Stagestruck

by Shelley Peterson

  Not only was the competition scary, the stands were filling with Canada’s riding elite. Abby spotted Jimmy Day and Torchy Miller, Olympic team medal winners. Further along sat the Gayford family, and she was sure she saw Jim Elder and his brother Norman. The famous Major Gutowski, coach of Canada’s winning team in the sixties, perched on a seat in all his stiff-backed military elegance.

  Holy, thought Abby as her stomach lurched, I’m going to crash and burn in front of all the horse greats in Canada. I won’t even remember the course.

  The rules of the Grand Invitational were simple. The ride with the best time and the fewest faults would win. Each knocked-down rail counted as four faults. If a horse refused to jump, four faults were added. Two refusals, and the horse and rider would be eliminated. There was a prescribed time in which the course should be completed, and each second over that time was one-quarter of a fault. Horses that jumped clean within the time would jump again in a jump-off.

  The caller ran into the warm-up ring. “First horse, please. Ian Millar, please, at the gate.” As Abby watched, Beaverbrook lifted his head delicately and trotted through the entrance, tail swishing, head high.

  Abby observed his ride very carefully. She had a lot to learn from the way this man rode, and she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. She noticed the way he slowed before a tight turn, and the way he set up his mount for the first oxer. He kept his head up and his hands still throughout his ride. It was almost like he was merely a passenger, doing nothing. The art of concealing art, thought Abby. He made it look so easy. Abby wasn’t fooled.

  But suddenly the crowd groaned. Beaverbrook had landed in the water jump. That was four faults. His back hooves slid on the slippery bottom and he struggled to right himself. Shaken, the horse lost confidence as he came into the triple combination. He knocked over a rail, but landed well, and expertly cleared the second and third jumps in the obstacle, thrilling the crowd.

  Abby could feel the release of tension in the riders around her. Hugh Graham, sitting next to her on Secret Agent, breathed out. Ian Millar was the man to beat, and he’d just raised all their hopes by racking up eight faults.

  Ian and Beaverbrook finished the course without further faults. Always a gentleman, Ian Millar patted his horse and waved to the crowd, smiling as he exited the ring.

  Raven snorted and twisted to the starting gate. He bucked in anticipation of his solo in the spotlight as the crowd laughed with pleasure. He was Jay Hayes’s feisty gelding, and named appropriately. Black as the bird, and seeming to fly, he was brilliant and keen, quick and accurate. Jump after jump, he flew and soared, defying gravity.

  Abby checked the timer. He was speeding through this course in a time that few could touch. Abby wasn’t even going to try. She would have to go for a clean round.

  Raven made too tight a turn and found himself face to face with a five-and-a-half-foot jump. He crashed through the wide oxer, leaving bars scattered like pick-up sticks. Legs stinging with pain, the horse hopped and danced. Jay faced him at the last jump, a multicoloured creation that looked like a flight of stairs. He bounced gamely toward it, then had second thoughts, and slid to a halt inches away. They could have another go at it. Jay checked his horse’s legs, decided that no further damage would be done, and faced it again. Raven cleared it easily. The crowd roared its approval as he doffed his hat, patted his horse’s neck, and left the ring.

  As riding hero followed riding hero, Abby became more and more demoralized. She realized the difficulty of the course, and how inadequate she was. If the big riders were having this much trouble, what chance did Abby have? How could she even imagine herself to be in this league? By the time the tenth horse had finished, only Mario DesLaurier and Kim Kirton had gone clean, and they had overtime faults. Hugh Graham was up next.

  Abby noticed each rider’s different style. She wondered if the rider adapted his style to the horse, or if the horse conformed to the rider’s style. She knew that Moonie liked her to have a more forward seat than Dancer, and Abby rode that way to please her. And Dancer was offended if she gave him too clumsy a cue. He liked her to be subtle, and so she tried to ride him very quietly.

  Hugh rode in with gusto and courage, and Abby was sure that the horses who liked his style would do anything for him. Secret Agent was jumping like a superhero, snorting and prancing around the course easily. They got into trouble in the middle of the triple combination jump. Coming fast out of the water jump, he’d jumped big over the first upright and landed too close to the second upright to take the necessary stride. He bounced with great strength and amazingly cleared the top rail. But he couldn’t get organized in time for the third jump in the combination, and the rails came down. Secret Agent was rattled and knocked the next one down, too.

