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Safe Passage

A horse and his girl

By Alexandra BonifieldPublished 4 years ago 11 min read
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Nothing bad had happened all day. The aged bay Arabian gelding tossed his shaggy, black mane and snuffled a deep, resonant sigh, the sort of whoosh an old horse expresses when his world is in complete order. The sun’s amiable rays had warmed his swayed back and bony withers all afternoon. He flared his nostrils, inhaled deep the Louisiana gulf breeze, fragrant with wisteria essence, and sighed again. Utter contentment. Blessed day.

The plantation caretaker brought the old horse’s dinner mash of bran, crimped oats and chopped carrots laced with molasses right on time. In no rush, he slurped the last gooey bit out of a faded red tub, methodically licking the tub’s sides and under its rim for good measure. It helped keep meat on his ribs and the look of eagles in his eye. He relished the retired livestock foreman’s gentle touch -- every night the caretaker flexed gnarled hands and massaged the horse’s prominent hipbones and thickened joints. The gelding sniffed the familiar pungency of pipe tobacco as his caretaker bent over, and wrinkled his nostrils ever so slightly. The horse’s wide-set dark eyes missed no detail of the foreman’s accustomed routine: carefully pick up the clean-licked red tub, straighten tired, stiff shoulders, trudge back through the paddock gate with a trace of limp and stamp up the five wooden steps of the weathered farmhouse a stone’s throw to the east, no glancing back. The gelding lifted his head, pricking the ear back up in salute as the sagging screen door banged shut. He yawned broadly, revealing grooved and worn yellow molars, licked off a few stray carrot shreds with a deft, rubbery tongue and decided he was thirsty.

As he had done every evening about this time for years, the horse meandered down the three-rail paddock fence towards his moss-coated concrete water tank, scuffing lazy tracks in the dust with the toes of his hind hooves. He halted at the sunflower-bordered trough, a hock creaking as he cocked a back leg to rest. Ears bobbing to and fro with each sip, he gulped in mouthfuls of cool, clear water. He let the overflow drip in tiny rivulets from the corners of his mouth, down past the bottom of his loose-hanging, inky black lower lip. Drip, drip, drip, back into the trough. He stared at his distorted reflection wavering in the ripples below his muzzle as the sun and moon traded places just below the canopy of abandoned pecan trees dying off by inches next to the paddock fence. As the water faded from murky green to somber blue to iridescent black, he could no longer make out the crooked stripe down his face in reflection. Blinking a cloud of pesky mosquitoes out of his eyes, he moseyed with measured tread down the vine-draped fence-line towards the single tall cottonwood gracing the paddock’s far back corner. Time for an evening nap under his favorite tree. The moon, now full and radiant, drifted far up above the line of weary pecans, and shone a clear, safe passage to his destination.

About halfway to the tree he halted in his tracks, baffled. A human sat at the tree’s base, legs stretched straight out, half-hidden by the wisteria girdling its trunk. Almost forgotten, she sat patient and still, waiting for him. His heart raced as he stared hard in disbelief. It was his best-loved human -- that serious-faced girl with mahogany-hued braids down her back who shared her youth with him, called him brother. It was she who first fed him tub-fulls of oats with chopped carrots and molasses, who scrubbed, brushed and rubbed him until his coat gleamed like burnished copper with huge dapples and his fit muscles tingled with vitality. He remembered the pictures she drew of him and nailed to his corral walls in their Dallas home’s backyard. He hadn’t minded the scolding she gave him when he’d tasted a few. They had little flavor, compared to the chopped carrots she left daily in his feed tub. Here she was again, in the flesh, hunkered down beneath his personal tree, gazelle-like legs stretched out long, jeans tucked into square-toed Wellington boots, worn Stetson resting easy in her lap. He had not seen her in years, not since she hauled him to the Louisiana plantation to pass his last days there in peace.

Memories flooded in. They rode together all over the suburban sprawl of Dallas, Texas, in the booming 1960’s, from the exploding glass and concrete skyline near downtown out past the “colored only” shantytown above Valley View Lane, a close-knit pair on private odyssey. It happened a long time ago, before multi-lane highway loops flanked by massive shopping malls and mushrooming residential developments girthed the city. They had galloped full out on the fresh dirt of expansive, flattened roadways, barely avoiding the huge, screaming dirt-mover machines as they careened along, scraping out the courses of the future multi-lane LBJ Freeway. They rode so long and far up and down a nearby abandoned railroad bed that his iron shoes wore clean through at the toes before the amazed farrier could replace them.

Once he fell when she urged him to canter across a busy thoroughfare, hooves shooting sparks every which way as they slid sideways, crashing down on the hardtop mid intersection. Cars screeched to sudden stops both directions as the girl leaped free, tugging him back up on his feet, waving laughed reassurance to the drivers staring in astonishment out their massive American family sedan windshields. They were safe. They felt lucky together, watched over by some wild, secret spirit, no matter the scrapes they encountered.

