Chancey of the Maury River

by Gigi Amateau

  I stuck close to Claire as she unbuckled my halter. Mother opened the black bag and handed Claire what I presumed was the violin. I remembered how Claire had told me of her music when we first met. I nickered for Claire to show me the instrument.

  Sensing my curiosity, Claire held the violin out to my right eye for inspection, for Claire was well aware not only of my blindness in the left but also of the narrow blind spot directly in front of my nose. Then she lifted the violin to her chin and with a stick of sorts began drawing out a low, sweet sound. I moved in closer to Claire’s playing arm. She paused and encouraged me to thoroughly examine the stick.

  “Chancey, this is called a bow,” she instructed me.

  With the ability to draw such rich notes from a hollow, wooden box, I should not have been surprised to find, as I was, that the stick, or bow as Claire called it, was strung end to end with strands of horse tail. I blew onto it.

  “You’re such a smart pony, Chancey. Of course, you’re right. The bow is made from horsehair. So you see how horses and people make music together?” I nickered at Claire, encouraging her to continue playing.

  My girl closed her eyes and brought the violin to her chin once more. I found that the notes appealed not only to me but, as Mrs. Maiden had predicted, to all of the geldings. All of us encircled Claire and Mother, getting as close as possible so that we could hear and see the fine gift Claire brought us.

  I noticed that almost directly behind me, even the mares had lined the fence separating our two fields. They had stopped gossiping and gathered around to listen. I turned my head slightly toward the mares, to encourage them to come even closer, yet remain quiet. I am always amazed, and grateful, at the connection Claire and I have and credit the depth of this connection entirely to Claire’s open heart and keen skills at observation. She saw, or felt, me indicate direction to the mares and ever accommodating and while continuing to play, Claire walked closer to the mares’ fence so they, too, could share in the sweetness.

  The geldings and I moved with Claire, as she now played to nearly twenty horses. We remained quiet, hoping that our stillness might consent Claire to play on. She played for us, without interruption, through many songs, occasionally asking Mother’s advice as to which tune should be played next. Finally, Mother indicated to Claire that the time had come to leave.

  Claire is as gifted in the art of managing Mother as she is in riding or playing music. She pleaded, “One more song, okay? What should I play?”

  Mother indulged her without any sign of irritation or impatience. “Okay, one more song, Claire. Play ‘Ode to Joy’; you’ve been working hard on it.”

  Again, Claire closed her eyes and poised her elbow in the air while she took in a deep breath. The cedar and river birch, all of us in the field, reached out to the sun, now falling behind the blue mountains. As Claire’s bow pulled across the strings, the sun made one last rally, splashing our field with its easy afternoon light. I leaned in closer to Claire, grateful that she had not been irreparably harmed by the accident, and grateful that she was standing here with me. The storm had indeed passed; I wished for this song never to end.

  When Claire finished playing, all of us remained standing near her, wishing, I think, for one more song. She handed the violin to Mother, then walked back to me, her pajama pants covered in mud. She stroked my neck; I felt content to be near her.

  “Chancey, I have to go now. I love you, pony. I’ll be back soon, when I’m all better.” Claire kissed me on my cheek, as little girls are fond of doing to horses.

  Then she ran to catch up with Mother. Mother protectively slipped her arm around Claire’s waist; Claire pressed her head into Mother’s arms and leaned full into them. Mother nuzzled Claire’s face, then opened the gate. I watched them walk all the way to the barn. Claire turned back several times to wave and blow me kisses. I nickered good-bye as she and Mother disappeared into the barn. Then, from the barn, Claire turned back once more and shouted to me, “I love you, Chancey! Sweet dreams!”

  I was glad that we were still on evening turnout. Once the weather turned cold for good, we would again spend evenings in our rooms. The early autumn stars came down so close to the field, I felt sure that, from my spot on the hill, if I stretched up just a bit more, I would find myself among them, and perhaps I might find Dam there, too.

