The Horse That Went to Church

by Hilary Walker

  The Horse Who Went to Church

  By Hilary Walker

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2014 Hilary Walker

  ISBN 9781611525779

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  The Horse Who Went to Church

  By Hilary Walker

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: The Initial Dilemma

  Chapter 2: The Dilemma Goes Forth & Multiplies

  Chapter 3: Behold, the Chase Continues

  Chapter 4: The Peeved Pastor

  Chapter 5: Mass Exodus

  Chapter 6: Virality

  Prologue

  Firecross was already galloping up the church aisle.

  It was too late to rethink how I should have planned the Lord’s Day: with my horse running loose inside God’s House, things weren’t looking favorable for a punctual arrival at my dressage competition later that morning.

  Chapter 1: The Initial Dilemma

  I’d been asked to set up the show arena the previous day. I’m not good at many things, but over the years I’ve become quite the guru at measuring out the dressage rectangle and telling people where to put the letters, cones and boundary chain.

  Ergo, I’m in huge demand during show season. (But not, I’ve noticed, when dressage teams are being picked.)

  However, the other volunteers and I couldn’t begin on time because a Saturday jumper show was running late in the arena we needed to prepare for our Sunday shindig. The horses and their fences weren’t even out of there until 4 P.M.

  Normally we’d be finished by that hour. And since the clocks had just changed to winter time, darkness descended early. We’d have to work really fast.

  This caused an additional problem for yours truly: I was going to miss the 5 P.M. Saturday Vigil Mass, and would have to go on Sunday instead. The schedule would be very tight: my first dressage test was in the morning, with another in the afternoon. Which Mass could I fit in?

  One option was to attend the early morning service, rush home, hook up the trailer, load the horse and hurry to make that first class.

  I could have scratched that A.M. ride—it would have made my life easier. But this was the last show of the season, and I really, really wanted to compete in both classes. After all, I had set up the arena, so it was only fair I get to ride twice!

  The plan’s success depended on my getting to church on time in the morning.

  As predicted, I and my team finished putting up the dressage arena in the murky light of dusk on Saturday and it was completely dark by the time I got home.

  I fed Wooster, my English bulldog, and let him out to do his business. Next, I dragged my weary feet down to the barn to feed the horses.

  Thankfully I’d had the presence of mind to clean my tack earlier that afternoon and put it in the trailer. It was one thing less to worry about in the morning.

  Over reheated macaroni and cheese I went through my options for the next day and scribbled three plans on a paper napkin:

  Get up early, go to Mass, rush home, hitch up trailer, load horse and go.

  Get up earlier, hitch trailer and take it to Mass.

  Try and make Mass after the show.

  (Note for readers who don’t understand my dilemma: it’s imperative that we Catholics keep the Sabbath holy, unless we have a very good reason. Horse shows don’t count as a good reason, according to my parish priest.)

  I closed my eyes and stabbed the tissue with my right forefinger.

  When I opened them a dirty fingernail was resting on: “Get up earlier, hitch trailer and take it to Mass.”

  Darn it! I hate getting up early as it is: earlier is even worse. Once more I poked the napkin with my eyes shut, hoping for a better answer.

  But that forefinger rested stubbornly on “Get up earlier, hitch trailer and take it to Mass.”

  Okay—best out of five!

  No dice. Even when I moved the napkin to improve my odds, the third answer was the same.

  Best out of seven?

  But if I carried on this way I’d be here all night, and I needed to rest before tomorrow. Go to bed, I told myself. God has chosen this option. Tough!

  First I packed my show apparel in the blue tote with Firecross’s Mom embroidered across it in curly white letters.

  Next I laid out my church clothes and set the alarm for 5:30 A.M. before laying me down to sleep. Rising at that hour would give me time to feed the horses, hitch the trailer and be on time for the 8 o’clock Mass.

  Chapter 2: The Dilemma Goes Forth & Multiplies

  On the bedcovers the next morning Wooster rolled onto his back, and his sudden snoring woke me. I checked the clock.

  Six A.M. Eeeek!! What happened to my 5:30 A.M. alarm?

  I rushed through my ablutions, threw on my clothes and tossed food into Wooster’s bowl. Leaving the back door open for the chubby hound to complete his own morning routine, I drove the fifty yards to the barn and fed the two waiting horses.

  I held the hay at arm’s length while distributing it to my equine pals, to prevent any stray wisps from landing on my Sunday best.

  The next task was to hitch my Expedition to the trailer. I studied the rear view camera as I reversed the vehicle, and heard that satisfying clunk! assuring me that I had aligned the tow bar and trailer hitch perfectly.

  However, the noise was louder than usual and the trailer moved, which doesn’t normally happen. I got out to complete the hook-up, and saw why. I had backed up too fast, and knocked the post supporting the trailer hitch off its wooden block.

