Spiral of Hooves

by Roland Clarke

  He clicked the SALES button, and the website produced a map. Mick Roper’s smiling face and mobile number were the sole information for Suffolk. He noted the UK main office was in Sussex, about ten miles from where Carly had worked.

  He stretched doing some Tai Chi exercises while letting his mind still. The slow, deliberate movements were integral to his self-help treatment, and a chance to regain skills.

  The nightmare lurks in the shadows, and I must fight it. Sleep is no escape; I must keep the memories at bay. Somehow, the past has to be faced.

  With the images restrained, he kept exploring for other information on Vidarranj. His first search led to an article outlining the main concerns about some GM rice bran. Vidarranj was a major player in both the trials and the promotion of the related products. The primary problem seemed to be their failure to produce an effective ‘super’ feed that would have had any scientifically provable nutritional advantage over the less expensive conventional brands of rice bran.

  Armand stood and paced the room. The mournful cry of the stone curlew echoed in a distant field, and for the first time, it filled him with dread. A chilling thought was creeping into his head, and he forced it back where it belonged. Something was making his mind churn up the unthinkable. When GM rice bran had been the basis of the horses’ diet, Odette Fédon had been the one required to implement the feeding.

  Was her death really an accident? Did she discover something? It's my duty to our family to find out why she died.

  Was someone contracted to remove an obstacle to the commercial plans Vidarranj had devised for Boissard Équestre? Blinding white light threatened to overwhelm him, so he buried his head in his hands, squeezing his temples and shutting his eyes, as he saw blood seep onto snow. He grasped for some logical release.

  If anyone had opposed the GM regime, it was Lina, and she was still alive. If Vidarranj had a lever like Mick Roper, then they need not resort to murder. The salesman knew Carly, who held the influential head groom’s job. There was no evidence of murder, but there must be a motive for the new arrival and her slick ex-boyfriend.

  TWELVE

  The breeze and sunshine were a welcome arrival after the overnight rain. The broad and flat expanse of grass beyond the start was as inviting as the first few fences. From there, the course curved away towards the line of trees in the distance. Behind was the bustle of other riders warming up their horses. The mare was on her toes, anticipating the thrill. Their dressage test, plus one of the few clears in the influential showjumping had set them up perfectly for this final cross-country phase. In the start box, as the starter counted Carly down, her nervous nausea vanished.

  He said, “Good luck,” as Carly headed towards the inviting first fence. She increased the pace, and determination set in as they settled into a rhythm, adrenaline coursing through her. The knots of cold but ardent supporters dotted around the course whipped past. She kept the flow, jumping the straightforward fences out of the mare’s stride. Wanda was economical over the jumps, wasting no time in the air and needing little encouragement. Carly eased the responsive mare back to a controlled canter on the approach to tougher fences, like the steps, but kept the horse’s impulsion going to jump the arrowhead beyond. After seven minutes of high-energy concentration, they sailed through the finish, her grin telling her friends how pleased she was with the round.

  When she had dismounted, loosened the girth and finished hugging Wanda, she reassured Gilles saying, “She was amazing, never looked twice at anything. We had one anxious moment when I got her in too close on a roll-top, but she saved me.”

  She gasped out the last part as the pangs of dependency stirred. Completing her first event on Gilles’s bête noir was great. There had been some apprehension earlier while walking the cross-country course with Gilles, as it had been a while since she had tackled a course this substantial on Torc. He had encouraged her to rise to the challenge, although the mare had been the real star. Now, time with Gilles took precedence over time to deal with other priorities on her mind than this event, but she still worried that he had his own agenda.

  Armand handed her Guinness’s leash and began leading Wanda back to the horsebox where he and Carly untacked her. They washed down the mare, as Gilles filled another bucket, adding electrolytes to the water so the horse could drink.

  “Did you jump through the river crossing as I suggested?”