  I stood all night watching for just one fire star and fell asleep waiting. No stars raced through the sky. Instead, the stars gathered close around me and held me in my sleep. When I awoke, in the morning, I understood. Dam had long ago told me that the stars said something special was planned for me. Finally, I understood.

  In the morning, the gelding field looked very much the same as it had every day before, green and open with steps of granite boulders rising to the blue mountains. Napoleon was hiding under the cedar trees at the fence line; I could see his fat legs sticking out from under the branches and his long, blond tail sweeping the grass. Dante paced the gate, waiting for more hay to come. Mac grazed beside me, passing over the chickweed in search of any remaining clover. The mares were fighting over the morning’s hay.

  The world had not changed overnight, but I had. I had felt outcast among people and horses for much of my life. Even so, I had devoted twenty years to teaching. I had developed a strong habit of showing up and carrying on even though I hurt, even though I could no longer see well. Claire had shown me the most important lesson of all — that love grows when you give it away. Now, at last, I was ready to accept my calling. An extraordinary new beginning lay only a few months ahead for Claire and me, and it began with a gunshot.

  Guns don’t frighten me, though I am aware of their capacity to harm animals and people. While I have no firsthand knowledge of a horse being mistaken for a deer, there are certain seasons when the threat does exist. It is uncommon for hunters to shoot near horses or cattle, so if we remain in our fields, we remain safe. The deer, of course, know this undisputed rule and thus often does, and occasionally bucks, will seek refuge among us. I can’t say that I blame them at all. I might well be terrified myself if every second of daylight brought the threat of armed pursuit with intent to kill me.

  Here at the Maury River Stables, Mrs. Maiden runs a special type of riding school, which she calls therapeutic. This school is indeed therapeutic for all involved in its operation, though I believe that the term therapeutic refers to the needs of the students enrolled. Mrs. Maiden chose me for the program not long after a rather disturbing incident in the gelding field one morning during the deer-hunting season. No one was hurt, and the day turned out quite well for me and opened the door to a future with a purpose so rewarding that I could not have imagined it for myself.

  Before I describe my display of courage that drew Mrs. Maiden’s attention, I must explain that I had encountered hunters and their weapons on two prior occasions. Both occasions, no doubt, drilled into me the response that Mrs. Maiden had found so admirable.

  I first witnessed the power of guns at Monique’s barn during the deer-hunting season some years ago. Monique was born with a good deal of fight in her; if she were a mare, she would undoubtedly be the boss. I admired this quality and sometimes felt that she recognized a bit of herself in me, which, despite a somewhat difficult two decades together, contributed to our long union. I remember one morning a deer herd, having been driven out of the forest by hunters, arrived at the mare field seeking asylum. Half as many men as deer soon followed and took it upon themselves to set up on Monique’s land in order to run the deer out of the field, in spite of clear trespass notices along the tree line.

  Not surprisingly, Monique directly confronted the party of hunters, who had arrived with no shortage of guns or egos. It was an easy enough confrontation to predict, knowing Monique’s strong distaste for hunters on the eastern side of her property. It should be noted that for many years, Monique granted exclusive rights to an older gentleman and his grandson to hunt the western side of her property with no restrictions save one — to give
up the chase, even if in hot pursuit, if it meant coming into any of the fields with horses standing. I relay that to establish that, in fact, Monique held no prejudice against hunters, but did hold a strong prejudice about hunting her land without permission, especially too near her mares.

  As Monique approached the hunting party, with commensurate gun and ego in tow, she neither flinched nor hesitated. She walked with sure stride, her gun pointed toward the ground, to the truck where the hunters had gathered. I was able to observe the incident, as the entire scene unfolded where the mare and gelding fences converged. Monique asked the hunters to leave, explaining that not only were they trespassing, but they were frightening her mares. The hunters laughed. I shook my head at their underestimation of Monique.

  Monique did not laugh, but demanded that they vacate her property immediately. There was no stutter in her voice; no syllable remained in her throat. One of the hunters adamantly claimed his right to engage because of hot pursuit. At that, I distanced myself from the dispute to create a safety buffer between us. The other geldings and mares followed suit.

