Disclaimer: I don't own the Black…I don't own the Black…I don't own the Black… I don't own the Black
A/N: Hey people! Long-time-no-update – sorry, my fault. So, I'll make up for that by putting out four chapters…
Chapter 10
A large, red-tinged-with-orange leaf flew up and smacked me on the nose.
"Ow!"
Other leaves, same in color but smaller in size, swirled up around us, blowing, blowing…
We were in the woods, Chaya and I. She was standing beside me, holding the reins, and bending over a patch of damp earth beside the tree.
"There." She stuck the cross she had made with two sticks unto the ground and straightened, dusting off her gloved hands.
There wasn't a tombstone, but if there was, I knew what it would have said.
Sandstorm, by Sand Dune out of Cheyenne Papoose, our dear brother and friend, born: the twelfth moon of The-Month-After-The-Cold-Winds-Blow, died: the twenty seventh moon of Falling-Leaves-Month, Age: Two Winters, six full moons, and twenty-seven moons old.
But Sandstorm wasn't here. Sandstorm wasn't lying under the dirt or the cross or the single flower Chaya had gently placed on top of everything.
Sandstorm's body was gone, taken who-knows-where in a huge truck. There wasn't even a funeral, human or equine.
When a horse dies in the wild back home, his herd paws dirt over the body, and if they can, rolls some stones over it to keep scavengers from preying on it. I'd only heard this from my mother, not seen it myself. When a horse dies here, the humans sometimes sell the body to become animal food.
And since there wasn't a funeral, we were having one ourselves.
Chaya had led me here today, and made a small mound the size of four hooves and half a hoof high at the base of a leaf-less giant with bare spreading branches, and ringed it with stones and pebbles. The cross went in, and the flower went on top.
We looked up at the sound of hooves. Terri, Sandstorm's rider, and Dick came riding Marionette, Moon and leading Fire Phoenix with a lead line. Good thing they had 'forgotten' to bring Steele.
The humans dismounted and came leading the horses closer.
We stood in a half circle around the simple mound.
Silence. The humans bowed their heads, we horses lowered our eyes, and everybody stood in silence.
I reached over and pressed a hoof in the dark dirt, leaving an imprint at the center of the stones.
The silence was broken by Chaya, who gave a loud muffled sob. Her face was blotchy and red again, and tears were trickling down her cheeks. I leaned over and licked her face. She threw her arms around my neck and almost choked me with her hug. Dick pulled her away gently, lifted her and set her on my back. I turned my head and tried to nibble her hand, failed, and settled on snuffling her knee instead. Terri mounted Marionette, and with Fire Phoenix on the lead line, slowly trotted away.
I blew out though my nose and waited for Dick to mount Moon and ride off. To my surprise, he jumped up on me too, and with one hand on the reins and the other around Chaya, we started off, Moon trotting beside me.
Carrying two riders felt strange. We trotted all the way back, away from the biting wind and into our warm stable.
Life went on after Sandstorm's death. It was like I was hurting all over. I didn't pace anymore, and my times at the track were improving; feed boxes were coming clean again, and at night, I was sleeping, but there was still this hole where Sandstorm had been
The very mention of 'sand', 'storm', 'caramel', 'bay', or anything that had to do with Sandstorm triggered painful memories.
When I was led past his stall, I would remember him standing there with his head over the door, and it's emptiness would again remind me of why he wasn't standing there and the reason for that reason. Soon, another horse would stand there.
In the paddock, I now had no one to talk to the way we had talked. I would look over the fence and count one, two, three, four horses grazing when there should have been five.
At the track, I would start the warm up, my head filled with images of a handsome caramel-bay colt with black markings pounding down the track, his rider perched high up in the saddle. And then I would remember the time I saw him run at a race, the only time I had ever seen him at a formal race meet, and I would remember him flying down the homestretch, his head held high and forward, black mane and tail streaming behind, his hooves flashing as his legs churned faster and faster and propelled him towards the finish line.
Remembering Sandstorm also made me remember why he wasn't here now, and every time I saw Steele, prancing, running, grazing, sleeping, his black coat gleaming, my anger grew.
I'd been grazing one afternoon, beside the fence. Steele had come up beside me on the other side.