  “Sort of, but Wanda improvised coming over the Boat. Saved time—she’s real clever like that.” He tilted his head and stared at her silently, so she continued, “I felt I could trust her. Like Torc, she’s not stupid, and like you asked I didn’t push her, although she still has a lot more to give.”

  “Never made me feel confident. She’s temperamental. Hope her foals don’t inherit her worse traits. We had high expectations of them—well, Lina still does. If you're saying she’s more responsible after the second foal, I suppose...”

  “I can keep the ride, you mean?’ Carly abandoned discussing the breeding programme to embrace the Wanda dream.

  “Well, you seem to have forged an understanding with each other. Batêche, hope Papa accepts my decision. He’s never keen on grooms competing.”

  “Why not? It’s your horse and your stud, right?”

  Gilles started to enlighten her when her mobile beeped.

  She scanned the message and tried to make sense of it. Any missive from Mick was typically cryptic. “Grt 2 c u & L. Hpe probs buried. M xxx” He had signed it with the usual devilish smiley face. She presumed ‘probs’ referred to the day she threw him out when she found the furry handcuffs and recognised the perfume. Bloody bitch with her pink sports car and her shady business—he was welcome to her. Carly had forgiven him if he could remain just a friend.

  Gilles was still talking, “...so that’s how the arrangement works. Papa will have to be okay. Over these horses, I’m the boss.”

  Carly glanced at Armand, who had started putting on Wanda's travel bandages, as he said, “In Canada, it was Roman who ruled one hundred percent. Perhaps he’ll be more accepting of Gilles’s decisions now that we’re here.”

  “He will. Trust me.”

  Armand shrugged and continued working. Carly nodded and helped him finish, thanking Gilles for his confidence in her.

  Once the mare was bandaged and settled in the horsebox, Gilles glanced between the two vehicles and gave Armand the keys to the 4x4. “So we don’t hold you up. There are the others to work on at home. I’ll bring the truck. We’ll have lunch and check if Vix has won anything.”

  *

  “So, you and your Papa don’t share or...?”

  As Gilles heated the broccoli and Stilton soup, Carly encouraged him to talk more while she tested her levels and injected.

  “My dream has to be out of his grasp, as he has a way of destroying them.”

  As she gazed into his eyes, she saw darkness and loss. Should she comfort him? She needed to know more. “You have to tell me, now. Your father, can he stop you? Can he wreck Fenburgh and take the horses—and Wanda? Because I will stand by you, just as Armand and Lina would.”

  The Canadian sighed as he put two soup bowls down.

  “No, we are building something different, without any interference from him or anyone. Now that I've found you, the past is at rest, and we can put the incident behind us.”

  She remembered Mick’s text and the words ‘Hpe probs buried’. “Incident?” she asked.

  “Oh sorry, a winter riding accident in which we lost our... head groom.”

  The news should have scared her, although risk and danger were part of her sport, maybe part of the thrill even, but that didn’t explain her fears and churning stomach.

  “Armand was the most upset. There were rumours that he was...seeing her.”

  The soup seemed cold now as she sipped it before saying, “That’s why he looks so lost and hurt, so withdrawn. It’s not just his intellectual manner then?”

  “No, we pulled him out of his boo
ks and encouraged him to go outside more. Even introduced him to skiing, though he’s like a clown on skis.”

  “To be a clown, you have to be skilful.”

  “Yes, but there’s good, and there’s lucky. We helped Armand a lot, but then...well, he stopped after the...”

  His words were choked back and lost, like the details of a tragedy that must have hit him hard. Maybe later, Carly would learn more, but for now, she embraced Gilles and let him kiss her. He buried his head on her shoulder and then nuzzled her hair, muffling his sobs. He kissed her again. “Your hair reminds me of a maple grove... I will show you one day, in Canada.”

  He fondled her hair, teasing it with his fingers, and stroking her cheeks and neck. He reached down and eased her boots off. For a moment, she wanted him to stop. He had tried wearing her resistance down over the weeks, pursuing his selfish goal.

  Could she let him continue on her terms—to satisfy her own desires? Or was that a mistake? She must pull away before it was too late.

