A Horse Named Fire

My skin tells a story. Scars, flaws, and tattoos mark out the highs and lows of my life in a web of art and pain. Ask me about the two inch scar on my thigh and I’ll tell you about a dog on Easter Sunday when I was eight. Ask about the line at the base of my left thumb and I’ll tell you about my favorite mug - still missed - and how it left me with a permanent reminder of its breaking. But, of all the tales I could tell, there is one that marks out the steps taken between the child I used to be and the woman I became.

He was death waiting to happen. He was all rage and fear and eight hundred pounds of pure fire. He had the luck to be born beautiful, but, for horses, that is too often ill fortune; these beasts are expected to live up to the promise of their flesh and bloodlines. When they fail all expectations, they are punished for the disappointment they cause. He was silver tipped with black, gleaming and graceful, swift as the wind and just as wild. There was a shadow of greatness in his beauty and his blood, but the spirit within was dark, angry, and full of fear.

The moment I saw him, on a chilly, wet Thursday in April, I saw myself; he’d been hurt too much, physically and mentally. His trust had been abused to breaking and his world was made of monsters, most of them walking around pretending to be human. He had been brought to fight or flight so often that he was constantly ready for violence. His fury and aggression had become his shield. I understood him at once.

He was a dragon walking around in horse skin. Like most dragons, he tried to incinerate everything around him, determined not to let anything or anyone in, keeping it all at bay so that he wouldn’t be hurt again. He used fear to keep himself safe, to keep away the whips and the pain. He wore scars on his skin, but they ran deeper than flesh, cutting into his soul and his heart and the memory never left him.

This is not a fairytale, even if there is a dragon. I did not win him over in a day. Or a week. Or even a year. I am no princess. My singing does not charm wild animals into doing my dishes and there are no princes in this story. Just one half-crazed animal and a girl with more hope than sense.

I grew up with horses, but no-one except my over worked father ever tried to really teach me anything beyond the basics. I was the youngest and least of six children. I’d never felt wanted and no-one seemed to care about me, so long as I was out of the way, following their rules and not asking for attention. I was not taught to be independent. I was not taught to have faith or take risks. I did not decide at once to try and help this beast. I did not even think I could. I walked away.

Bullied at school by people I’d known since kindergarten, bullied at home by a mother who only saw value in boys, I was brought up to be soft. To be apologetic for being born female. To hate myself for all the ways that I would never be good enough. I was spineless as a jellyfish, you might say. I could not stand up for myself; no-one ever taught me that either. My mother never trusted me and so I did not trust myself. If I had learned anything, it was that I could not expect to get far or do much; I was the accident, the obligation, the reminder of mistakes that could not be undone. So when I saw this horse, determined to protect himself in any way he could, certain that the only way was to frighten everyone and everything out, I saw my own shadows mirrored back at me. ‘What point was there in trying?’ he seemed to say to me, ‘I will never be good enough anyway. It will only lead to more pain.’

“Walk away,” they said. “He’s too broken. And you are not good enough for this.”

I nearly did; I was certain I would only make him worse. But I’d grown up in this life, watching my father, my sister, and my brother reforge broken spirits, teaching them to trust and love again and I’d seen what happened when they didn’t get there in time. I knew that this horse’s need to protect himself would be his end. I knew what waited for him if I walked away. His aggression would grow, the more he was hurt. He was big, he was strong, and he was afraid, a volatile mix. He was someone else’s death waiting to happen. Someone would push him too far, someone would hurt him too much. And he would snap like brittle branches under January ice. It was inevitable. Human nature is violent and controlling and animals like him end up a tragic consequence of our darkest traits. I didn’t need tarot cards to tell his future, it was written as plain on him as if he was wearing his own tattoo.

I could see just how far he would go to protect himself; he was already dangerous. His beauty could only continue to work against him; it spoke of a potential for greatness and no-one would ever let him be or accept that he would never stop seeing monsters in every outstretched hand. There would be no-one to take the time to be patient and rebuild him. That is just how it works in the mainstream horse world; they bend or they are broken.

