Chancey of the Maury River

by Gigi Amateau

  Finally, Trevor spoke. “Does it really have cancer?”

  Claire put the currycomb in the brush box and turned to Trevor.

  “His name is Chancey. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Claire moved around to my right side and pulled the lid of my eye down toward her hand. I stood still so that Trevor could see my cancer.

  “See that kind of white-pink blob right there? That’s cancer. He has it in his left eye, too, but you can’t see it because we had the tumor taken off that eye last month. But the cancer’s still growing. He’ll need another operation at some point. He’s probably had six operations since I got him three years ago.”

  Claire released my eyelid and kissed me on the nose.

  “Can it see?” Trevor asked about me.

  Claire patiently repeated, “His name is Chancey.” She waited for Trevor to repeat the question satisfactorily.

  “Yeah, whatever. Can it see?”

  “No, not ‘yeah, whatever.’ Chancey is his name; don’t call him ‘it.’ To answer your question, he can’t see on his left side, but he seems to see all right on his right. We did have to take a tumor off of his right eye last year, and this one will probably come off soon.”

  I had not let on to Claire that my right eye’s vision had begun its deterioration. Mac and Gwen knew, and they covered for me quite well by always staying nearby and giving me guidance whenever I got into trouble in the field, mostly at night.

  “Can you teach me to ride him?” Trevor asked. “Can you teach me to ride Chancey?” He repeated the question again with my name, to show Claire his sincerity.

  “Sure! I’m an awesome rider and Chancey’s an awesome horse. I’ll teach you to ride, no problem. You’ll be winning ribbons before you know it,” Claire boasted.

  The smells of sugar, oatmeal, and raisins right under my nose had caused me too much agony already. I nudged Trevor’s shirt pocket very gently, certain that the remnants of an oatmeal cookie with raisins waited inside and hopeful that it waited for me.

  Claire cocked her head. “What, Chancey?” she asked me, tickling my chin. Then Claire laughed. “Trevor, did you bring Chancey a treat?”

  Trevor reached inside his pocket and pulled out half a cookie. “Oh, yeah. I don’t like oatmeal cookies. So, I, uh, well . . .”

  “You did! You brought Chancey a treat! You were going to make friends with Chancey on your own, weren’t you?”

  Trevor pushed his bangs around and stood looking at me. He made no move for the pocket that contained the cookie. I nibbled at his shirt. He laughed and reached inside.

  “No, not like that,” Claire ordered him. “Hold your hand out flat.”

  “You’re so bossy,” Trevor told her. “Are you always this bossy?”

  He did as Claire told him, held his hand flat, and fed me the oatmeal cookie. I rested my head on his shoulder. He exhaled and began to breathe evenly.

  The boy grew quiet. “Claire, I might not be able to get good enough to win a ribbon. That takes time.”

  Claire understood, as I did. Trevor meant he didn’t have the time it would take to become an accomplished rider. Claire, being Claire, had no problem making big promises.

  “Trevor, it won’t take long at all. We’ll have to pick the right event and you’ll have to practice, but sure, no problem.”

  “Really? Like you think we could be champions?”

  “Definitely, you two could be champions. But you have to promise two things. One, that you won’t call Chancey stupid ever again, and two, that you’ll try to have fun.” Claire stuck her hand out to Trevor. Trevor accepted the deal and we set to work that afternoon.

  Over the summer Claire began working closely with Mrs. Maiden to teach Trevor to ride, forgoing her own time with me to focus on instructing Trevor. Despite his illness, Trevor was still a strong boy. Like Claire, he asked to learn everything right away. While Claire was content to just be near horses, whether mucking our rooms or feeding hay, Trevor was impatient to learn to ride and to win a blue ribbon. Having never won a blue ribbon, I had just about given up that goal for myself.

  Claire never let Trevor cut corners. Whenever Claire would make Trevor go back to the barn to stretch me before riding, he would get frustrated. Trevor’s impatience would show.

  “Claire! We only have one hour; can’t I just ride?”

  “Okay, if you just want to argue with me for the fun of arguing, we can argue the whole hour. Or you can start stretching him right now and be done with it,” Claire would insist.

