Dream Riders

by Jesse Blackadder

  “Okay, you’re all set.” Mum gave Zen a friendly slap on the rump. “And now I have to go.”

  “Wait. What? You’re going to leave me here with Zen on my first day? I’ve never even ridden him before!”

  “Frankie, I’ve been texting your father all morning. Do you mean to say he hasn’t told you?”

  Dad must have forgotten to switch on his phone.

  “Told me what?”

  “I can’t stay and watch you ride this morning.”

  “Wait. What?” It wasn’t just riding Zen for the first time that was the problem. It was the thought of facing up to those perfect girls in the arena that made me feel like running away and hiding, even though I had been looking forward to this moment for so long.

  “I wish I could, darling, more than anything,” said Mum. “I even put the tripod in the car last night so I could get proper video. But Kai’s arriving at the airport in an hour.”

  “Wait. What?”

  Suddenly Zen and the arena and the pony club faded away and I was back in our tiny terrace house, a smile lighting up my face as I heard a knock on the door and Kai’s voice, asking “Can Frankie come out to play?”

  “Why is Kai coming here?”

  “For a holiday.”

  “A holiday? Who comes for a holiday in the middle of term?” I blurted.

  “Let’s call it a little break then. Bettina mentioned the possibility a while ago, and I was going to ask you how you would feel about it, Sweetie – but then she rang this morning and asked if he could come up today.”

  Kai and I had been best friends from the moment our mums met dropping us off at preschool, when we were four years old, up until sometime in sixth grade – I don’t know exactly when. Sometime during my last year in the city he stopped inviting me over, and when I invited him he always made some lame excuse not to come. When I found out I hadn’t even been invited to his birthday party I officially gave up.

  “How long is he coming for?”

  “We’re not sure yet, this is all extremely last minute,” said Mum, running her fingers through her short red hair and checking her phone again.

  She didn’t really have a choice about leaving me here, I realised. I thought of how early she must have got up this morning to get Zen into the trailer and here on time. And she must have been pretty surprised to have Kai landing on her with half a morning’s notice, too.

  “I’ll be okay,” I said, trying to smile convincingly. “Tell Kai hi from me.”

  “You can tell him yourself. We’re coming by to pick you up in a few hours. Viv’s baking crumble, your favourite, with rhubarb and pears from the garden for dessert tonight.”

  I was staying the night at Mum’s new house for the first time, I remembered. I’d be spending the whole evening with Viv and her eight-year-old daughter, Eloise, trying to act comfortable and make conversation. The thought of Kai being there as well just made the whole thing feel even more weird, but I had no more time to think about that. My foot was in the stirrup and I was swinging myself up onto Zen’s back. I’d had riding lessons before, in the city. I tried to remember what the instructors always used to say. Heels down! Shoulders back! Sit down in the saddle!

  “Now remember,” said Mum.

  “Stay safe and have fun,” I finished for her. It’s what she always said whenever I tried anything for the first time.

  Zen walked forwards a few steps and I shifted around in the saddle, getting used to the feel of him. A woman in a padded blue jacket was standing at the gate as I guided Zen through, and she stepped back to make way for me. I held the reins loose in my hands, so Zen could get the feel of me. He seemed sensitive, I thought, as he tossed his head. As we approached the group in the middle of the arena I glanced over and saw Mum driving away.

  “This is it now, Zennie,” I told him. “We’re on our own.”

  Three

  “Hello Frankie,” called the instructor, trotting his bay thoroughbred towards me. They moved as if they were made of water, everything flowing and energised.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Zen, sitting down hard in my saddle and urging him forwards with my knees.

  Zen plodded along as though he hadn’t heard.

  “Let’s go!” I said again, kicking his sides with my heels this time and leaning forwards.

  Zen just kept plodding along.

  “Welcome to the Byron Shire Pony Club.”