  Monique pointed her gun to the sky and fired it, startling the mares, the deer, and the hunters, who promptly left. No one was harmed, and our fields soon returned to normal. Thanks to Monique and her gun, we did not have such trouble again.

  I have witnessed Mrs. Maiden make good use of her gun as well, again in defense of mares. It is here that I must stop and share my opinion that if Mrs. Maiden, or Monique for that matter, had considered placing a stallion, or even a strong gelding, with the mares, there might be no need for such protection, as that is the role of a strong male. I digress.

  Though coyotes are not native to Rockbridge County, or the blue mountains, they have immigrated here and seem intent on settling. Horse farms, such as the Maury River Stables, haven’t as much to fear from these rascally canines as do our neighboring cattle and sheep farms. Coyotes will, on occasion, however, intrude upon our mares, just for sport, I believe. This doesn’t happen often, and again the placement of a strong male could deter this kind of taunting. Often, once the mares have banded together and threatened death by stomping, the coyotes will leave of their own accord.

  Only once have I seen a coyote fail to respond to well-directed kicks and bites from our mares. That coyote, foaming at the mouth, met his death quickly, though I doubt painlessly, by the hand of Mrs. Maiden. She was alerted to the security breach in the mare field by my desperate calling to her. Upon seeing the coyote tormenting the mares, Mrs. Maiden retrieved her shotgun and, without a trace of fear, marched into the mare field, yelling at the coyote to distract him.

  Though not all coyotes are call-shy, not even the most curious, if sound of mind, would have mistaken Mrs. Maiden’s vocalizations for anything other than a threat. In the case of our rabid coyote, Mrs. Maiden’s yelling had the effect of causing the coyote turn to away from the mares and set his course upon her.

  Daisy and the mares cowered in the far corner of their field; Mrs. Maiden stood in the middle of the field, yelling and cursing the coyote. The words that shot out of Mrs. Maiden’s mouth are the same words forbidden around the barn. I have seen Mrs. Maiden discharge from her employ more than one foulmouthed, defiant stable hand for such conduct as she displayed toward the coyote. Mrs. Maiden fired off every one of those words, and, indeed, her projectile of cursing seemed to draw the coyote closer to her, which was, of course, Mrs. Maiden’s intent all along.

  When the beast reached a proximity of about six paces — though you must understand that I am as poor a measurer of distance as I am a keeper of time — Mrs. Maiden simply aimed her gun, cursed at him one last time, and shot him between the eyes. The coyote may have yelped; I can’t be certain of it. I am certain that a follow-up shot was unnecessary.

  So, you see that I had twice witnessed the power of guns, and their usefulness, in times of danger to horses and people. I had not expected that the firing of gunshots would have led to a new and rewarding career for me. At my age, not much startles me, gunfire included, and that is what led to my recruitment into a new position at the Maury River Stables.

  On the day of which I speak, three deer were grazing in the gelding field with us, enjoying quiet refuge from the forest full of hunters. The deer — two does and a young buck with perhaps half a dozen points on his antlers — behaved as if siblings. I had waited patiently for two seasons to lay eyes on the buck; his presence in the blue mountains was well known, for he was an albino, like me.

  One should never really be surprised at the exquisite beings that are born of the blue mountains. The does who accompanied the buck seemed oblivious to his unusual coloring and unaware how his presence made them all stand out. Stu, who is a devoted hunter, had himself spoken reverently of the albino buck, whom he had seen and had opportunity to kill but, fearful that taking a pure-white deer might render him cursed, could not bring himself to fire upon. I wrongly assumed that all hunters believed, as Stu, that when our Creator grants us the privilege of sharing our space with a fine and rare creature, such as the white buck, the appropriate response is reverence. I believed the albino buck to be safe within our fence line.

  I heard, then saw, on my right, four hunters crouched at the back fence, guns drawn. When I saw them so near our field, I believed they would refrain from opening fire, as the trajectory would have endangered the geldings. They readied their weapons. I lifted my head and turned my right eye more toward them to be sure that I had seen accurately. I confirmed their position and subtly, with only a slight movement of my head, relayed the location of the hunters to the three deer, out of courtesy.

