by Stacy Gregg
“Don’t let it go to your head, Storm,” Issie warned as she led him to his stall. “You’re not getting any special treatment around here just because you’ve won the Burghley Horse Trials.”
The stables were almost full that evening. Francoise had two of her young eventers in the stalls next to Nightstorm, and in the box furthest away from the stallion was the chestnut mare, Mirabelle.
“She is still in foal!” Francoise said with obvious frustration. “If I had known that she would wait this long then I would have come and watched you at Burghley! She was due a week ago – look at the size of her belly!”
Mirabelle’s tummy was enormous – but the mare showed no signs of foaling any time soon. She was happily munching on her hay net and looked quite content.
Francoise filled Issie in on the progress of the two young eventers. “Leonardo is jumping beautifully. We’ll work on his dressage tomorrow. I have entered you for the Weston Park two-star this weekend.”
“This weekend!” Issie said. “Francoise, I thought I might take a little break! I’ve just won the Grand Slam!”
“The horses do not care about your trophies,” Francoise informed her. “They still need work. The young ones need you most of all, they will be your future.”
Issie knew this was true. All the same, she had been hoping that Francoise would at least allow her a moment of celebration before she put her nose to the grindstone again.
“A good rider is always looking to the next fence,” Francoise reminded her as they walked back to the house together. “You never know what you will have to confront next…”
As she said this, Francoise opened the door to the kitchen and Issie saw a huge hand-painted banner strung right across the room with the words Wham! Bam! Grand Slam! in giant letters. Beneath the banner was a table covered with plates of food and standing at the front of it, holding a large iced cake, was Avery with Mrs Brown, Hester, Stella, Kate and Marcus.
“Surprise!” Stella said.
“Ohmygod!” Issie looked around the room at her friends. “I had no idea you were going to do this!”
“Well, duh!” Stella said. “That’s why it’s called a surprise party!”
“You did not think we would let this moment pass by without at least a little party,” Francoise laughed. “Come on, cut the cake!”
The celebrations went on until very late.
“We deserve at least one night off from our training schedules,” Marcus told her, “don’t you think?”
Marcus had news of his own. After his performance at Burghley the owners of Velluto Rosso had decided to offer him the ride permanently, and they were moving two of their other horses to the Goldins’ stables where Marcus would base himself for the next few seasons.
“We’re going to be neighbours,” Marcus told her.
“You can pop in and borrow a cup of hard feed,” Issie replied.
“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Marcus said.
It was after midnight when the party finally broke up. Issie stayed up to help Francoise with the dishes. The enormous quantities of food seemed to have somehow magically disappeared, although there was still a slice of carrot cake left. “Storm can have this piece,” Issie said, wrapping the cake in a napkin. “He’s earnt it.”
The night air had a hint of autumn chill as she walked down the path that led to the stable block. Storm must have heard her coming because he was waiting for her with his head over the door. When he spied the cake in her hands he gave a keen nicker. Issie fed him the treat and giggled at the expression on Storm’s face as he was overwhelmed by the sweetness of the icing. He shook his head up and down, his eyes wide.
“There’s carrots in it,” Issie reassured him, “so it’s still healthy.”
She stood there for a while, leaning over the door, not saying a word, admiring the conformation of the big bay, the way his muscles rippled beneath his shining coat as he moved around in the loose box. It would take him a few weeks to recover completely from the rigours of the past few days, but then they would be back on the circuit again. The Olympics were looming on the horizon and there was the four-star in Adelaide coming up too – it would be fun to fly Storm to Australia to compete and they had the funds to do it now. Already their old sponsors Dashing Equine and GG Feeds were muttering about coming back onboard. Not that the Laurels team needed to worry about sponsorship money too much with the winnings of the Grand Slam soon to be in their coffers.