  My horse transport was resting nose down on the tarmac, like a plane sans front wheel.

  Now I was in a real time crunch, and you can imagine the expletives I wanted to use. But being a Sunday, I had to watch my language.

  Raising up that trailer’s front end took forever. I had to drag my jumbo jack and jack stands underneath to lift it up then lower it back onto my vehicle’s trailer hitch.

  I’m telling you all this because I want you to sympathize with my decision to make up for lost time and load Firecross into the trailer there and then and drive him with me to church.

  Please understand, this was my only option: it meant that after Mass I would be able to head straight to the show.

  Then why the heck was your horse galloping down the aisle? you may well ask, employing the word heck, because, again, this was a Sunday.

  Not an unreasonable question, which I will endeavor to answer.

  The 8 A.M. Mass isn’t as well attended as later ones, leaving room for my Expedition and trailer in the parking lot without taking up spaces needed by other parishioners.

  I opened the trailer windows to give Firecross plenty of air. Suspended in front of him, his hay net was
stuffed with enough fiber to keep him occupied for hours. I left him munching it and walked into church.

  Two male ushers opened the double doors to let me in. A creature of habit, I always sit on the left side of the aisle, in the third row from the front. That way I’m not exposed to close scrutiny by my parish priest, but he can see that I’ve shown up.

  My watch now read 8 A.M. and Father Frank would be at the back of the church with the deacon and altar servers, waiting to proceed up the middle aisle to begin Mass.

  Our choir director stood up and kindly requested us to turn off our cell phones and all other unnecessary electronic devices to join her in the processional hymn, as the piano player strummed a few introductory chords.

  We all rose to sing. But our voices were drowned by a clickety-clack, clickety-clack of hooves growing louder as the perpetrator headed up the aisle.

  Oh, no! I thought, that can’t be!

  Yet seriously, what else could it be? How many other horses were there in the vicinity? He must have roared past Father Frank et al.

  This was going to be bad!

  I rudely pushed past the parishioners sitting in my pew, and jumped into the aisle to get in front of Firecross and avert disaster.

  Chapter 3: Behold, the Chase Continues

  Not surprisingly, he simply veered round me.

  Yet he didn’t barge up the altar steps, as I’d feared, but turned left and cantered along the front of the pews.

  The tile floor was slippery and he was going at speed. His front hooves skidded out from under him and he crashed down on his knees as the congregation gave a collective gasp.

  I hope he hasn’t hurt himself! I thought, simultaneously realizing, Ha, you beggar! I’ve got you! My heart gave a victory leap and I rushed over to grab his halter while he was scrambling back up.

  The congregation gave a cheer.

  But unfortunately the leather headpiece was broken. It must have come apart when he jumped out of the trailer. (And I very much wanted to know how that had happened…) As I grasped it, the whole thing came off his face.

  Darn it! (Though under extreme pressure I recalled I was in church, and didn’t swear as I would have liked, even in my head.)

  Free once more, Firecross took off at a smart trot down the side of the church.

  This alarmed the parishioners who’d expected the whole fiasco to be over by now, and a ‘you’ll never guess what happened in church this morning!’ story to recount over brunch with the non-Catholic members of the family.

  Instead, life was becoming dangerous and they wanted to get out of the church post haste. But, unsure how to accomplish this, they stood frozen in their pews.

  Meanwhile, I was pleading with God not to let Firecross hit any of the saints’ statues lined against the wall as he clattered past. I’d spent many hours praying to those holy people, and they’d not root for me any longer if my horse knocked them off their pedestals.

  The beastly horse slowed down as he approached the back of the church, while I was forming a plan.

  If the four ushers at the back of the church opened the main doors, they could let him out into the parking lot where he couldn’t desecrate God’s House any longer.

  I signaled to the men, who were standing with Father Frank by the baptismal font. With relief I saw one of them give a knowing nod to the others. But they’d misunderstood me: they thought I was asking them to catch Firecross and suddenly converged on my gelding.

  Frustration made me want to scream, but this would only frighten my horse and make matters worse. (Although how much worse could they get?) I ran as fast as I could down the central aisle, planning to reach the back doors and open them myself, while Firecross’s attention was on the ushers.

  But before I could get there, my horse swerved and prepared to turn back up the center of the church towards the altar.

  Oh no! This time he’d probably trot up those three stairs and poop in front of everyone. The humiliation was going to be awful!

  Chapter 4: The Peeved Pastor

  Quickly the four ushers stretched out their arms and bravely formed a line across the width of the center aisle, in front of the horse. Firecross skated to a halt, then deftly performed a 180 degree swivel, ready to race up the side of the church again.

  Meanwhile, we’d forgotten about our pastor. He now slipped over to the other side of the church to cut off my equine from his intended route past the saints.