  I straightened up to smile politely at the man, who swung around effortlessly to fall in beside me, his horse slowing to the sedate pace Zen was sticking to. He was dressed like all the others, in a tight black blazer and cream jodhpurs. His black velvet hard hat framed a lean and craggy face.

  He raised his hand in a formal salute. “I’m Oliver.”

  I blinked, then stared. “You’re Oliver Farthing! The Olympic equestrian!”

  “That’s right.” He looked puzzled. “Didn’t your mother tell you I’d be here?”

  “No. I mean yes. She did,” I said, embarrassed. Mum had told me he ran the pony club – a thousand years ago, at university, when she used to love riding, she and Oliver had been friends. “I didn’t realise that you’d be teaching me!”

  “It’s very rewarding to share my skills with the next generation,” he said. “And who knows? It’s possible we might have a future Olympian at this club.”

  This club was for future Olympians?

  “Pony club is for all levels of riders,” he said, seeing my surprise. He looked at me and Zen, assessing us. “Bottom down, heels down, head up. Keep your hands at hip level and your elbows at your sides.”

  Quickly I lowered my hands.

  “And now we will proceed into a trot,” said Oliver, his horse moving smoothly ahead of me.

  I kicked Zen’s sides, clucking my tongue desperately and at last he moved into a semi-jog-trot. I knew in theory how to rise to the trot but this felt unbearably bumpy. I focused on keeping my back upright and my gaze forwards, looking straight into the line of girls, who were now waiting in a precise row across the middle of the showground. They didn’t look unfriendly, exactly, but they didn’t look friendly either. They seemed proper, as if they were all on duty, erect and standing to attention. As though they were in the army.

  “Your hands, Frankie!” barked Oliver as he joined the others, swinging around to join them.

  Somehow my hands had crept up into the air again.

  “Everyone, this is Frankie Jameson and her pony, Zen.”

  “Hi Frankie,” everyone said.

  Hi, I wanted to reply, but my throat had closed over so I gave a little cough instead.

  “Frankie, this is Helen, my co-instructor and the pony club administrator.”

  Helen had a long blonde ponytail coiled neatly over one shoulder, and her smile was warm and friendly.

  “Girls, introduce yourselves please,” continued Oliver.

  As they went down the line, I looked into their faces. Lesley smiled at me as she told me her name, and something about the way Ash crinkled her nose at me made me hope we might be friends. One of the other girls glared at me, though, and muttered her name so quietly I could barely hear her.

  “Hello everyone,” I managed to say, once the last girl in the line had introduced herself.

  They all looked at me, and I knew exactly what they were seeing. An average-sized girl with a pale face and dead-straight mouse-brown hair cut to shoulder length in layers. Small and flat chested, and younger looking than her age. “You’re only twelve. You have to give yourself time, Frankie,” Mum says when she sees me despairing.

  My face is actually heart-shaped. I have exactly nine freckles on my nose, which Mum says are adorable, and my eyes are melty-milk-chocolate-brown and “have a real spark to them,” according to Dad. “And your eyebrows are also very characterful,” he always adds. But who cares about eyebrows?

  If I was a horse, you’d rate me about the same as I rated Zen: a fine, healthy, completely unremarkable pony. And it looked to me a
s if every other girl in this club was a thoroughbred.

  Four

  “Today we’re going to play some games,” said Oliver.

  “Wait. Games?” The girl who had been glaring – Violet, I think her name was – turned to Oliver. “You said we’d be practising our dressage today!”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” said Oliver evenly.

  “But the show is in six weeks,” she protested. “We don’t have time to play games!”

  “We’ll start with a foot race and then do Lolly Hunt and Water,” continued Oliver. He spoke in a clipped way, I noticed, as if he was slightly English. “Ash and Alex, can you help Helen set it up, please?”

  The three of them set off at a canter towards the edge of the ring and I looked after them longingly, wishing I could canter away with them and then just keep going, away from this hot showground and the girl staring angrily at me.