  Her fingers began caressing a passage into his shirt, teasing the buttons undone. She allowed his hands to work their way into her jodhpurs, both probing, seeking entrance. She lifted her hips as he slid everything off, and then gently kissed her from the toes upwards, savouring every inch.

  *

  Why couldn't she just accept the tragedy? The memories of the afternoon offered a warm escape. Instead, the incident ate away at Carly, forcing her online to find an article from the Montreal Gazette, dated December 21st, just three months earlier.

  RIDER MISSING FROM EASTERN TOWNSHIPS STUD

  MONTREAL—Odette Fédon, 26, head groom at the Du Noroît Stud near Bromont is now feared dead after she disappeared while out exercising a horse last Friday. The horse returned riderless but uninjured.

  Roman Boissard, Du Noroît’s owner, said, “Mlle. Fédon is an excellent rider, but conditions were bad that day, and the horse is young.”

  Initially, the Quebec provincial police believed Fédon might have returned to her family in Les Trois-Ponts near Chicoutimi. A friend said, “Odette was close to her family and, even when away at shows abroad, always kept in touch.” However, Fédon’s family has not heard from her.

  The police do not suspect foul play, although further investigations are pending until the spring thaw.

  Horses could be dangerous, but death was always unacceptable, and Carly could never forget the tragic year when five top eventing riders were killed in accidents while competing, prompting safety changes. Somehow, this incident in Canada seemed more chilling. She was filling a dead rider’s boots, and tomorrow, she would be the same age as Odette Fédon. Was that what Mick had been warning her about, or was he taking pleasure from digging up the past?

  She switched off the computer, and with tears running down her face walked to the open window. They flowed for the faceless Odette and for all those taken before their time. Alone, she screamed at the wind, “Why?”

  From the darkness, the wind howled an eerie reply—or was it a warning?

  THIRTEEN

  The French landscape would have re-awoken his nightmares once, but the paintings on the subtle cream walls only released warm memories. The company and the food added to the ambience that Armand had aimed for.

  Lina reached into her handbag and took out a neat parcel, which she handed to Carly. “Happy Birthday,” she said with a smile.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have! Should I wait?”

  “No way,” said Gilles. “I’ve been waiting all day. You can start with Lina’s, but then open my envelope.”

  The package was dark red, and Armand was trying to ignore it where it rested against the white tablecloth. He sighed with relief as Carly carefully unwrapped the present and the wrapping paper fell open revealing a beautiful shawl, which she ran across her blushing cheeks.

  “So amazingly soft!” She stretched to embrace the Latina.

  “Vicuna, an animal similar to llamas, knew it was a good choice. Let’s see what Gilles has thought up,” said Lina, looking as mystified as Armand.

  Carly opened the envelope and cocked her head. “Typically mysterious. I have an appointment at 3 pm on Monday in the yard. What’s up, Gilles?”

  “It’s a surprise, so you just have to wait and see. No guessing.” He grinned and hid behind the menu, leaving them all wondering.

  “Well, it can’t be a ring,” said Lina.

  “Or a horse,” said Armand. Although with Gilles that might be exactly it.

  The shape of Armand's present gave it away.

  “Trying to turn the poor girl into a bookworm too!”

  He ignored Gilles’s remark and ordered his dessert as Carly unwrapped the book. Her face reassured him that he had chosen right.

  “Worried that you might have it, but...”

  “I couldn’t afford it when the book came out, but the college library had it. So, this is fab.” She gave him an appreciative kiss, then handed ‘The Organic Horse’ to Lina. “You’ll find this valuable too.”

  Even Gilles delved into the book, and it seemed as if the quartet were united in their cause. For the first time in months, Armand was at peace and part of a strong unit.

  *

  “So Vix, you get anything else then, like from your dad?”

  Carly elbowed Gilles gently.