  She always won, and soon enough, Trevor did not forget to stretch me. Though I understood the boy’s urgent need to learn quickly, I very much appreciated Claire’s insisting that he care for me properly.

  The first time he was in the saddle, Trevor kicked me hard in both ribs and shouted, “Yah, boy, yah!”

  I did not move. I blinked my eyes twice to show Claire that I understood Trevor’s request but would not respond.

  “‘Yah, boy’?” Claire laughed so hard her face turned dark. “Where’d you learn ‘yah, boy’?” She tried to catch her breath.

  Trevor giggled and squirmed around. “I’ve just always wanted to say it, that’s all.”

  Trevor was motivated and fast to pick up the technical aspects of where to place hands and legs. For the first few weeks, Claire worked with him from the ground, teaching him to find his seat, making sure he placed his legs just behind the girth. He quickly grasped the idea of rising to the trot in time with my outside foreleg. He had more difficulty learning to ride with an open heart, but Claire was insistent that he must learn this, as well as how to post on the correct diagonal.

  “Trevor, you’re straight as a board. Relax. And don’t forget to breathe. You’re holding your breath,” she scolded him. He did not immediately experience the contradiction of riding with a posture both straight and relaxed.

  “You said, ‘Sit up straight and tall.’ I am sitting up straight and tall,” he complained.

  “Try this, Trevor. Sing your favorite song while you’re riding. That will help you relax, and plus, you can’t hold your breath while you sing.”

  “I don’t have a favorite song,” he protested.

  “Seriously? You don’t have a favorite song?” Claire was incredulous. “Do you know any songs?”

  “My mom always sings a stupid one to me.” He resisted Claire’s suggestion.

  Claire did not cut Trevor any slack, ever. “Everything can’t be stupid all the time, Trevor. Okay, sing your mom’s stupid song, even if you hate it. Sing it while you ride. Go ahead, sing.”

  Trevor asked for the trot and held his breath.

  “Sing!” Claire screamed at him. She threw her arms in the air.

  “All right, Claire. You can’t get me to relax by yelling at me.”

  Claire laughed at Trevor because she knew he was right. “If you would just do what I say, I wouldn’t have to yell.”

  That made Trevor laugh, and he began to sing his mother’s song. “‘’Tis the gift to be simple; ’tis the gift to be free.’”

  Right away, I felt Trevor relax. He loosened his hands, which had been tightly gripped on the reins; his back softened. Trevor began to breathe.

  He sang on. “‘’Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be. And when we find ourselves in the place just right, ’twill be in the valley of love and delight.’”

  People are often astonished at the nearly imperceptible movements and shifts that are felt by horses of their riders. I can feel where my students’ eyes are looking. The slightest fidget of a seat feels like a tremor to me. I felt Trevor smile. We remained at a posting trot many times around the ring. Claire called out our instructions: “Now, add circles in your corners, but keep singing and keep posting.”

  Trevor’s shoulders opened up, and he sunk deeper. What had been a tentative effort turned into a full serenade. “‘When true simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed. To turn, turn will be our delight, ’til by turning,
turning we come ’round right.’”

  “Now you’ve got it, Trevor. That’s perfect,” Claire praised him. She called for him to halt, which he did smoothly and gracefully. I squared my legs, so that Claire would compliment Trevor again.

  “Look at you, Trev,” Claire said. “Who taught you to halt Chancey square like that? I think you’re ready to go on the trail. Hop down for a sec.”

  Trevor lowered himself to the ground tentatively and patted me on the neck. “Good boy, Chancey. You’re making me look good to Claire.”

  One afternoon toward the end of August, after Trevor had been riding but three weeks, Claire unbuckled my saddle and hung it over the fence. She cupped her hands tightly together and gave Trevor a leg up.

  Without a saddle, his rhythm improved and Trevor was able to mold his body to mine more easily. As Trevor felt the warmth of my own body, he relaxed the tension in his legs and core. He held my mane tightly with both hands, while Claire led us away from the ring and down to the river for Trevor’s first trail ride. Though Trevor did exactly as Claire asked him to do, I could sense his uneasiness; Claire could, too.