The official presentation of the Grand Slam trophy – and the accompanying cheque for $350,000 – was scheduled for next week. Maybe then it would all feel real to her, but right now Issie was still in a state of shock. She couldn’t believe that she had taken out the greatest prize in the world of eventing. And yet, when she looked at the magnificent bay stallion in front of her, she had the sense that her partnership with Storm hadn’t reached its potential. There were more adventures to come, she knew that for certain.
Issie was still gazing at Storm when she heard a bang. The noise didn’t worry her at first. It was a horse kicking out, hooves striking against the door of the loose box. Perhaps one of the young geldings was throwing a tantrum, demanding more dinner. It wasn’t until she heard a second bang, and an accompanying distraught whinny, that Issie suddenly realised which loose box it was coming from.
Ohmygod! Mirabelle!
In just a few seconds Issie had sprinted down the row to reach the mare. Mirabelle must have been standing up a moment ago when she kicked out, but now she had collapsed on the straw, her rump facing the door. She was in labour. Issie could tell from the way the mare kept turning her head to look at her flank, giving little grunts of pain and then collapsing down on the straw again.
Entering the box and rebolting it, Issie gently eased her way alongside Mirabelle, talking softly to the mare as she edged around until she was close enough to examine the foal monitor that the mare was wearing around her neck. The device was supposed to alert Francoise that the mare was foaling, but it hadn’t activated and by the looks of things, the foal wasn’t far away. Mares could give birth very quickly.
Issie had decided that the best thing to do was to run back up to the house to get Francoise, when she noticed something underneath Mirabelle’s tail. The foal was already beginning to come. Issie could see the slimy, opaque membrane sac that encased the foal poking out from beneath the mare’s tail.
Issie had seen a mare give birth before. She’d been there the night that Storm was born, and as soon as she looked at this foal she knew something was very different about this delivery.
Foals usually came out of the mare front legs first. But this foal’s legs were sticking up at a weird angle.
At first, Issie thought the legs were malformed, but, as the mare gave a grunt and the legs pushed out further from beneath her tail, Issie realised that the legs weren’t abnormal – they were the hind legs. The foal was being born hindquarters first.
Issie’s heart began to race. Foals weren’t supposed to be born like this! They usually came out with their heads tucked in between their front legs. Once the shoulder was clear, they slipped out very quickly into a wet bundle on the straw. But occasionally, you got a foal that came out back-to-front like this one – and then things got really complicated.
Issie’s heart pounded. Foals that were born this way could get stuck. The mare could panic and the risks suddenly became very real for both mother and foal. Mirabelle needed a vet to deliver her foal safely. Issie needed to get Francoise and Kate – now.
“It’s OK, girl,” Issie reassured the mare. “Everything’s going to be OK, but I have to go and get help. I’m going to have to leave you on your own for a while. I can’t do this alone…”
Issie stood up and stepped back towards the door. Turning around to open it, she leapt back in shock. A horse’s head was hanging over the loose box door, staring straight at her!
“Ohmygod!” Issie gasped.
It was Mystic. The grey gelding was standing at
the door like a marble statue, his coal-black eyes shining as he stood calm and serene, watching over the scene in the stables.
He looked at Issie and in that moment she knew that she wasn’t going anywhere. It was as if the grey pony was holding her there with his presence, willing her to stay with the ailing mare. There was no time left, not for the vet or even Francoise. If Issie left now the mare or foal could be dead by the time she got back. If Mirabelle was going to get her foal out alive, Issie would have to be the one to do it.
Lowering herself down beside Mirabelle’s hindquarters, Issie kept talking gently to the mare as she took a closer look at the legs inside the membrane sac. Her heart sank. This foal was definitely coming out hind legs first, and there was no time to lose. The longer the foal was trapped at this point, the more risk there was for Mirabelle and her baby.
Getting up again, Issie moved around to the mare’s head. “C’mon!” she said firmly, grasping Mirabelle by the halter. “You need to get up.”
