Misty's Twilight

by Marguerite Henry

  The pads were meant to last six months; Twi wore them out in six weeks! Then she began frisking about in relief. A mare with less heart might have favored that left foreleg, but not Twi. As the months went by she kept testing it, kept using it, and then began her old nervous pacing for want of something to do. In her highest bugle, she announced to the world that she was eager and ready to go to work.

  During this lull in Twi’s life, Sandy’s old friend and horsewoman came to visit at Stolen Hours. Kathy Daley and Sandy had known each other from the time Kathy was six years old, a spunky kid in her first show! And now she was a trainer at a place called Kritter Korner, where horses of all ages were revitalized.

  Sandy and Kathy talked about Twi’s history and her ups and downs. Why were there so many downs? Sandy wanted to know.

  There was no despair about Kathy. She was not the least depressed. Fact was, she bubbled with plans. “Sandy,” she said with a spark in her eye, “if it can’t be cutting or jumping for Twi, why not dressage? Twi’s such a natural performer, and so obedient to her riders. She’s much too competitive to be confined to pasture the rest of her life. Let me take her to Kritter Korner and see what we can do.”

  Sandy caught Kathy’s enthusiasm and laughed. “Yes, let’s do it! I can already see Twi up on her toes, dancing to the music of the Blue Danube waltz.” She grabbed Kathy’s hands and they whirled around the kitchen, bouncing once again in anticipation of things to come.

  • • •

  The day that Twilight moved in—saddle and bridle, hoof pick and tail comb—her reception at Kritter Korner was like a rowdy high-school reunion. The noise was a merry mishmash of sounds. Snortings and squealings, brayings and buglings. Twi was the celebrity of the day. She responded with joyful bucks and nips, punctuated by her curious whinnies. From frisky young critters to trembly-lipped old-timers, Twilight had been accepted!

  Almost before Twi had a chance to settle in, the training began. Kathy was delighted with this one-of-a-kind pinto with a class and a style all her own. Far from wearing her out, the hardships seemed only to make Twi stronger, fresher, more eager to please and perform. The wild freedom of her Assateague forebears and her early years at Stolen Hours Farm kept her from being burned out too soon.

  Early one morning, Kathy turned Twi loose with an affectionate slap on the rump. She watched Twi toss her head. For a split second, she galvanized herself, then sprang into the air in an almost perfect Capriole, as stately as any Lipizzaner of Vienna. She kicked out with such force that all four legs went flying as if she was determined to separate herself from herself.

  Kathy called Sandy at her office. “I guess there isn’t anything our Twi can’t do!”

  Chapter 18

  THE NIGHT OF THE VCR

  From her toes to the top of her ponytail, Kathy stood only fifteen hands high. What a neat happenstance! This made Twilight appear as stately as the revered Lipizzaners, the ballet dancers of the horse world.

  Like a good “parent” Sandy stayed away from Twi’s schooling to give Kathy free rein. But what a long year it was! Pam had started college and Chris was away at boarding school. His teenage mischief-making was someone else’s concern now. Pie, Patches, Piper, and Sunshine seemed lost without the children and Sandy was lost without Twilight. Daytimes Sandy was so busy studying her patients’ problems that she didn’t think about the quiet at home. But at dusk, after work, the relative silence struck her hard. No high-pitched whinnying. No kids home from school.

  For escape and companionship Sandy took Chris’s big Rhodesian pit bull and two suppers—usually dog munchies for Rhodi and peanut-butter sandwiches for herself—to the comfort of her bedroom where she listened to music . . . anything from classical to rock. The day’s mail had already been piled up on her bed with a trash basket nearby.

  One late evening, while throwing away the junk mail, Sandy’s eyes caught a slim box marked “Video—Handle With Care.” The return address read Kritter Korner. She brushed the other mail aside and with quick fingers tore open the wrapping and slid the cassette into her VCR.

  Instantly Sandy was on the floor with Rhodi—an audience of two sitting on the floor, watching an elegant pinto pony going through difficult dressage movements. Of course it was Twilight. It had to be! Her sparkling white patches were all in the right places. But there was a strange new elegance about her—a presence, a nobility. The high head carriage, the arched neck, the feather step. Even at the collected walk, her hind legs were well under her body, her action elevated.