"Hey! IT the half-breed!"
I continued grazing, but my ears were now pricked, since he was speaking in a whisper.
"Do you want to know how I did it? How I made him trip and fall on the track that workout?" He was talking about Sandstorm. Was he confessing now?
I stayed silent.
"Actually, I got the idea from you."
What?!
"Yes." His voice was triumphant. I must have been wearing a very shocked look on my face, because he continued, " He was leaning toward me, trying to bite me. I leaned away, then went faster a bit. When I was a few inches ahead, I rolled back my eye, gauged the distance–" he pretended that there was another horse beside him, to his right " –like this–" he was actually leaning left, my way " – and I kicked backward with my foot –" he showed me " – I hit him square then when he was out of balance, I turned and bit him. He was leaning on me right then, and when we fell together, I made sure that I fell on him. Did you see the look on his face? I bet that if he could have, he'd actually go running back here, crying "Mommy!"
He was relishing telling me about it. "Do you want me to show you again? Huh, half breed? Maybe I can practice on you! I could do it, you know? In fact, I'll come over there right now, and we'll practice together, do you want that? I'll hook, you pretend to be that big crybaby, and when the humans come, we'll show them the brand-new trick we learned." He snickered. "Well, actually, it'll just be me showing them, because you'll be just like him, lying on the ground, crying for yo –"
"Would you mind not telling me?" I cut in dryly. "Because you never know; someday, when I'm running beside you, I just might use that one on you. And that time, it wouldn't be in a training track back here, it would be in a real race with thousands of humans watching –" I paused to survey his face and continued, " – the great, almighty, lollipop-headed Steele trip and fall like a minute old foal."
The tips of his ears and nose turned red. Brighter red than glossy apples or fresh roses, so red it looked like he had dipped his nose in a can of red paint, or that someone had dabbed blood on his ears.
I calmly returned to grazing and left him standing there, fuming, wondering if I would really do what I had threatened to do someday.
I wondered myself. I'd never thought of myself as a killer.
Steele obviously had a different opinion.
In the passing days he became bolder, flashing looks and glares filed with hatred and contempt my way once again. It was as if, to him, Sandstorm's accident was a victory, a huge victory over what had happened at the fight, and later when he was humiliated in front of everybody.
And in remembering all that, guilt filled me. Somehow, I felt that the accident was also my fault, that I had a part in it. If it had not been for Steele's continuing war with me, if I had not been his best friend, Sandstorm would have had nothing to do with anything. If Steele had not been so mad at me, and afraid that he might lose if he tried to fight me again, he would never had taken his anger out on Sandstorm.
The gusty wind and swirling leaves soon gave way to the familiar bitter cold once more. Winter had come again. In the spring, I would turn three years old. Three years old. Mother's words were once again ringing in my ears. Only one more year before I could escape again…
There were only two horses who were keeping me here: Sandstorm and Moon. With Sandstorm gone, the list had gone down to one. Moon…Moon had said that she would come with me if we could escape. My path to freedom was clear. If only I could find a way to escape.
Chaya was my rider and friend, but she would always be human and stay in the human world. She would never be able to live out in the wild with us. Miss her as we would…
With these possibilities, my thoughts began to turn more and more toward home again. I began daydreaming of what we would do once we get home, what we would say, what the other horses would look like, what their reactions would be when they saw us.
Daydreaming about running away didn't help me forget. But daydreaming did help take some of the pain away, and the sharp pang of loss began to fade. After a long while, the pain had now become a sadness, just a deep sadness.
With the shock leaving, anger flooded in. Anger at Steele, for being the cause of it all. Anger at myself, for letting this happen to Sandstorm. Anger that I hadn't done anything about it, that I hadn't stopped Steele earlier, that it had been him when it should have been me.
I didn't take this anger out on the other horses, or on the grooms. I channeled this anger toward a new release: my running.
With fall almost over, and my third winter(the humans would have called it my third birthday) approaching, I was now eligible to run in the Triple Crown races, something Chaya had been telling me about and training me for since I first came. And I had no doubt that Sims would enter Steele and me both.
Winning the Triple Crown was an honor. A huge honor. And it hadn't been done for years.