Mares often delivered their foals lying down, but when a foal was jammed in tight, with its legs stuck, the only way to get them out was to stick your hands in and pull. And Issie wasn’t strong enough to do that if Mirabelle was on the ground – she needed gravity on her side.
Mirabelle didn’t want to stand up at first. The mare was in too much pain and she fought against Issie’s tugs. But Issie persevered and pulled harder on the halter, growling encouragement at Mirabelle until finally the mare heaved the weight of her enormous belly up off the straw beneath her and got up on her feet.
“Good girl!” Issie praised her. “We’re going to get the foal out, you and me. We can do this, Mirabelle!”
Issie wasn’t sure who she was trying to reassure, the mare or herself. Taking a deep breath and rolling her sleeves up, she moved around to the rear of the mare and stroked her rump.
“I’m right here, Mirabelle,” she reassured the mare. “Don’t kick me, OK?”
If Mirabelle kicked out in fright Issie wouldn’t be able to get out of the way of her flying hooves. Luckily, even though the mare was anxious, she seemed to realise that Issie was trying to help her. Issie stuck out both hands and grasped the membrane sac. It was rubbery and warm, and extremely gooey. Her hands slipped across it, trying to get a grip as she felt along the length of the foal’s leg until she reached what felt like a hock. She couldn’t see what she was touching and was relying completely on feel. Mirabelle kept turning her head to sniff at her flank, but she didn’t strike out as Issie managed to get both her hands clasped around what she hoped were hocks, and braced herself against the floor to pull.
Her first attempt was a little tentative. She didn’t want to hurt the mare, but when nothing whatsoever happened, she prepared herself for a proper tug. This time, as she braced against the floor and heaved with all her strength the legs began to come out, slowly at first and then more easily as the rest of the membrane sac followed. Then, with one last forceful tug, everything came in a rush and the next thing Issie knew she was lying flat out on the straw, completely covered in fluid, with a squirming body on top of her! Issie had to work fast to tear open the suffocating membrane sac so that the newborn could breathe. It was surprisingly resilient but Issie ripped into it with life-or-death determination and as the membrane came apart she saw the foal properly for the very first time.
It was a colt. A beautiful baby boy. Even in his wet and bedraggled newborn state he was totally and utterly gorgeous. He had the biggest eyes Issie had ever seen, and a cute dish to his nose. As Issie tugged away the last remnants to expose the colt to the dry straw, Mirabelle began to clean her son, licking him all over with her tongue, and Issie sat back to watch as the colt tried to control his long, gangly legs and struggle to his feet.
Issie never ceased to be amazed at the way newborn horses were capable of this incredible feat – standing up on all fours within the very first hour that they were born.
She desperately wanted to lift the colt up so that he could suckle from his mother’s teat, but she knew that this was something that the foal must do on his own. And so she sat and witnessed the miracle of nature as this new life staggered up on to his feet and searched out the soft belly of the mare so that he could take his first drink.
Issie’s own legs seemed almost as wobbly as the foal’s when she finally pushed herself up from the straw and walked over to the stable door. Mystic was still standing there, watching intently.
“They’re OK,” Issie said to the grey gelding. “It’s all going to be OK now.” The mare and the foal were going to be just fine. Mystic didn’t usually linger, but this time the grey gelding seemed strangely reluctant to leave.
Issie unbolted the door and stepped out of the stall so that she was standing right next to him. She threaded her fingers through his mane, felt the warmth of his dapple-grey coat and smelt the sweet horseyness of him. Inhaling that wonderful smell, she shut her eyes tight and wrapped both arms around the neck of her beloved grey pony.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Mystic. For everything.”
It wasn’t until she let go, until she felt him slip away from her fingers, that she realised she was saying goodbye. She couldn’t explain it but she knew in her heart that this was the last time that she would ever see him.
“No!” Issie said, her eyes welling with tears. “I still need you.”