  Dancer was calm. He knew what he was here to do, and Abby sensed that he was preserving his energy. Either that, or he was too tired from his morning’s shenanigans to move. Abby prayed for the former as she repetitively memorized the course, getting more and more uneasy.

  Beth Underhill rode her big black horse, Monopoly, to the starting gate. He’d been retired, like Dancer, and this was his farewell tour.

  Abby was up next. She was covered with goosebumps and could hardly breathe for the huge weight that seemed to press on her chest. Her toes and fingers were numb. How could she go in like this? She’d fall off for sure. Beth and Monopoly cantered brilliantly around, but Abby wasn’t concentrating. She heard the crowd cheer, but she couldn’t tell what had happened. She wasn’t keeping score anymore.

  Absently, she patted Dancer’s glistening chestnut neck and felt the great strength beneath his coat. He nickered softly, then blew through his nostrils. He’s trying to reassure me, thought Abby, and a tear came unbidden to her eye. She was moved by the great horse’s sensitivity. But it’s a lost cause. I can’t do it. I can’t go in there.

  Dancer somehow knew that his moment was nigh. He slowly began to perform dressage on the spot. Exercising each muscle, he crouched and lifted, arched and stretched, extended and compressed. Abby sat still as he warmed up in this strange but effective way. Hilary never told me about this, she mused with detachment. Her mind was miles away.

  “Dancer, please! To the gate!” The voice sounded muted and distant.

  In a state of cold agitation, and with the sense that her mind was not connected to her body, Abby allowed Dancer to do as he was told. Abby couldn’t move, let alone direct him. She was in another zone.

  As Beth Underhill rode out of the ring to loud applause, Dancer trotted in. Vaguely, Abby heard the crowd recognize the retired legend. Her vision blurred, and she had the delayed feeling that she was slowly tumbling off. She wasn’t breathing, wasn’t present, wasn’t coherent. All she knew was that she was blacking out.

  Dancer jumped straight up in the air and landed exactly where he’d started, shifting his weight slightly to keep himself under Abby. He tossed his head and whinnied loudly. Shaking his body as if he’d been through a rainstorm, Dancer managed to wake Abby from her frozen terror.

  He snorted impatiently and stamped his foot. He neighed angrily. “Yes, Dancer, I hear you,” Abby rasped, struggling to get herself together. She took a deep breath. In. Out. Another. In. Out. She took hold of the reins and gripped with her legs.

  Dancer reared up and thrashed with his forelegs, whinnying his deep, fulsome noise. He was the king of all, he seemed to trumpet.

  Her body racked with nerves, Abby cantered Dancer through the starting gate. She clenched her teeth to keep them from rattling. She swallowed her bile and willed herself not to vomit. Blinking hard, she tried to focus on the first jump. “Let’s go, let’s flow,” she chanted, struggling to clear her head as Dancer reduced his stride to take off at the perfect distance. Abby’s body reacted automatically and followed him through.

  Abby remembered where to go next, and headed Dancer toward jump number two. She was still in dreamland. They skimmed over the huge hedge and Abby counted absently, “Land
, one, two, three, four,” and they lifted again over a rainbow-shaped jump of many colours. “Land, one, two, three, four, five.” They turned the corner of the ring, hugging the fence to get in straight to the broad oxer.

  Abby awoke from her stupor. Immensely grateful that the mighty horse had carried her this far, she spoke to him through clenched teeth. “I’m not going to let you down, Dancer.”

  Her eyes were focused now, her brain intact. The feeling returned to her legs. Abby blinked and licked her lips. She felt resolve and courage well up in her heart along with the desire to win. This was Dancer’s show, and she had almost blown it. She was determined to let him shine.

  The oxer looked huge to Abby, but Dancer continued toward it with confidence, head up and eager. She looked over the jump through his delicately pointed ears. “If you can do it, I can do it,” she muttered. Three, two, one. Liftoff. Dancer’s muscled haunches sprang with great power. His front knees tucked into his chest, and his neck lengthened gracefully as he straightened his head. Abby knew how beautiful he must look.