So I went back for him. I knew there was a better way. I knew he could be saved. Or, at least, kept alive. Allowed to have peace. I really did not believe I could save him, not at first. I just wanted to stop the ugly cycle of his life. I just wanted him to be allowed to live, be beautiful, and have to do absolutely nothing to live up to it.

“Give up,” they said when I brought him home and his aggression was clear. “You’ll get hurt. You can’t save him.”

I looked into those eyes, so full of fear and anger and hurt. I saw something there, something I recognized because I felt it in me. It was a terrible, desperate hope that, maybe, just maybe someone would come save him from the hell he was living, this horrible nightmare where nothing could be trusted and constant vigilance was the only way to live. He was so tired. I could see it. I felt it in my own heart. I knew what it was like to be constantly afraid, to know nothing I did would ever be right, to know that everyone was just waiting for me to fail so they could hurt me with it.

No-one ever believed in me. I didn’t believe in myself. But I looked into his eyes, found a kindred spirit, and knew I had to try.

I read books. I made lists. I watched videos. I prayed for help. He could not understand my language, so I learned his. I walked to the edges of what was considered traditional practices and then left them behind. I learned what it meant to be a horse, built to run from danger, and worked to understand how that became fight instead. I walked softly and carried no stick. I talked, I whispered, and, yes, I did do some singing and it helped.

It was precarious, that path we walked together. Each step was small and measured. I made a thousand notes. What worked, what didn’t work, I tried to keep track of all the ways I’d explored and every voice that was guiding me, but each new day presented new challenges. He was as changeable as the sea and far more dangerous.

More than once, I saved myself from a startled kick or blind bolt with mere inches between me and his hooves. There was a time when I had to accept that, in taking this animal, the death he carried might be my own. I considered giving up, but could not. I had to evolve instead, become strong enough to accept what could happen to me and not be afraid. I had to think fast and anticipate each move; his anger made him unpredictable. Some days it seemed we would never get anywhere, that we might even be moving backward. I doubted myself and despaired ever getting anywhere at all. But still, I did not quit.

I don’t know the exact moment I realized how much we’d both changed. It was more like a series of events spread out over months. A moment when he ran to me instead of away. A whinny of greeting instead of sullen sulking at the back of the paddock. A head draped over my shoulder looking for treats when, before, I’d gotten barred teeth and pinned ears. He had learned to trust me and I had learned to stand up to those who still thought he just needed a proper beating. Now I was the dragon, but I only used my fire to protect him and, in having me as his shield, he grew more like a horse, less angry and softer. He welcomed children and fawned over babies and he stopped looking for reasons to strike out in fear.

“Give up,” they said, desperate to be right. “You can’t save him.”

But I already had. I saved him and he saved me right back. He taught me that it is okay to believe in myself, even when no-one else does. He taught me my own strength and that, in the right situation, spitting fire is not a bad thing. In him, I found my truest self and I learned to love what I saw reflected in the mirror; I started to see myself through his eyes, the savior and protector that I had become. For the first time in my life, I was glad to be me.

My skin tells a story. Born snow pale and clean, a perfect canvas, life has painted it over. Scars, flaws, and tattoos, each one is part of the bigger whole. There are places where the memory of blood and pain are marked out in pale lines. My freckles stand as a testament to the way I turned down sunblock all too often. There are two knots of the triple goddess, symbolic of the cycle of life, one for each inner wrist, standing silent guard over vulnerable arteries and reminding me that I made a promise, one I have to keep.

But it is the blue dragon on my left bicep that I love best. I did not tame him, that half mad beast, I only gave him a safe place to be a horse again, where he did not need to guard against the world. I did what no-one, even me, believed possible and convinced him to give his trust to me. That image is my forever reminder that there are always doubters, people who will run in front of you screaming ‘give up’, but you can choose not to listen. Even if you have always been a jellyfish, you can stand up and refuse to let them tell you what you can and can’t do. Sometimes, that choice can bring you wonderful things.

My dragon reminds me that any day, a Monday in November or a Thursday in April, comes with the potential for amazing change. My first tattoo reminds me always of the first time I ever dared believe in myself. He was not actually death, you see, not an ending at all, but a new beginning. He was my sometimes dragon, my best friend, and the love of my life. He was a horse named Fire.