It was there that I planned to take out my revenge. Revenge for the other horses' being bullied. Revenge for Sandstorm. Revenge for me.
My third spring passed in a flurry of melting snow, running at the track, trail-rides with Chaya, moonlit over-the-fence conversations with Moon about anything and everything, yet more running at the track, and soon, my first race for the year.
This spring brought new joys to life, but it also brought new problems to face. Before, there were good horses, fast horses whom we ran against, but there hadn't been any who were fast enough to pose really big problems about winning in ordinary races, aside from Steele and Runaway, a gray gelding.
Runaway was seasoned, because he was already five years old. He had a lot
of strategies too, or rather, his jockey had; Runaway just carried them out. And Runaway was fast; he had even more stamina than both of us three-year-olds.
But this spring, Galilean arrived. Galilean was a dark brown colt with three, even, white socks running up his legs and a wide blaze down his face. He was from the West Coast, so none of us had ever run against him before. Which also meant none of us had any idea about his running style, what kind of ground he liked, etc, etc, etc.
Galilean posed a new threat. He had broken two track records, and set two new ones.
"He's European stock, that one is," Sir Peppero mumbled through a mouthful of grass on a morning we were turned out to graze. "Dam's from Ireland, sire from England, but he was born here; his dam was sold while still in foal. Heard it from the others." 'The others' meant the other track horses/ponies who were always sharing tidbits of gossip and information.
As always, Sir Peppero knew almost everything about the racing world. And he wasn't shy about sharing the information, whether he had an audience or not.
In this case, he had a very attentive audience. I paced before him, thinking, imagining Galilean, what the colt was like, what was his style, planning ways to get past him. A few feet away, from the corner of my eye, I saw Steele grazing, but also listening closely.
I ignored the look Steele sent shooting my way when I caught his eye and continued pacing.
"They say anything about his times?"
Sir Peppero thought. And chewed. And thought some more. Then he shook his white-black-speckled head. " Nah, he's new, so nobody knows yet. They'll be running him in his first race Saturday. And if they run him at a oval on the farm, there's still no way we're going to know until the day of the race, or as soon as we get to the track."
Saturday. That was five days away. My race was also on Saturday. Uh oh…
"We'll clash," I muttered, tearing a mouthful of grass from the ground. I wasn't talking about color. At least, even though Steele was also running on Saturday, we were in different races. I so do not want to run against Galilean when nobody knew anything about him yet.
Well, not everything.
Sir Peppero chuckled. "You don't even know what time he's running yet. You could be in two different races. But ya'll clash, alright. And I'm not talking color. Either of you'd sure give him a run for his money." He jerked his head in Steele's general direction. A stalk of grass was dangling from his lip.
That was true.
"But we could be entered in the same race!"
Sir P nodded slowly, his black-and-white salt-and-pepper mane falling back over his neck. "Yup."
Steele, his coal-black head now raised, was still watching us over the fence.
My worst fears were confirmed. By Friday night, we were already at the racetrack, several other Oakwood Acres horses in stalls both sides of mine.
Two grooms with blankets over their shoulders walked past. I caught snatches of their conversation.
"Big one tomorrow," one of them said.
"Yep. Fast one too. Here's one of them." The other groom paused several stalls from me, down the aisle.
"Where's the other? Get a good look at them; you have to win that bet with Greg about who wins tomorrow."
"Ah, here he is." One of the grooms had backtracked until he reached my stall. I raised my head from the water trough. "Hey boy." His hand went to my ears. I stayed still, muzzle dripping.
"He'll be running 'gainst that Galilean hoss t'morrow." My ears pricked up at the word 'Galilean'.
"So who d'ya think'll win?" Their voices floated back down here as they headed off.
"Me? The brown's bigger…but I'll still put my bet on the dun."
Did I hear correctly?
"Why?"
"Well…I dunno...mebbe 'cause 'e looks like 'e's got somethin' the other doesn't have…"
I swished my tail slowly as their voices faded away. At least one of them had confidence in me. My own confidence had been an all-time low ever since I found out that I was running against Galilean, and what was left of it now had just evaporated.
"That's your rival, boy." Chaya swung down my back and pointed. "Galilean."
My jaw dropped open. I closed it with a snap. Chaya had told me everything she knew about Galilean's color and breeding and his training background.