  She was riding well. Pure joy filled her chest.

  They were quickly coming to the water jump. “Head up,” muttered Abby, remembering the tip her father had given her. “Head up, heels down, sit back.” She rode into it imagining a five-foot-tall jump. Dancer flew over the water and landed safely on the other side. On they cantered to the triple combination, the jump that had caused the most problems for this experienced group of riders.

  Abby felt Dancer’s excitement. “Easy, big boy,” she said as she sat up slightly. Abby made the decision to let him set his speed. It was faster than she would’ve chosen, but he’d been right so far. Plus she didn’t want to fight him so close to the three big obstacles. At the third to last stride, the intelligent stallion slowed considerably and organized himself perfectly.

  Over the first jump, land, then a stride. Over the second jump, land, stride, stride. Over the third, and land. They’d done it. They’d cleared the triple!

  Wow. Abby grinned broadly. Holy. What a horse. She focused ahead. They weren’t done yet. Four difficult jumps remained.

  Up in the stands, Hilary James sat rigid. Every muscle in her body, every fibre of her brain was involved in Dancer’s ride. She’d been alarmed when she saw Dancer carry in Abby’s unresponsive body. Abby was in shock, and Hilary could hardly watch, but as Abby gained control, Hilary started feeling better. Now, Hilary was jumping each jump with Dancer, counting the strides aloud. Mousie James was riding again.

  Sandy Casey sat on her left. He remembered the first time he’d seen Hilary riding Dancer. It had been at the Queen’s Exhibition in the Coliseum, five years earlier. They’d been a spectacular team. He took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze.

  Christine sat on Hilary’s right. Sympathetic and supportive, she sat with her arm firmly around her daughter’s shoulders. Sitting beside Christine was Rory. He marvelled at Dancer’s incredible strength and beauty, and noted the difference Abby’s training had made in the scruffy, ill-mannered beast that had been jumping the farm’s fences only months before. Liam and Fiona held hands, breathless, eyes on their daughter. Liam nodded and urged her on. Fiona sat quietly with tears of admiration glistening on her cheeks.

  Pete Pierson’s arms surrounded Laura as she buried her head in his chest, her eyes securely shut. Her lips moved as she said a prayer that Abby would not get hurt. Pete watched Abby carefully. She was allowing Dancer to clear the big jumps by leaving him alone, and he admired her restraint. It was rare for a young, inexperienced rider to have the wisdom that Abby was demonstrating.

  Joy Featherstone and Robert Wick had slid into the stands behind Christine and Rory just in time for the start of the show. They sat slack-jawed, in awe of this incredible combination of talent and determination. Sam and Leslie Morris had brought Lucy with them. The teenagers huddled together silently, eyes riveted. This was intense.

  Each face in the stands was intent on Abby and Dancer’s progress through the course. Not only were they clearing each fence, but their time was looking good.

  Another face in the stands wore an altogether different expression. Samuel Owens, bandages off but still using a cane, glowered through the coyote scratches. He would put a stop to this and he knew how to do it. Pushing himself up onto his feet, and clutching his cane, Owens made his way down to the judges’ booth on the other side of the stadium.

  Abby concentrated on the job ahead. The optical illusion was next. This jump fanned out, making the ground line completely off-angle from the top rail. The width was deceptive. If you went strictly for the top rail, you might step on the bottom rail and tumble it down. If you rode to the centre rail, you came in crooked and risked ticking the angled top rail with a back hoof.

  Abby decided to ride straight to the top rail. Dancer noticed the illusion and slowed. Abby let him figure it out. They cantered on the spot for a stride, then Dancer surged ahead. He took off well ahead of the jump, and sprang a foot over it. Abby was thrown slightly back with the unexpected enormity of the action, but grabbed his mane and regained her balance as quickly as she’d lost it, taking care to leave his mouth unjerked.

  They landed too long. They could take either four extra-small strides or three extra-long ones before they got to the wall.