  “The rest of us will begin with the halter race. Frankie, just follow along and I’ll keep an eye on you. You’ll work out what to do. At the count of three. Dismount!”

  That was easy enough – it wasn’t far from Zen’s back to the grass, and he didn’t mind me threading his reins back over his head, either. He wasn’t keen on running next to me, though, as we were obviously meant to. He barely even wanted to walk any more, it seemed, raising his hooves and putting them down deliberately and slowly.

  “Please Zen,” I begged, putting my hand on his flank and urging him forwards.

  The other girls skipped and bounded along around me, some of them not even leading their horses, which came trotting after them.

  I gave up on his flank and grasped Zen by the cheek strap of his bridle. “Come on!”

  He swung his head and put his ears back, his eyes bulging.

  “Whoa!” I said, and quickly released him. He obviously didn’t like that. “I’m sorry.” I walked beside him for a few more paces and when he stopped and buried his nose in the grass, I stopped too. If he didn’t want to be pulled and he didn’t want to be pushed, then what was I supposed to do?

  The others were at the marker now, and turning around to come back to the centre of the ring. The glaring girl was in the lead.

  “Paris! Paris!” she called back to her horse, a big black gelding, although she really didn’t need to. Paris pranced along next to her, ears forwards, gait collected, his reins loose in her hands. I smiled apologetically as she and Paris ran past, but she didn’t seem to even see me.

  “Good boy, Paris!” she called loudly as they reached the finish line.

  I swallowed and stared hard at Zen’s neck. The others were approaching in a big bunch now. Any second they would be surrounding me. I had to do something. I dropped the reins and stretched, pretending to yawn, and rested my head on Zen’s shoulders.

  “Wake up, Frankie!” called out Lesley.

  “Sleepyhead!” Ash giggled as she puffed and panted past.

  “Zen, Frankie, this arena is not an all-you-can-eat buffet,” I heard Oliver say.

  I squinted up at him, the sun in my eyes, the outline of his hat and his horse’s ears towering above me. “I think Zen just loves to eat,” I stammered.

  “Snacking is a sign that Zen doesn’t accept your authority. You need to teach him there are consequences.”

  Consequences? What kind of consequences? I wondered, but Oliver was already trotting away.

  “Please, Zen,” I begged, pulling on his reins. Maybe he felt a little bit of pity for me this time, because he lifted his head and followed me.

  Next we had to race to a bucket filled with pony pellets hanging from the showground fence. Back up on our horses again, we each had to find a lolly hidden in the bucket, and then race back. Naturally, Zen ate all the pony pellets.

  Then we divided into two teams and carried cups of coloured water from one barrel to the other. Our team won, emptying our barrel the fastest, but only because Zen drank most of the water.

  By this stage I’d given up trying to make him do anything, and was cracking jokes and making his laziness part of my comedy routine. The other girls seemed to like it, apart from Violet. Even Oliver managed a smile.

  We finished up by playing Simon Says, where Oliver told us to close our eyes and touch different parts of our horses, taking turns to hold each other’s reins while we lay down sideways over our saddles and turned around to lie down backwards on our horses’ necks. This game was fine, because Zen didn’t have to do anything except stand still, but I had the feeling we were only playing it for my benefit. By this stage all the girls were laughing and sweating, half soaked with water and pretending to get Oliver’s instructions wrong all the time, the way Zen and I had been doing by accident. Soon he was barking instructions and corrections at such a fast pace he couldn’t keep up with himself, and finally he burst into laughter, too. The only person not laughing was the glaring girl. She had done everything perfectly, winning every race and urging her team members on, her face hard and her eyes set, completely ignoring me.

  “All right everyone, we’ll finish up now,” said Oliver, finally. “I’ll see you all on Wednesday when we’ll be going over the basics of dressage.”

  “The basics?” muttered the glaring girl.

  “There’s always more you can learn,” he said. “Now everyone! Change reins! Nose to tail, and falling out in single file!”

