’s tracks outside.

Raif never colored himself much of a birdwatcher. But he knew strange when he saw strange. He rubbed his tired eyes.

“What in tarnation?” Raif muttered, “Son, is that an owl flying in the light of day?”

“Forget about the owl, just get over here!” Tucker said, running into the barn.

Raif rubbed his eyes one more time. There was no mistaking the golden bird. It was a barn owl, circling above the family’s barn.

The barn door creaked as Raif walked inside. Though it seemed to be a ramshackle structure after a season of rushed repairs, their barn was strong. Raif was proud of rebuilding after the tornado.

“Pops, look at this,” Tucker said, kneeling in front of Black Breath’s stall.

A baby horse stood in front of Tucker. One of his fingers was in her toothless mouth. The foal was strong in her stance, sucking on Tucker’s fingers, and pulling back with her whole body. Black Breath watched carefully, offering the occasional deep, soothing nicker.

“Well I'll be.... She’s got good instincts,” Raif remarked. He let out a deep sigh, deeper than anything that came out in years of coughing. It was a surefire sign of a healthy baby to try suckling milk from human fingers. She can’t have been more than a few hours old, but clearly had a lot of spirit to her. It was good, too, that she was already standing.

At first glance you’d never imagine it was Black Breath’s foal. There wasn’t a single dark hair on the young horse’s body. That baby was pure, palomino gold. She took after her father, a prized stallion stolen from the family by wild Kentucky winds.

“You think she’ll be a racehorse Pops? Ha-ha, that tickles! Does she look like she’ll run fast?” Tucker was talking a mile a minute.

“You know what, Tucker?”

“What?”

“I reckon she’ll win the whole derby one day,” Raif said. He placed a hand on his son’s head and tousled his hair.

“Really? Can I name her?” Tucker asked. Traditionally, racing thoroughbreds carried their mother’s names until they were sold at auction. But Raif was never one to stand in the way of his son.

“Whatcha got?”

“Let’s call her Golden Feather.”