  “Relax, Trevor,” Claire encouraged him. “Close your eyes and grab mane. Let Chancey carry you all the way down to the river. Don’t be scared, okay?”

  “Chancey,” whispered Trevor. He held my mane in his hands and leaned forward to my neck. “I’ve got you, Chancey. I’m not going to let go, either.”

  We walked through a field of brand-new saplings of every hardwood of the mountains, all fighting for their share of sunlight. I looked up and could tell by the bend in the canopy which direction the river flowed. Even if I could not have seen it, I would have known by the cool, damp change in the air how to get to the Maury River. I found that if I listened beyond the wind and the songbirds, I could hear the Maury River long before I could see it. Claire heard it, too. We halted.

  “Listen,” she told Trevor. “What do you hear?”

  Trevor stretched out on my back; he took his time answering her. “I hear a woodpecker drilling that dead tree right there.”

  “What else?” Claire wanted him to name the river.

  “I hear those annoying geese honking at each other,” he answered.

  “Hmmm. I hear them, too. What else?” she asked again.

  This time Trevor heard the river. “Water. It sounds like cars driving by, but softer. That’s the river.”

  Trevor sat up and again grabbed a handful of my mane, this time with only one hand. He shifted around excitedly.

  “Look,” Trevor shouted, “a belted kingfisher! My favorite bird! I like that spiky hairdo.”

  I turned my head far to the left to give my face full exposure to the right bank of the river. The kingfisher sat perched on a sycamore limb, searching for trout, a sure sign that the river was running clear.

  Claire tied the loose end of the lead rope to my halter. “Scoot back,” she bossed Trevor. “I’m hopping up there with you. I like being up high when I come up to the river.”

  Trevor slid back all the way to my tail to give Claire enough room. She grabbed my mane and hoisted herself up. Trevor moved forward and held Claire’s waist.

  “Will you sing that song for us the rest of the way?” Claire pleaded with Trevor.

  “Claire, stop making me sing. I just want to sit here on Chancey.”

  “But your song is the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard and besides, Chancey likes it.”

  Trevor laughed at Claire, and began his song anyway. Just as the undergrowth of saplings gave way to tall, thick grass, the Maury River appeared. Claire let me stop and graze while Trevor finished his song. The wind from the river kept most of the flies away from me. The shade from the birch, leaning out far beyond the bank, protected my eyes from the sun.

  “Have you ever been swimming with a horse?” Claire asked Trevor.

  “You’re such a show-off, Claire. You know I’ve never been swimming with a horse. You’ve been with me every time I’ve ever been on a horse,” Trevor teased.

  “Okay, I was just asking,” Claire said, pretending to be hurt. She thought for a moment, then rephrased her question to him. “Trev, what I meant was, do you want to go swimming with Chancey and me, right now?”

  “Sure,” Trevor answered. “If you think it’s safe.”

  “Geez, Trevor. Stop being such a fraidycat. Hold on.”

  Both children slipped off their socks and shoes. Claire squeezed her legs and gave me a little kick. Claire clucked to encourage me, but it was an entirely unnecessary aid. I, too, wanted to swim. I walked slowly into the water, allowing plenty of time for my legs, and the children’s, to adjust. Claire and Trevor both sucked in their breath the moment the river slapped their legs. I waded slowly out to my neck; Claire stood on my back and dove into the river. Trevor did not need coaxing from Claire to do the same.

  The river was slow and seemed ready to fall asleep as we three splashed the afternoon away. We stayed in the water together until the breeze blowing off it became too cold for Claire. She started to shiver, and not liking to be cold, tied my lead rope back into reins. I carried the two of them back to the barn. For what was left of the summer, this became our habit. Trevor would arrive for his lesson with Claire, and we would end our time together with a trail ride to the Maury River.

  Once summer turned to fall, Trevor was ready for a greater challenge — taking me on the trail without Claire at the head. Claire would accompany us on Mac; her goal was to simulate the conditions of the hunter pace that would occur at the Ridgemore Hunt in Rockbridge County at the end of November. Though I had hoped I would be paired with Claire for the Ridgemore Hunt, I considered it an honor and a privilege to carry Trevor.