  Kathy, too, had changed. She was the Hofrat, the riding master. She was up-headed, too, her back ramrod straight. Yet she seemed utterly relaxed. Sandy was mesmerized. She heard her own voice saying, “How do you do it? How can you give secret signals to Twi that nobody can detect?” She stopped talking to herself and watched Twilight do the half-pass, stepping diagonally forward on her tiptoes, as if she had been born to dance.

  Now pony and rider were cantering around the arena in lilting rhythm, then back to the collected walk, then the canter again, changing leads from the right forehoof to the left, then back again, every fourth stride.

  Sandy sighed in happiness. The weight and wait of all those years lifted. Twi had found herself.

  As Sandy stood up, a yellow note fell from her lap.

  Dear Sandy,

  Twi’s progress has been as changeable as the weather, but always moving forward . . . sometimes at a slow pace, sometimes with fire and imagination.

  I think she has enjoyed the months of learning, and my belief in her has never flagged.

  On Thursday, the 23rd, Twilight faces her first recognized Dressage Training Show. She’s ready. I hope you’ll be there, too.

  Love,

  Kathy

  “Oh! No!” Sandy wailed to Rhodi. “The twenty-third is today!” To soothe her disappointment she played the tape a second time, then reluctantly crawled into bed. Sleep came, but it was shot through with a dream. Twi was in her first show, doing her passages and pirouettes so elegantly that she trounced all competitors. Then suddenly she gave a mighty swish with her two-toned tail and swept all the judges off their feet. Their scorecards flew into the air. In her dream, the spectators were noisy with cheers and laughter.

  “Yeah, Pinto!

  Right on, Pinto!

  A-w r-i-g-h-t!”

  Sandy’s own voice woke her up, cheering and laughing with the crowd.

  Next morning she took off for the library. She just had to learn the mysteries of dressage. How was the horse prompted? What were the signals for each movement—from the simple walk, trot, canter to the passage and the piaffe? A librarian proudly brought out a worn French book by Guérinière, dated 1733, and Sandy spent a magic hour learning the answers.

  Twi needed no help from books. She understood Kathy’s body language.

  When Sandy arrived at her office later that morning, a stark note stared up at her.

  KATHY FROM KRITTER KORNER CALLED. WILL CALL BACK.

  Sandy didn’t wait. She dialed Kathy’s number and held her breath. Something dreadful must have happened for her to phone during office hours.

  “Oh, Sandy!” The line went silent until a sob broke through with Kathy’s incredible confession. “In the show yesterday,” the words tumbled over each other, “Twi won a first and a second.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful!” Sandy exclaimed.

  “How can second place be wonderful? It was my fault. I took her off course.” She should have won two firsts!”

  “What a relief!” Sandy cried. “I thought something dreadful had happened to you or to Twi. In my mind I saw her lying on her side, with blood trickling from her nostrils, and your riding britches all covered with her blood.”

  “No! No! Nothing like that, you silly. But the second place was not Twi’s error. It was mine! I took her off course”

  Sandy laughed outright, and Kathy’s tone brightened . . . somewhat.

  “I guess I shouldn’t feel too guilty, bec
ause one of the judges called me aside at the end of the show to say she was amazed at Twi’s early ability.”

  Now Kathy’s voice went up the scale and her words spilled out like M&Ms from a bag. “There’s more! The judge said that any trainers, owners, or showers who want to understand the secret of good dressage should bring their finest-tipped brushes to paint Twilight in action.”

  Chapter 19

  WHISTLING IN THE RAIN

  Being just an owner instead of a day-to-day trainer had its drawbacks. Sandy missed the cozy everyday intimacy of sharing an apple with Twi, bite for bite. And she missed the sound of a low whickering in response to her coded whistle. She longed to see how cleanly her beloved Twilight had leaped from the hell-bent-for-leather work of the cutting horse to the thrills of jumping, to the final exultation of the dressage artist.