What she hadn't told me was that he was enormous. As in, ENORMOUS.
I'd stopped growing taller around last winter, and at around 17.5 hands, I was already considered tall for my age and breed.
Galilean dwarfed me. He towered over us both at more than 18.8 hands. And he was built heavily, so heavily that I doubted he could really run fast over long distances.
He was looking good today. Galilean was a deep, rich dark-brown mahogany color, with reddish glints; his socks ended at his knees, and his blaze covered his face from eyes to nostrils. But the unusual part was –
"He has a black mane and tail, and dark points where they aren't covered by the socks or the blaze," Chaya muttered to herself. Conversations to oneself are supposed to be private, but I heard this one quite plainly. Maybe it was because she was right next to me, or maybe it was because I was thinking the same thing myself.
Galilean's grooms (there were two) led him past us, toward the oval. In contrast to his size, his rider looked like a young human child, sitting high up in his back.
Today, Chaya walked me to and fro by the fence outside of the oval, not wanting to miss the first morning workout of one of the most controversial horses in present times.
We weren't the only ones.
Terri, Sandstorm's former rider, who had now taken over as Fire Phoenix's jockey, led him this way and started walking him beside me. Beside us, other horses and their trainers and jockeys gathered around, watching.
We waited while Galilean's trainer gave his rider instructions.
Hid rider steered him out onto the track and began warming him up.
"Look at him," I muttered to Fire Phoenix.
Galilean was running in a bouncy trot. Then, without the slightest obvious signal from his rider, he moved into a smooth canter.
We watched in silence. I held my breath.
They reached the half-mile post. And Galilean's rider let him out.
There was a collective gasp, from horses and humans alike.
From a canter, Galilean had gone into a flat-out, full, blinding gallop. He had gone from being a brown horse cantering into a brown streaking bullet.
And right then and there, I found out another thing Chaya hadn't told me.
Galilean's fluid strides were enormous. LONG and ENORMOUS. His legs were whipping out, and back underneath him, churning dirt, pushing him forward, faster and faster and faster. Effortlessly.
His heavy build didn't affect his speed.
He never settled down to a stable pace, just went on accelerating and accelerating.
He was still accelerating when they whipped past the trainer and his rider slowed him up.
Galilean wasn't playful like us. He didn't throw in a buck, or a good morning nibble, or a "Hey!" snort. He obediently slowed the moment his rider asked him, and dropped into a graceful, low-swinging walk.
Fire Phoenix still had his mouth open. "Close your mouth," I muttered. He did.
The trainer was waving his stopwatch. I could see Sims in the crowd of trainers and grooms who had gathered around Galilean.
"It's going to take a miracle for us to beat them," Chaya muttered.
They went through all the usual racing preliminaries: giving me a bath, grooming, tacking up, the inspection, then it was out in a small paddock to wait, wait, wait.
I was in the first race for the afternoon. The sun was roaring hot today, and my coat was streaked with dark patches of sweat as I squinted around. I didn't know if hat was from the heat or from nerves.
I didn't feel nervous anymore, just a deep sinking defeat. Galilean was already the sure winner. I would have to fight for second place.
The gate opened behind me. I didn't turn, still staring around, looking for Chaya or Dick or Terri or Moon or anyone from our stable.
The someone who had just come in came to stand beside me, and suddenly, I didn't have to squint anymore. His shadow had fallen across me, and several feet of ground besides.
I had to tilt my head back to look at him. Up close, Galilean looked even taller. He was long and lean; VERY long legs, thick neck, BIG hooves, broad body, and a LARGE head. Up close, his head looked unusually big and heavy. Too big. His hooves were too big too.
I studied him. He studied me.
Galilean was built heavily; thick neck, thick body, heavy head. He wouldn't last long in stamina or marathon races. His build was suited to the short, blazing fast sprints. But then, in long distances, with his fast starts, he wouldn't need that much stamina anyway. By the time he began to tire, he would be so far ahead that the other horses would never be able to catch up.
We didn't say anything to each other. The gate opened behind us and here was a clatter of hooves. The other horses were coming in.