  My warning immediately sent the two does racing toward the safety of Saddle Mountain. The white buck remained with us. I moved between the hunters and the buck, though I failed to fully conceal him from the hunters’ line of sight. He was too precious for me not to intervene; I expected the hunters to walk away.

  What happened next shocked me; I have never known men to shoot so near horses. These men seemed oblivious to us geldings and irreverently unconcerned with the albino. Shooting rather recklessly into our field, they opened fire on him. This close-range firing caused great alarm among the geldings; all but Mac and I stampeded to the southern side of the fence. Fearing for their lives, ten geldings tore down the fence and galloped toward the Maury River, away from the hunting party. The buck took cover within the stampede and all escaped, unharmed.

  Only Mac and I remained in our field. We called for Mrs. Maiden, who came quickly with Stu. Mrs. Maiden and Stu pieced together the chain of events quite accurately and with great speed. Wasting not a second, Mac escorted Mrs. Maiden and Stu to the fence, where they rightly observed that it been torn apart in a surge of fear by all of the missing geldings. While those three inspected the fence, I walked to the spot where the firing had begun, seeking any evidence that might be helpful to their investigation. On the ground, I spied an item similar to the residue that was left on the ground after Mrs. Maiden killed the coyote; I believed it to be a shell.

  Certain that my discovery was germane to the investigation, I trotted over, nudging Mrs. Maiden to follow me back to the spot. As I suspected, the shell provided confirmation to Mrs. Maiden and Stu of the incident. They rightly reconstructed the event, though they mistakenly deduced that there must have been one deer in the field, having no way of knowing that, in fact, three deer had that day been saved. Feeling that this detail was not critical for the recovery of our fieldmates, neither Mac nor I wasted any energy on the great effort it would have taken, such as presenting the two with multiple sets of tracks, to correct the notion of a solitary deer. It must be said that Mac and I both ably directed them to every clue available, short of opening our mouths and speaking.

  Before Mrs. Maiden set about the chore of bringing the ten escapees home, she turned to Mac and me and, with very apparent gratitude, gave us each a nice pat, saying, “Thank you both, my brave boys. You weren’t afraid, were you?”

  She turned t
oward the barn to retrieve lead ropes and grain to bring the geldings home. Then she turned back to me and said, “Chancey! I’ve got an idea! Would you like a new job? I need a good, sound horse — a bombproof horse — to help Mac, Gwen, and me teach in the therapeutic school. Ask your buddy Mac what he thinks. I’ll ask Claire’s mother.”

  This seemed a revelation as to how a new vision of belonging with Claire would come to pass. Claire and I had met just when each of us needed the other. Claire needed a companion to help her sort out her feelings and find her confidence at a difficult time in her family life. She needed a friend who would believe in her and give her the courage to be great and true to herself. And I had needed exactly the same. What we had already accomplished together was more precious than one hundred blue ribbons; I did not want to see that foundation erode over time because any future ribbons weren’t the right color.

  I faced the truth of the matter. Whether she knew it or not, Claire needed something that I could not give her. Claire needed to be a champion; she needed to win. Though I would have given up the last of my remaining eyesight for it, I was not the horse who could take Claire to the level that she was ready to achieve.

  I suppose that I should have felt regret about this truth, but I did not. Had Claire grown tired of me or rejected me for another, stronger gelding, yes, that would have cut to my heart. But Claire would have gone right on training with me three times a week, taking me to little hunter shows, and cantering me through the mountains, without complaint. She would have kept cheering me on with every fourth- or fifth-place ribbon we brought home. In Claire’s eyes, we were a team. Had either of us placed competition at the center of our friendship, I believe we would not have lasted together as long or as true as we have. From the beginning, there was something more in it for both of us. I hoped that Claire and Mother would agree with Mrs. Maiden and allow me to try this new endeavor.