  At the start of the Ridgemore Hunter Pace, Mrs. Maiden tied our team pinny, number sixteen, around Claire’s waist. Trevor and Claire looked very much the team, both turned out in what appeared to me to be matching jodhpurs, and both sporting brand-new Maury River Stables team jerseys, given to them by Mrs. Maiden. I swelled with pride; I could imagine no better teammates than Claire, Trevor, and Mac.

  Practically the entire barn family, it seemed, had turned out to cheer us on. Mother, Stu, and Mrs. Strickler were all there to help out. Even my canine friend Tommy had joined us. As I had come to expect, Mother reached to my neck and gave me a pat; she did the same with Mac and Claire. “Be safe; have fun!” she said. Mrs. Strickler seemed nervous. She smoothed Trevor’s shirt, brushed his bangs out of his eyes, and fidgeted with my bridle until Trevor made her stop it.

  Our team was barely out of the start box when we came upon trouble with some young horses. Some of them refused to cross the brook at the start of the course. Horses and riders were backed up twenty deep; the situation was tense not only because of the green horses but also the green riders. Trevor wisely asked me to move around the trouble. I thought it quite brave of him, really, and was proud of the way he tried to overcome his own fear, which of course I felt because he stopped breathing.

  Trevor held his breath, tightened his legs, and instructed, “Walk on, Chancey,” with such resolve, that even if I had not already been intending to move away from the catastrophic backup at the start, I would have walked on anyway at the urgency and intent of his request. He glanced back at Claire and Mac and urged them to come with us. We both felt Claire move out, and so proceeded up the hill, leaving the green horses and their people to fret over a bit of cold mountain water running across the course.

  The moment we reached the top, Trevor and I both realized that in our haste to break away from the others, we had allowed Claire and Mac to get cut off by a loud, domineering woman trying to organize the field of novices. I called down to Mac, “Come on! Don’t waste any more time. You’ve placed Claire in harm’s way. Walk on!”

  Mac called quickly back to me, “The girl on the bay’s the problem. She’s having trouble.”

  I could see for myself that the situation at the brook had deteriorated. I was glad to be at the top of the
hill, looking down, though I desperately wanted Claire and Mac beside us. The girl and her young bay causing the trouble were so worked up that panic was spreading like a wildfire through all of the horses. Green horses, especially green fancy horses, are rather unpredictable. Green girls, especially fancy girls, are rarely prepared to lead such horses, as was the case at the brook.

  Mac and Claire, I could see, remained calm. I could hear Claire pleading with the hunt mistress to let them cross. Mac called to me regularly, letting me know the status of their progress up the hill. All of the horses below were dancing wildly, except for Mac, who stood, observing and, I could see, thinking of how to get around the situation, which was becoming more dangerous by the minute.

  When the bay not only refused to walk on, but reared up on her hind legs, the girl dismounted — a wiser decision than I had credited the young lady with the capacity of making. I hoped the young rider might lead her green mare across the stream and get back in the saddle once the mare understood that the water would not harm her. I was sure the incident would now be resolved.

  My judgment was premature. Once on the ground, the girl took hold of her stirrup iron with a grip of such force that I had only seen prior in our John the Farrier at home when removing old shoes. She struck her horse, no doubt thinking that this beating might persuade the mare to eagerly cross the brook and win the race. The mare cowered, and from the top of the hill I could see her fear growing, for her ears were now pinned flat back, and from way atop the hill, the white of the mare’s eyes was unmistakably visible even to me.

  When the iron struck the mare the second time, I vehemently objected to the brutality. I neighed shrilly as if my doing so would sway the girl to stop. When the girl struck the mare a third and then a fourth time, I lost my composure and reared up, both in anger and in alarm, issuing a call to end the cruelty and also, again, urging Mac to get Claire safely up the hill. The green girl had just injected the mare with a lifetime fear of water. The mare would now associate crossing water with pain and a beating.