I slipped into a daze, wondering, frantically looking for another way out, another strategy, some other way to beat Galilean, trying to come up with a way that we could win.
No ideas. No hope of winning. I was resigned to lose. And resigned to be laughed at by Steele when I went back home.
A blast of music made me start. We were already in the post parade! How had that happened? I craned my head back, searching for the paddock, and kept walking.
Until I walked straight into metal bars.
What?! No way, this was wrong, very wrong. How had I gotten here that fast? But no time to wonder, no time to think, because Chaya had tightened her grip on my mane. That meant I had to concentrate.
I drew a deep breath. We had drawn the second position from the rail. That would make it easier, because I wouldn't have to overtake a lot of horses and burn up too much speed.
My blood started racing.
The gates burst open. I shot out. We needed to make a fast start, because if Galilean had too much of a lead, we wouldn't be able to make up the distance later.
And as I usually did in races, I tuned out the voice of the announcer and the humans in the grandstand and focused on Chaya's commands alone.
Chaya steered me toward the rail. I settled into that position and waited. Anticipated. Watched for what I knew was to happen.
I was right. A brown blur shot past me to the lead. Galilean running with his jockey wearing a yellow and black silk shirt.
I pulled at the bit. We had to catch up now.
Chaya held me back. I couldn't believe it. She had seen Galilean's speed. She knew.
I tugged again. Her hands said the same thing as last time. Wait. Was she crazy?
I didn't want to wait. I wanted to pull ahead right now. Maybe she thought that I would burn up all my speed too early, too soon. But if she didn't let me go, none of my speed would matter anyway. Galilean was drawing even further ahead.
A bay shape was edging up to my right. If we didn't go now, we would soon be caught up in the pack. I'd been caught in the middle of a pack only once, and from that experience alone, I knew I never wanted to be in that spot again.
Horses in front of you, horses behind you, horses beside you, and with the rail hemming you in, you would have nowhere to go.
I lengthened my strides. Up and behind me, Chaya muttered, "If you won't do it my way, then you'll have to drop back." Her hands pulled in more rein. And still some more.
I fought back. Her way was wrong. Her way would lose us the race. The bay gelding to my right was now running beside me. Galilean was a brown speck ahead.
We would never catch up. I stopped fighting.
Then, to my amazement, I felt the reins loosen. Completely.
"Go!" Chaya yelled. Around and behind us, the other jockeys were now using their whips.
I stretched out my head, half closed my eyes, and started to really run.
After the fighting, running like this felt wonderful. It was as if I was back in the paddock, galloping without reins or a saddle and a human on my back.
Faster! Faster!
I poured on more speed. The next time I opened my eyes, Galilean was only a length ahead, his white-socked hindquarters flying smoothly.
Yes!
Chaya began kneading my neck. That meant an 'ok' for me to go all out.
I inched up beside him. Now we were running neck to neck.
He rolled back his eye and glared. That didn't stop the rising happiness that threatened to spill over in me. We were going to win!
Galilean was tiring. The distance was finally taking a toll. But the wire was only a few lengths ahead. His jockey began using his whip.
I barged ahead.
But behind me, he seemed to have found a new reserve of strength. He surged forward. We were neck and neck again, and that was the way we crossed the finish line.
Chaya pulled me up, and I stood gulping air in huge rushes. My knees were trembling. Galilean's jockey walked him while we waited for the other horses.
I'd never realized how far ahead we were. I'd finally stopped panting before the next horse came in.
We waited.
I was sure it was a draw.
It wasn't.
I'd learned that names of winners usually appeared on a large something called a billboard. Another useful lesson from Sir Peppero. Now I watched it hopefully.
Unfortunately, he could read a little. I couldn't. Something did flash on the board, but for all the good it would do, I still didn't know anything.
Chaya's gasp told me everything.
Galilean had won.
He threw me a look of triumph mixed with contempt as he was led past me to the winner's circle, and tossed his head a little as if to say, So there !
I spotted the two men from last night whispering to each other as I was led away. Sorry, I told them silently. They had lost their bet. But I did the best I could.
Night. I stood brooding in my stall. Galilean was impossible to beat. I could certainly look forward to being put in races against him, and losing them. And unless, by some miracle he disappeared, my plan for winning the Triple Crown would come crashing down.