  Head up, ears forward, hind end in gear, Dancer hopped straight-legged. Four, three, two, one. Up they sprang, over the wall with its precariously balanced top bricks. Clear! Land, one, two, three, four, five, turning tightly all the way, into the tall yellow and white vertical. Over they went, Dancer tucking his hind legs sideways to avoid the top rail. He then gently landed, switched his leads, and turned right. Now they were facing the last obstacle.

  Abby noticed that Dancer was getting tired. His sides were heaving, and his strides were less springy. He was going too fast, reasoning wrongly that speed would help him clear the wide, colourful steps that loomed ahead. For the first time in their short riding history, Abby sat back and forced him to change his speed. He resisted, throwing his head up and down.

  She spoke to him. “Steady, Dancer, we’re almost home.”

  The stallion relaxed, and Abby released her pull. He steadied in time to take the last two strides before his mighty leap. Upon safely landing, the stallion bucked high in the air, and swished his tail mightily. Head down, nose straight out, Dancer raced through the time gate, four seconds under time, and clean.

  They’d won. Abby punched the air with her fist and leaned over Dancer’s neck, hugging him with all her remaining strength. “Dancer, you did it! Dancer! You won!” Tears flowed down her cheeks.

  Up he reared, bellowing his victory. He walked around on his hind legs pawing the air. Sweat dripped from his flanks and neck. As the crowd stood roaring with approval and clapping wildly, Dancer lightly dropped his front feet to the ground, and bowed deeply to his audience. His nose touched the ground. He stayed in that position for five full seconds before he stood up. He tossed his head and walked proudly out of the ring, huffing to get his breath.

  There was only one dry eye in the house, and it belonged to the man with the scratched face in the judges’ booth.

  As soon as they were out of the ring, Abby took her feet out of the stirrups and dismounted. Dancer’s sleek chestnut coat was drenched. His eyes showed white, and his nostrils were flared and so red that they appeared in danger of bleeding. Abby feared the exertion had been too much, so soon after his injury.

  His sides were heaving. She loosened the girth, ran up the stirrups, unbuckled the chin strap and nose band on his bridle, and began to walk him toward his stall. He held his head low to allow more oxygen to enter his lungs, and plodded rather than walked. He’d used every ounce of his energy.

  Every rider she passed gave her the thumbs-up, or a pat on the back. “Congratulations!” called Chris Pratt from across the paddock. “Well done!” yelled Hugh Graham. Ricky Thompson winked and said, “Not bad for a girl!”

  Abby laughed and graciously
accepted the good wishes, but she was more concerned about Dancer as they neared the stabling facilities.

  Hilary James stood waiting at the stall. Her radiant smile faded as she noticed Dancer’s condition. She threw open the tack box, producing towels and the warmest blanket. Hilary ran to Dancer and pulled off the saddle as they walked. She replaced his bridle with his halter.

  Without saying a word, the two young women rubbed Dancer down, blanketed him, and kept him walking. Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Hilary allowed him a small drink of water, then took away the bucket to prevent him from colicking.

  Finally, after they’d walked him for fifteen minutes, Hilary said, “He’ll be fine now, Abby.” They put him in his stall and watched.

  “Maybe it was too soon,” said Abby. “I hope I didn’t hurt him.”

  Hilary was stern. “We were all in it together, Abby. You, me, even the vet said he was fine to go. He hasn’t been in the ring for five years. Maybe there was more stress than we counted on.”

  Abby shook her head. “There was certainly more than I’d counted on. I froze out there. Dancer shook me out of it.”

  Hilary smiled. “I saw. But you came back, Abby. You rode that course better than I ever did.”

  “You’re crazy, Hilary. Dancer did it all. Every bit of it, until the last fence.”

  “You knew when to leave him alone. I’m impressed.”

  Liam Malone came running up to the girls, out of breath. “They’ve disqualified you!” he said to Abby. “They’re giving the trophy and prize money to the second-place rider. They need a jump-off to determine who that is because the next three horses have equal faults.”

  Abby couldn’t believe her ears. “Disqualified?” she asked. “For what?”

  Liam’s mouth became a hard thin line. “For riding a stallion. You’re under eighteen years of age.”