  Standing with his arms folded, Father Frank stared down my horse.

  But after eyeballing the priest for less than two seconds, Firecross lunged past him and trotted off towards the front of the church, head raised with an air of victory.

  Emboldened by the ushers’ previous example of bravery, several male parishioners dashed from their front pews, and spread across the gap to prevent my gelding from reaching the altar.

  Grateful for their quick thinking, I also hoped Firecross wouldn’t mow them down.

  Despite having his flight path cut off, the agile animal was undeterred. He turned and jumped into the front pew recently vacated by those brave men.

  The gap between the wooden bench and kneeling rail is pretty narrow, but he pressed on through the constricted pathway.

  As my wild equine clattered along the first pew, the churchgoers frantically leapt out of their seats and rushed for the exits. The ushers made a beeline to open the doors and help the fleeing masses leave in a semi-orderly fashion.

  I held my hands to my head. This was terrible!

  The people running away made him uneasy, and Firecross paused for a moment to consider his next move. I was pretty sure he’d head for the altar again, as it was the only quiet place left to him. The line of men preventing him had vanished and joined the rest of the churchgoers. Nothing stood in Firecross’s way.

  I groaned inwardly at the thought of his desecrating the holy area. Would I be excommunicated? Or sued? Who knew what the outcome of this whole debacle would be?

  Father Frank caught my eye and glared at me. “This is your animal,” he growled. “Do something!”

  At the moment, Firecross’s hind legs were in the front pew and his forelegs were in the aisle. I could see his sides heaving with exercise and excitement, and he looked bewildered.

  The churchgoers had been desperate to get out of the building seconds earlier, but now huddled in a group at the back, with some of them hiding behind the large baptismal font.

  A weird hush descended. It was as if they, like Firecross, wondered what to do next, and were strangely loath to leave in case they missed anything.

  I became aware of a stealthy movement. Father Frank was inching his way up the middle aisle, apparently preparing another full frontal challenge to Firecross.

  In response, I stole along the saints’ wall, intending to slip into the same pew as my horse from behind. I had a vague notion that if I crept up on him from the rear, he wouldn’t try to reverse over me, and Father Frank would be able to catch him.

  My thinking must have been pretty muddled, for how was Father Frank going to catch a horse without a halter?

  I suppose I was hoping for a miracle. But I was in church, after all!

  Father was now level with an extremely tense Firecross, “What’s his name?” Father asked me, very softly.

  “Firecross,” I whispered.

  Chapter 5: Mass Exodus

  Father Frank said a reassuring, “Whoa there, big guy, it’s okay,” and reached out his hand for Firecross to sniff at.

  But, as Cesar Millan says of dogs, my horse was currently in the ‘red zone.’ He was well out of calm mode, having bypassed the middle zones and gone straight to equine high alert.

  His head was up and his ears were pricked forwards so rigidly that they almost touched at the tips. One of them swiveled towards me and the other was fixed on Father. The animal’s eyes were bulging and his head was turned towards the large group of parishioners at the back of the church.

  A kid squealed and Firecross’s
eyes widened further at the unfamiliar sound. Looking for an exit, he spotted the huge side windows along the wall opposite the saints.

  Gentle sunrays, momentarily hidden behind clouds, burst through the glass panes. Golden hues cast long bright shafts onto the floor and Firecross focused his attention on this sudden shift of light.

  Now that the wild mustang was no longer threatening to bolt past them, the churchgoers stopped hugging the back doors. They were back in spectator mode and settled down to enjoy the unfolding drama from a safe distance.

  Although no longer dangerous for those godly people, the situation was a tad risky for their parish priest. He was standing in the line of fire, right next to the bulky animal, and it could turn out rather badly for him.

  But then again, he had a direct line to God: he was a sort of heavenly toreador, if you like. Even if he got gored by the horse, he’d be fine—whether in this life or the next.

  My mind was now racing on another track, pondering on such concerns as, will the Catholic Church sue me if one of Their Own gets injured or killed by my horse and is unable to carry out his duties? Do they have a scale of earnings lost per year of productivity, which I would have to reimburse them for? Am I insured if my horse accidentally causes the demise of a parishioner or two?

  I prayed quickly for forgiveness. This mercenary thinking showed no charity towards Father Frank, who, I noted, was about to make another valiant effort to restrain Firecross.

  “Do you have any experience with horses?” I whispered to him from behind my equine. I was rather hopeful.

  “No,” he rasped back. How could I possibly think that he had? “Do you have any suggestions?” he hissed.

  (The subtext was clear: He’s YOUR horse: YOU’RE responsible for this ridiculous situation. YOU get us out of it!)

  I shook my head and inched backwards in my pew so I could slide into the one behind. I wanted to get in front of Firecross—better that he kill me than anyone else. But how could I achieve that without scaring him and sending him off into those windows?