It hadn't been a good day for Oakwood Acres; I had gotten second place, Fire Phoenix ran fourth, Red Rose Petal (a two-year-old strawberry roan filly) came in last, two other horses whose names I didn't know but who were older won eleventh and third, respectively, and Steele ran a dead heat.
That meant he had tied with another horse.
To me, the only good thing about today was that Steele had clipped his foot when he stumbled. That was why it had been a dead heat; Steele had been ahead, then yards before the finish, he fell, and recovered just in time.
Now, he was standing in the stall beside mine with his right forefoot in a bucket of cold water, and a three-inch long gash on that foot.
The grooms came to say goodnight. Sims came to check on us one last time.
I was surprised. It'd been a long time since he had done that, because of things that had to be done; he had been very busy. But now, he walked along the aisle, looking in on us, speaking to us.
He stopped at Steele's stall and went inside. I could hear him moving around, probably arranging the hay so that his beloved Steele could be more comfortable.
I snorted. Steele wouldn't want to be beloved by anyone, horse or human, except maybe by Moon. But then, what colt or stallion wouldn't want to be beloved by Moon anyway? She was fast, not to mention pretty and spunky and…the list could go on and on.
"Hmph." Sims had reached my stall. I waited, tense, for his hand to come within range, in the hopes of giving him a goodnight bite.
He slouched away and I drew back in my stall, disappointed.
At least I could count on Steele not making fun of me losing, because I could retaliate by making fun of him for not winning.
I could practically picture the scene in the pasture:
"Steele, you lost! I can't believe it! The king, the leader, the great big hotshot was finally beaten! Well, you didn't actually win either… but come on! Just a few more inches? A few teeny weeny inches to win, and you couldn't even make it?"
I smiled and drifted off, dreaming of the look on his face.
In Oakwood acres, after a race, horses are usually given a holiday of a day or two before working out lightly at the track again.
Mine was spent thinking.
Standing under the tree in the paddock I shared with Sir Peppero, I would replay my last race, running it over and over in my mind, searching, looking for any sign of weakness, anything that would help me outrun (and perhaps, out-think) Galilean.
And the only thing I could come up with was when he had begun to tire. During shorter distances, I would have too much ground to make up to hope for a win, or in the least, a dead heat. But during longer races like the Belmont, with it's 1½ mile, the chances of winning were bigger.
So, during the cool mornings and windy afternoons, I stood and thought. And slowly, a plan began to formulate in my mind.
In the beginning of the race, I would need to make a fast start, then stay by Galilean's side all the way to the wire, leaning on stamina to help me keep up the fast pace, and then when he began to show signs of tiredness, relying on a blazing sprint to take me ahead.
I was sure it would work; it had to. But there were two problems. One was the fast pace. Too fast, and too early, and I would be burned out even before the middle of the race. That would be disastrous.
So I had a solution: work on improving my stamina.
The second problem: Chaya.
How could I make her understand what I wanted to do? What had happened on Saturday – the pull-and-pull-harder fight between me and her–could cost us the race. I could get the bit in my teeth and race away with her as I had once done, but, being a lot more experienced, she was now more wary and alert, and being used to me doing that didn't help a bit. That would have done the trick and solved the whole problem of being held back if I could get away with it. Which was nearly impossible, unless I caught her off her guard, which now happened rarely, if it ever happened at all.
And unless I learned how to speak English in a matter of a few months at most, which, saying, was also impossible because of the shape of my mouth, my plan wouldn't be any use at all.
I needn't have worried. The next morning, on the day when I was about to resume intensive training again, Chaya told me that Sims wouldn't be at the rail today. That was because he was sick. And he was sick because he had yelled himself hoarse at her Saturday. And that was partly because of her, and partly because of me.
"He was hoarse after yelling at me. On Sunday, he caught cold. He ignored it and came to work anyway. And that's how he got sick," Chaya said while grooming me. "Ken's taking over for as long as he's still staying home." Ken was the assistant trainer. "I hope he doesn't get well soon. Ken's good enough to keep things going, and he's definitely nicer than him." She thought that way too? I bobbed my head in approval. "I shouldn't say that," she mumbled. "He's my superior." She sounded like she didn't mean it. I knew she didn't. If he gets well, I hope his voice never goes back to him, and that he'll be hoarse for the rest of his life. That way, nobody has to ever listen to him again, I added silently.