  “Of course, because he’s worried about your high expectations, he’s given me the perfect gift...” Gilles’s face dropped as if his intentions were being questioned, so Carly took another spoon of Crème Brûlée, savoured it, and then continued. “...Some armour, which after yesterday, I might need in bed.” She took another mouthful, then said, “One of those shaped Kan body protectors.”

  “Hey, no way. I’m not that... rough.”

  “El Caballero. Watch out for his spurs—or maybe that's Mick. You’ve looked in the box, Vix?” Lina asked, pointing at the package that Mick had brought over the other night.

  Carly flinched. It was okay for Lina to know about Mick’s habits, but not the others. She took out the threatening present, hoping it wasn’t anything so provocative.

  She unwrapped it, suppressing her shaking hands. Inside the box was another, and another, like a Russian doll, but the final jewellery case reassured her. The vixen pendant was perfect, although belated, as Mick had promised her one when they were together.

  Gilles hesitated, but put it on for her, stroking her hair as he closed the clasp and kissed the nape of her neck. No sign of jealousy, just a sense of approval and claim.

  “You don’t mind then?”

  “He’s your friend, and Vix is your nickname, so why not? He’s not exactly chasing after you like some stalker.”

  The words betrayed him, so she kissed him.

  Still, his words ate into her mind, and the nightmare echoed; a chase, and she was the prey. She tried to focus on her friends.

  “You okay, amiga?”

  “Stupid, it’s just well...” She should forget it, but it was like an infection. “Do you guys ever have recurring fears? Sort of ones you can’t lose? Bad dreams?”

  The blank expressions dragged on until Armand rescued her. “Dreams carry truths but don’t worry about everything in them. Usually, the mind plays tricks with memories.”

  *

  Gilles had persuaded Carly to relate the dream to disperse her worries. As he listened, Armand tried to ignore the echoes.

  When Carly had finished, she said, “I don’t understand, I became the prey.”

  Lina stared at Gilles and said, “Like most women.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not, well, like that, and as Armand says, it’s just memories. Carly’s been hunting all winter, and with our sport always under strict controls, we’re all victims.”

  “Yes, that could be it. With the bloodhounds, we chase people, runners.”

  Armand asked her, “So, you haven’t seen foxes killed?”

  “Well, not for ages and–”

  “Madre de Dios, such an inefficient way to control vermi
n.”

  “At least it gives them some chance. You can't be saying gassing or shooting them is better, Lina?”

  “Maybe not, but destructive vermin that serves no purpose needs to be controlled.”

  “Hunting's barbaric. Why make killing a sport? Is that civilised?” Armand said.

  “Sorry Loup, it’s been part of the Brit’s tradition for centuries, doing no harm. The fox lives by killing and wits, so what better way to die? Hunting them is justified when you’ve seen a chicken house after a fox has broken in—feathers, bodies and blood.”

  The image made Armand flinch, but forced him to ask, “Does that justify the foxes being chased and torn apart?”

  “At least it’s a quick death,” said Gilles. “A few seconds of fear as they realise they’re going to get caught. The rest’s just adrenaline.”

  “But whose life are we concerned for?” asked Carly. “Foxes that take the lives of lambs and chickens to live, or thousands of hounds that will have to be cared for, if not culled? I’m unsure now. They all have a right to life.”

  There must be a solution that unites us. I need to abate the fire, not feed the flames that will consume us.

  “Your sport doesn't have to be cruel. Drag hunt or chase a hunt follower. Those who care so much can still keep the hounds that can't learn new tricks.”

  “But what about farmers?” asked Carly. “They’ll still want the foxes culled.”

  “You can still shoot them. A trained–”

  “Don’t you know anything, Loup?” interrupted Gilles. “That’s far worse. Can you imagine lying wounded, cold and bleeding—dying slowly from gangrene?”

  Armand winced as the words came as a blow, triggering visions of blood splattered across the snow. He knew all too well, but he forced himself to speak, cutting out the memory that was stirring.

  “A skilled marksman with a rifle and infrared sights could do it, waiting for the right shot, but I agree—not a farmer with a shotgun.”