Mostly they stuck to the railroad greenbelt, away from traffic. The old horse closed his eyes, luxuriating in pleasure at the thought. After the iron tracks and stinky, creosoted ties disappeared and the tractor-mowers’ monthly shredding ended, the verdant overgrowth skirting the old railway bed went wild. It ushered in a natural preserve, teeming with soaring hawks and monarch butterflies, all sizes, colors and shapes of snakes, lizards and frogs and myriads of brownish furry creatures that scurried squeaking away into lairs or underbrush to avoid his ironclad hooves as they dashed by. It became a pathway to freedom in wildness, shared by one horse with his girl, existing solely to inspire her pensive scribbles on the tattered writing pad she stuffed into his saddlebags, along with his carrot and their shared water bottle. No adult invaded this resplendent realm to dampen insatiable wanderlust or curb mutual belief that their safe passage there would last through eternity. Until it ended. Early one humid, mosquito-swarming summer morn they rode up to the green belt from the well-worn creek-bed path behind their home, to find jeep tire tracks smashing down wide swatches of waist-high grass. Numbered surveyor stakes topped with orange plastic strips evenly lined both sides of the open space in even rows, as far as the eye could see, both directions. He recalled she pulled him to an abrupt halt mid-sward, loosened his reins so he could graze on the lush Johnson grass tickling his belly and slung one leg over the saddle horn to contemplate the unwelcome invasion. After a few minutes passed, she picked up his reins and swung back astride, carefully side-passed him over the smashed down grass until he stood with a stake right beside her wooden left stirrup. She leaned over casually to wiggle the stake, pluck at it, just in case. It came out of the ground easily, with one sharp tug of her black-gloved hand. It sailed right past his ears and tumbled far into the tangled underbrush. He found the rest of that ride a hot bore, no customary mad gallop with tricky leaps over logs and half-hidden streams at breakneck speed, foam flecking his pounding chest and heaving flanks. But after several hours of tedious side-passing and stake-tossing, there wasn’t one stick left visible, which seemed to please her. The green belt was theirs once more. Not long after, he spied a jeep pull up in their home driveway, bearing two tall men who looked somber and official. The girl burst out the back door, awash in tears, and ran to him in his paddock, burying her face in his thick mane. He curled his head and neck over her shoulder and squeezed tight, not comprehending, but steadily watching, ears pricked to worried attention, as the two stern-looking men paused silently at the back door before firing up the jeep and speeding off. They never returned. She didn’t toss the stakes again, once replaced.

The old horse remembered he really enjoyed their exploratory gallops more, even when they got tangled in rolls of old barbed wire or almost fell down abandoned grass-hidden well shafts on occasion. The gelding licked his lips remembering the frosty bottles of 7-Up they shared after each ride, one for him, one for her, ice crystals trickling down the bottles’ glass sides. All exploration of the green belt ended soon enough, he recalled, as construction on the Dallas North Tollway cut off their access in the name of something he heard her spit out with derision, called “progress.”

He tossed his head in the Louisiana night as if shaking off cobwebs. He stared hard again at this headstrong, passionate girl now leaning up against his cottonwood tree and fluttered his nostrils. So many years had passed since she drove away. He had felt so abandoned watching her empty horse trailer clatter and bang down the dusty road towards the Dallas highway. She gazed up at him, eyes sparkling, all innocent young girl smile, practically on fire in the moonlight; and he melted into the warmth. No doubt about it, she had come back. He nickered a hearty greeting and started to buck. Then he remembered his arthritic joints and contained himself. It was okay. She would understand. He floated towards her, never taking his eyes away. Reverently, gently, he placed his muzzle on top of her head and snuffled deep into her brown hair, pulled back tight into two neat braids down her back like always. Like always. He would never forget her hair’s faint wisteria scent.

It occurred to him it would feel grand to lie down right next to her so she could stroke his ears and forelock like she used to. With dignified caution he folded stiff knees and hocks. He settled down under the cottonwood, as close to her as seemed safe. Careful not to roll on her nor harm her with a stray hoof, he wanted to enjoy the reverie of this sacred friendship, renewed in the silent moon’s glow. She shifted, leaning in close. He sighed again and stretched out his neck as she stroked his ears and disentangled his forelock, one wiry strand of hair at a time. The perfect end for a blessed day. Welcome home.

The phone rang about 9:00 pm, California time. "Dairaff died last night," drawled the woman’s voice, matter-of-fact. "Our old foreman found him in the mornin’ under his favorite tree, that cottonwood in the back of the paddock? Looks like he just laid down to rest and drifted off, real peaceful-like. Thought you might want to know." Stone-faced, the riding instructor replaced the telephone in its cradle. Wondering if her mumbled thanks had sounded harsh, she made mental note to write a proper thank-you in the morning. No sound disturbed the peace in her vine-covered mobile home at her equestrian facility nestled in the Sierra Nevada foothills north of Sacramento. “He was just an old horse, lived a good life,” she half-whispered. She tossed her head as if shaking off cobwebs. Tracing a finger down the outer seam of her worn corduroy breeches, she rubbed absently at a bald scraped patch on the calf of one tall English riding boot. Maybe she’d write a story about him someday.

She stood straight, resolute, running a calloused hand through short-cropped mahogany hair streaked with hints of grey, ready to return to barn duties interrupted by the unexpected long distance call that jarred her memory and stirred up long-abandoned emotions. She needed to head back out to her main barn to check on a client’s mare due to foal that night. From some place unrecognized she caught a faint whiff of wisteria. Striding to an open window, she leaned over its sill, peering out. The moon glowed so brilliantly, floating up above the towering oaks, she squinted, marveling. Her breath caught when she gazed out beyond the treetops into the jet-black expanse of cloudless sky. She saw an old bay Arab gelding lying very still under a Louisiana cottonwood, bathed in the moonlight. His neck stretched out towards the base of the tree so she could stroke his ears and forelock one last time. A barn owl hooted in benediction and sailed in graceful sweeps across the face of the glowing orb lighting the vision before her. She mouthed words: safe passage. And softly stepped out into the northern California night, believing in her heart that it would be.

In tribute to my Dallas childhood’s closest friend and constant companion, Dairaff, who taught me the true spirit of nature and the true nature of spirit. (1960-1987)

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