  After months without any contact Sandy had to find out if any bond between them still existed. She determined to learn if, in her new role, Twilight still remembered her. Purposely she did not set a definite appointment with Kathy. She preferred to arrive unannounced, hoping to see Twi alone. Certainly she’d be out in the pasture; she would kick her stall to kindling, if she hadn’t been turned out into the gentle December rain.

  These thoughts skirmished in Sandy’s mind as her need to see Twi became stronger and stronger. Twi used to love the smell of work clothes. Sandy had dressed carefully in her old, smelly riding boots and her well-worn coat and pants. She worried to herself: Will Twi recognize the smell of me? Will she remember my whistle?

  As Sandy neared Kritter Korner she rolled down her car window. She licked her lips and took a deep breath to practice her whistle. All that escaped was a puny squeak. Where in the world had that sissy tremolo come from? It would never carry to the far end of the pasture where, of course, Twi would be, head low, letting the rain slosh over her body.

  She swallowed hard and tried a second whistle. A weird sound came out, like a frog croaking in the rain. Her third attempt produced a loud penetrating whistle. A passing driver gave her a scoffing look and shook his fist. She closed her window and drove on, trying to comfort herself with the old bromide, “When a dress rehearsal is a flop, the real performance is a triumph.”

  • • •

  Out in the pasture she saw a huddle of big horses with a pony in front center. All stood with their rumps to the wind. They were identical in color—wetted dark by the rain. The arrival of the car didn’t disturb them. Not an ear swiveled.

  Kathy was nowhere in sight. Sandy felt like an actor on an empty stage.

  She leaned on the fence rail, oblivious to the wetness, and sucked in a great gulp of air. In a clear tone that she scarcely recognized as her own she steam-whistled her two-note call. A faraway ear swiveled as if asking, “Eh? Will you please run that by me again?”

  Sandy obliged. And now the ear spun around like a windsock. The littlest creature whirled on her hindquarters and stretched out in Sandy’s direction at full gallop. Her whickering was almost lost in the wind of her own making. Now she was putting on the brakes, sliding to the fence rail, snuffling the scent to make doubly sure.

  Sandy held out her hand. Twi’s nose twitched, testing the salty sweat. Then she lowered her dripping head and stood stock still, clearly asking, without words, for the place behind her ear to be scratched. Suddenly she felt rambunctious and took a playful nip of Sandy’s coat sleeve. Sandy’s laughter cut short as quick footfalls interrupted the reunion. Kathy, all concerned, came down the steps of the house and threw her arms around Sandy. “Doctor Sandy! You’re sopping wet! Come in and dry by the fire. I want you to meet my exciting guest.”

  “Please, Kathy, you go on in. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Kathy nodded in understanding and went back up the steps. Sandy reached into her pocket, took out a peppermint, and offered it to Twi, who lipped it, crunched it, savored it. Sandy started to treat the horses who had followed at a discreet distance, but Twi opened her jaws and laced back her ears. “This is my day,” she seemed to say.

  “Mine, too,” Sandy replied, laughing.

  • • •

  At last Sandy reluctantly parted from Twi and went into the house. A fire crackling and the smell of pine smoke filled the den-size office where Kathy kept her records. An attractive stranger stood up to welcome Sandy.

  “Please meet Dorita Kongot,” Kathy said as she hung up Sandy’s sodden jacket. “Dorita conducts a clinic for horses and trainers, and guess what? She specializes in dressage!”

  Sandy liked the strength of the woman’s handshake.

  “Dorita was my coach,” Kathy explained, “when I was a timid kid of six.”

  “Never timid,” Dorita corrected. “I’d say quite the eager beaver! And when I heard about Twi, I gave myself a two-week leave and headed for sunny Florida.” The soft patter of rain suddenly became a loud drumming. Dorita laughed. “Sunny Florida, my eye!” she said.

  There were chestnuts roasting by the fire and piping hot cider, and everyone felt cozy and warm and of one mind.

  Kathy kept trotting to the kitchen for more butter and passing the steaming plate of chestnuts until the atmosphere was filled with Christmas goodness.

  It was Dorita with her fine understanding who reminded them of their mission. “Kathy! What Sandy wants to hear is my rating of Twi and you as a team—and Twi’s Grand Prix prospects.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Kathy rubbed her hands together. “Tell her!”