  I’d read enough horse books and watched enough horse clips on YouTube to understand what he wanted in theory, but achieving this in practice turned out to be completely different.

  “Relax, Frankie,” said Oliver, coming up next to me. “You’ll start getting the hang of things soon enough. Please say hi to your mother for me.”

  “Bye, everyone!” the girls called as they scattered to different sides of the arena. Lesley and Ash even smiled at me. I smiled back, exhausted.

  Zen, on the other hand, was full of energy. He perked up the moment Oliver dismissed us and trotted, unbidden and beautifully collected, back towards the gate.

  “Well that was a disaster,” I said to myself as we came off the field. “A total disaster.” It felt good, after all those hours of pretending, to finally express how I felt.

  “He can hear you, you know,” said a voice behind me.

  Five

  I turned and saw a woman standing beside the gate. It was the same woman who’d been standing there when Zen and I had gone in. There was no sign of Mum or her white station wagon, but Zen obviously felt he had gone far enough because he abruptly came to a stop.

  “You should watch what you say,” the woman said. “He can hear you.”

  She was wearing a padded blue jacket and patched and faded jodhpurs. Her grey hair was short and curly, and she wore bright red lipstick and sparkling blue earrings. She stood out, as if she was made of something brighter and harder than the rich greens and washed-out browns of the trees and paddocks around her.

  “This little boy here – or gentleman, rather – hears every word. Every word you think, as well as the ones you say.” As she said this she looked at Zen meaningfully. “Hello, you,” she said, and Zen took two steps towards her, his neck arched and his ears pricked.

  “He can hear you, and he can feel you,” she told me.

  “Uh huh,” I said, sliding off Zen’s back. I didn’t really know what she meant, and my thighs ached.

  “He knows you’re disappointed in him.”

  “Well, I am!” I burst out. “Why should I pretend I’m not? I’ve always wanted a horse! It was the one good thing about moving here. And then suddenly, out of the blue, I get one and it’s this … this …”

  Her blue eyes seemed to flash with warning.

  “This pony,” I finished lamely. “He’s supposed to be easy, but he’s not. He’s lazy, and stubborn, and just mean!”

  “If you feel that way about him, that’s how he’ll behave for you,” she said, scratching Zen between his ears.

  “How would he even know?”

  “He’s listening to your to
ne of voice, and noticing every expression and movement that you make.”

  I tied on Zen’s halter and started undoing his bridle. I was tired and fed up, but she didn’t take the hint.

  “The way you’re feeling is what he’ll reflect back to you. That’s one of the most amazing things about horses. And ponies,” she added, nodding again at Zen.

  I could swear he nodded back at her. “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I’m Shannon Falkiner. I’m a horse trainer. Who are you?”

  “I’m Frankie. And this is Zen.”

  She reached out her hand and he stepped forwards, rubbing his muzzle against her as she stroked him. For a moment – a very small moment – I felt jealous. He hadn’t once nuzzled me.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what you are doing here?” I asked.

  “Saying goodbye to Paris.”

  “Paris is your horse? He’s beautiful.”

  “He was until this morning. I’ve sold him now.”

  I followed her gaze out to the arena, where a number of the girls were still bustling around their horses – Paris and his new owner, the glaring girl, included.

  “He was my best friend,” said Shannon.

  For a moment I felt an awful sadness sweep through me, then Zen swung his head up, knocking Shannon’s arm gently with his nose.

  “Hey.” Shannon jumped a little and looked down at Zen. “Thank you for that,” she said, stroking his nose.

  Zen swung his head away and went back to pulling at the grass. I sighed.

  “I should go before leaving gets any harder,” said Shannon quietly. “It was nice meeting you, Frankie. Bye Zen.”

  “Bye,” I said. Zen just went on eating grass.

  I watched as she walked over to a beat-up old blue station wagon with a shining silver horse float attached. “Pocket of Dreams” it said on both the car door and the side of the float, in neat white writing.