To me, being the cause, even if it was only partly, of getting a competent trainer with a rotten personality sick was real reason for celebration.
Today, the atmosphere around the track was so different from the old one I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't felt it myself. The grooms smiled and chatted while they worked, the horses were suddenly very quiet, docilely following their humans (I don't know why), and everybody was relaxed. Today, there was no Sims to make stinging criticisms against the times of the horses or even the way the riders rode; there wasn't anybody who would frown at a horse who'd sidestepped in excitement; nor was there somebody who would yell at the riders for the slightest mistake they made. Or scold people for smiling or whistling or laughing as they worked.
Chaya tacked me up and led me outside, where we waited for the track to be clear before going in.
It had been a good workout, beautifully ran. I'd obeyed Chaya every single time, and she swung off my back grinning. Ken gave her a thumbs up and a "Good job!" before turning to the next horse.
She patted my neck, and told me, " Run and behave that way every day and I'll make sure you get a guaranteed lifetime supply of carrots and apples."
I laughed a horse laugh. The way I was planning it, her offer would soon expire.
And besides, there wouldn't be any carrots or apples at the place where I planned to spend the rest of my life anyway.
The good mood lasted three days, during which the two of my least favorite people/horses stayed away.
Steele was still (It rhymes!) in the stable with one leg soaking in cold water when Sims came back to work.
The happy atmosphere vanished the moment he appeared.
Now, the only place with a happy atmosphere was at the paddocks. Without Steele, Moon, Marionette and Fire Phoenix were free to roam around and talk about him any way and in any volume they wanted.
"I wish he'd clip his leg every single race," sighed Marionette. "It's so much nicer around here without him ruining the view."
"He wouldn't like hearing that," Moon whickered even though her eyes were twinkling.
"I don't care." Marionette tossed her head and went into a gallop around the paddock, Moon flying behind her.
That was one thing they missed. If Steele was there, he would have snapped at them to stop it and walk like fillies, not run around like colts. He didn't like laughter either, unless it was laughter at something he said.
Marionette slid to a stop and raised her head haughtily. "DO YOU HEAR THAT? I DON'T CARE ABOUT WHAT YOU THINK!" She yelled toward the stables.
The mares grazing with their foals nearby, in the next field raised their heads from the grass and gave her disapproving looks.
Marionette ignored them.
I decided to play along. "Did I hear what I thought I heard? Did you address me without my name? Have you forgotten what I was called?" I put an extremely pompous look on my face and paraded in front of them. "I'll remind you then. My name is Steele, spelled S-T-E-E-L-E, and I am Steele the Stinkface. You shall call me Your-Oh-So-Stinky-Royal-Highness, Sir Steele the Smelly. You shall call me that, or else I will go over there and make you eat every single blade of grass. You shall eat the grass or else I will bite you, and I will not stop biting until every single blade of grass in that paddock is gone, understand? You shall call me hat, and I shall rule over you, and you shall obey my every single whim or else I will trample you under my completely royal hooves." I stuck my nose in the air and pranced toward them.
Moon was choking, trying not to laugh out loud. Fire Phoenix was grinning widely.
Marionette bowed her bay head mockingly, her black forelock falling low over her eyes. "Oh, yes, I understand, Your-Oh-So-Stinky-Royal-Highness, Sir Steele the Smelly, Sir Steele the Mean, Sir Steele the–I wonder what he's doing right now?" she interrupted herself. "Maybe he's in the stable writhing in pain. Or maybe he's licking the cut and tasting his own blood." She shrugged and went on. " Oh well. Sir Steele the Bossy, Sir Ste–"
"How about Sir Steele the Angry?" said a very cold, very familiar, and right now, very furious voice.
Marionette gasped.
Steele was standing by the paddock rail, grinning icily. Beside him, a young human groom sat on the rail, looping Steele's lead line around the top rail.
I studied the groom. He was new here; I'd only seen him around for the last couple of weeks. And from what I was hearing from Chaya and from stable-talk, he was also ignorant, careless, and indifferent. But since he was here, he was obviously good enough for Sims.