  Dorita’s eyes sparked to the occasion. The room went silent except for the licking of the flames. Dorita, slender as a racehorse, stood up, looking directly at Sandy. “I wish I could make you feel my deep-down satisfaction in watching Kathy and Twi working as a team.”

  She waited for Sandy’s nod of agreement, then went on. “But for my own ego, I’m glad they both need more patient work to put them in harmony for the Grand Prix.”

  Sandy could feel her brows inching up in surprise. “After studying the videotape with my unprofessional eye,” she said, “the action seems brilliantly harmonious . . . already close to the top.”

  “Oh, they are! It’s that closeness I want to seal. When my student riders and their mounts are both in tune, there will be no need for me. That’s why I’m thrilled to work on Twi’s and Kathy’s final polish.”

  Sandy caught Dorita’s excitement. “Keep talking,” she pleaded. “Tell me everything.”

  Kathy chimed in. “Dorita, tell Sandy the good stuff . . . the exciting work ahead.”

  Dorita nodded. “The first night here I watched the training tapes so I could zero right in on any weaknesses.”

  “Did you find any?” Sandy asked in motherly surprise.

  Dorita smiled at Sandy’s prejudice, while she made a point of studying Twi’s encouraging award on the wall and reading aloud the golden calligraphy:

  American Horse Shows Association, Inc.

  This Certifies that

  Misty’s Twilight

  ridden by

  Kathy Daley

  qualified for the

  American Horse Shows Association

  Third Level Dressage Championship

  at the

  Valhalla Farm Dressage Show

  Dorita came over and put her arm around Sandy’s shoulder as if she were a kid, half her age. “In dressage, we all know that the third level is an improvement over first and second levels. But we must remember that this is just a rousing beginning.”

  Dorita sat down in front of the fire. “What pleases me in Twi’s work is her energy, her endurance. She could go on working all day . . . if we’d let her.

  “Now I’ll list the things we’ll be working on to put Kathy and Twi in perfect sync. First we’re going to refine the basics—the walk, the collected trot, the flowing canter. Twi’s canter tends to be short and bouncy, almost like an Irish jig. But we’ll get to that.

  “Another concern is Twi’s resistance to bending left. If I knew the cause, we could work on the cure.”


  “I know!” Kathy exclaimed. “In her cutting career the cowboys sometimes linked her head to her tail, hoping to teach her to swerve naturally. All it did was scare her and make her resist even more.”

  Dorita chuckled. “Twi has such a sparkling white rump we’ve got to teach her to make good use of it.”

  “I call Twi my genius horse,” Kathy said. “Although her being so wise can actually work against her trainer; she likes to outthink me. In her tempi changes, changing leads every certain number of strides, we’d be working on changes, say every four strides. Twi, on her own, might switch to three or two, without any cue from me.”

  “She must learn to wait for your signal,” Dorita agreed, “and not anticipate. That’s another challenge for us to correct.”

  At this point the rain stopped as if a sky giant had sheared it through with a blade of sun.

  “Thank you for an exhilarating session,” Sandy said, “but may I come back soon to see some real action? I want to learn firsthand just how the prompting is done.”

  Dorita was quick to say, “Come next Saturday. We’ll be taping all morning so Kathy can study the videos after I’ve gone home.”

  “I’ll be here!” Sandy promised.

  Chapter 20

  ACTION!

  A freshly raked track at sunup is almost a holy place. Hoofbeats playing soft music on wet tanbark. Barn smells—harvest hay and grains—mingling with drying compost, and over all, the pine-tree fragrance of Kritter Korner. In the ring only one splashily marked pinto pony holds center stage.

  The time is mid-December. Kathy’s coach, Dorita, is longeing Twi, suppling her for the work ahead. Dorita is wearing a Spanish double-pointed hat like the riders of the Lipizzaners of Vienna. Her hands on the longe line are delicately fingered, like a harpist’s, ready to pluck the strings. Twi shows none of the tenseness of a beginner. Everything is happening as it should. Dorita is asking for the basics . . . the slow measured walk, twice around the ring; then the trot, then the flowing canter. Just the basics. Easy as breathing out and breathing in.