But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. Mystic knew it too. So many times the grey pony had saved her, had been there to protect her. But she wasn’t a little kid at Chevalier Point Pony Club any more. It was time she stepped up and started taking care of things on her own. Mystic had shown her tonight that she could do it. She had always trusted him and now, she needed to make one last leap of faith.
The tears were running down her cheeks as she looked for one last time at her grey pony, who had taken her from gymkhana to Grand Slam.
“It’s OK,” she nodded. “I understand. I really do.”
Her love had always held him close and now at last she was ready to let him go.
The grey pony gave the girl one last look and then he turned and cantered into the darkness. Issie listened to his hoof beats as they faded away.
A moment later the lights came on in the yard and Francoise appeared at the end of the stable block. “Issie? What’s going on?” Francoise saw the girl’s tear-stained face and her eyes grew wide with fear. “Is Mirabelle OK?”
“She’s fine,” Issie said. “She’s had the foal. I’ll stay with her. Can you go and wake Tom? He’ll want to see this.”
Francoise ran back to the house and returned minutes later with Avery at her side.
“What did she have?” Avery wanted to know. “A colt or a filly?”
“It’s a colt,” Issie said. “There’s something about him though, Tom. I think you need to see…”
As Avery and Francoise entered the loose box and saw the colt standing on wobbly legs beside Mirabelle, they couldn’t believe it.
“A grey!” Avery was surprised. “I was expecting him to be a chestnut like his mother.”
Francoise shook her head in amazement. “Look! He is dark now but you can tell that his coat will be dapple one day!”
She ran her trained eyes over the colt. “I think we are looking at a future champion here,” she said. “Look at that magnificent head! And those legs. He has the legs of a showjumper already!”
“Let’s just hope he doesn’t try to get over the jumps the way he came out of his mother!” Issie smiled. Then she told Avery and Francoise about the back-to-front birth, and how she had struggled to deliver the foal.
“These births are very dangerous,” Francoise told her. “If you had not been here then the colt would not have survived. He owes you his life. I think it is only fair that you should be the one to name him.”
Avery agreed. “He’s your future superstar, Issie. Have you got a name for him?”
“I do,” Issie said, looking at the grey foal, her
eyes shining.
“His name is Mystic.”
Epilogue
Spring weather in New Zealand is unpredictable. When Issie Brown woke up she had been expecting to see rain clouds. Instead, the skies were blue and the air was still. It was perfect hacking weather.
She came downstairs to find her mother waiting for her with scrambled eggs already on the table.
“You think I don’t know what you’re like?” Mrs Brown said. “I knew you’d try to dash out the door and get to that horse without eating a proper breakfast.”
It had been ten years since Issie won the Grand Slam, but every time she came home her mum still treated her like a kid. Not that she was complaining. She kind of liked being fussed over – although her mum had actually ironed her jodhpurs yesterday which was a bit much.
Since her stellar win at Burghley Issie had gone on to live the glamorous life of a pro-rider, travelling the world with her horses. But not everyone had travelled with her. She had been shocked by Avery’s announcement, shortly after Burghley, that he and Francoise were leaving The Laurels for good.
“We’re going home to live in New Zealand,” Avery told Issie. “It turns out the reason Francoise’s been feeling so off-colour lately isn’t the flu after all.”
Francoise was expecting a baby.
“That doesn’t mean you have to leave!” Issie had pointed out.
“I know that,” Francoise said, “but the timing is right to go. We want to raise horses as well as a family. More future eventers like Mystic. Tom has already spoken to Cassandra Steele. She’s letting us lease the stables at Dulmoth Park for our new breeding programme. We’re moving back to Winterflood Farm and will keep a few of our own horses there too.”
And so the Dulmoth Park horse breeding programme was established, dedicated to raising young eventers as stars of the future.
Within a few years, many of Tom and Francoise’s best young horses were being sent on to The Laurels as green three-year olds to continue their schooling.