"Wondering what I'm doing out of the stable?" He asked. "I'm just checking on my herd." He emphasized the 'my', lifted his forefoot and showed us the white bandage wrapped around it, then turned and nickered to the human.
"All right, I'll let you stretch your legs, but you don't go running, all right?" drawled the human. He looked like he couldn't have cared less, like he was a human in a park and Steele was a puppy dog who's just begged to have a run.
Was the human crazy? I stared as the human lazily untied the lead line and let Steele into the paddock. With this kind off leg injury, horses weren't supposed to go around running; they shouldn't even be walking bouncily, as Steele was doing right now; they should have been hobbling around, taking small, slow steps to prevent them worsening their wounds.
Marionette was standing frozen, a look of shock and disbelief etched on her face. Steele sniggered as he went past her, then turned and headed straight for us.
Moon was backing away. As she went past me, I heard her mutter," Oh no, I do not like this…I really do not like this…"
Steele stalked toward her, barely limping, though I could see his teeth were clenched at the pain.
He stopped and thrust his nose forward, so that his face was inches from Moon's. He had her backed against the fence.
"Get away." Moon's voice was trembling. "I said, Get away from me!"
"I don't think I will," Steele's voice dripped sarcasm. " Not until you tell me what it was that you thr–you four were talking about before I came here. Was it something usual? Or was it something…shall we say…something that you wouldn't want me to hear? Hmm?"
Moon threw me a terrified look.
Steele's icy grin grew wider.
"How about something that we've all wanted you to hear for a long, long, time?" Marionette offered. She seemed to have found her voice.
I caught Marionette's eye and shook my head warningly. If she went and provoked Steele now, who knew what he would do to her? Or to Moon? Or to anybody?
Marionette saw me, but went barging on anyway. What was she playing at? No offense to her; Marionette was really nice, but she was also very outspoken. And determined. And stubborn. Don't tell him anything, I mouthed.
"You know–"I shook my head more forcefully than before. Didn't she get the message? "– we think that you–"
"Hey, break it up!" I heaved a sigh of relief that, thankfully, went unnoticed. "Come on! What is this, a meeting or what? I thought you just wanted to stretch your legs!" The human was now scolding Steele; he seemed to have finally come to his senses.
He glanced at his watch, which was something, I've learned, that tells humans the time and is worn around the arm. "Look at the time! Hurry up; we've got to get back or Uncle'll have my neck."
The line was on in a flash, and he was leading Steele away before we knew it.
Marionette was looking as though she had just been told that she was banned from the pasture and would have to spend the rest of her life in a stall. And Marionette loved running.
Moon exhaled.
"He has an uncle here?" I asked in disbelief, my eyes still on the distant speck that was Steele and the groom as the three of us gathered around the corner post of the paddock.
Marionette didn't answer; she was busy rubbing her nose on Moon's neck.
"Sims." Moon said quietly.
I frowned. "What does he have to do with anything?"
"Didn't you know? That was Sims' nephew."
Oh. Ok…
"If he was the nephew of a famous Triple Cup winner-trainer, then why was he so…so…" I searched for a word.
"So clueless about horses?" Marionette threw a disdainful look back at the human groom.
"Yep."
" I don't know…you should ask Sir Peppero…and if he doesn't know, he'd still give you his opinion about him…and probably about everything else…"
"Sorry, just curious…"
I really didn't want to know anything about a future Sims duplicate; I already have enough trouble with one of them, and this nephew looked like he would turn out to be very much like his uncle.
I suppose it runs in the family.
As it turned out, I needn't have worried about Galilean at all. For a while anyway. After that first race, his owners must have thought that he was now a lose-proof racehorse, and shipped him off to Florida to race there.
That was good news and bad news. Good news, because now I'd at least have an easier time winning races. Bad news because, now, I couldn't test my theory, and if it didn't work, I wouldn't have enough time to think up a new one if he came back.
And he would be coming back. Sir Peppero had said that, come summer, Galilean would be shipped back here.
In time for the Triple Cup. And he'd hinted that the brown colt might be entered in one or two races before that.
Oh well. You can't have everything in life.
But at least I had something to look forward to.
Only a year left……