Rain splattered the window, distorting the usually uniform city lights into abstract blurs. Drops raced each other across the windshield as the car picked up speed along the freeway. Although I had my music pounding through my headphones, I could still hear them bickering in the front seat. They never stopped arguing. It was decided about six months ago that we, or they, needed to have a break or holiday; and see new things. I wasn’t so keen on the idea. Let’s go up north, they said. Where the wifi’s slow and animals run the joint. In saying that, I do love animals. In the photos, that is. Not right up close where they could bite, kick or scratch me. I shivered at the thought and began watching the rhythmic movements of the windshield wipers. Back and forth, back and forth. The lights cascading into the car gave every aspect of its interior a ghostly look. Yellow, white, red. Mum and dad’s eerie features in the front seat being thrown into relief every time the car passed under a street light. I loved the night life in the city; why couldn’t we stay?
Where we were staying, however, was my father’s brother’s farm up near a town called Nagambie (or my Uncle’s farm, in other words. I don’t know him personally, I can’t call him my uncle). All I know about the town is that there’s a lake and… horses. Beautiful, glossy, prancing horses. Dirty, smelly dangerous horses. The night life there is about as active as a frog in the sun. And what happens to a frog in the sun? It gets fried. But anyway, my so-called uncle’s farm is set up somewhere there’s no walking access to anything decent. All he does is race his horses, train his horses, and pour an insane amount of money into his horses. It’s not like there’s any reward in the horse racing industry. Only a handful of horses actually place in races, and even fewer gain a Makybe Diva-like status. Mum and dad probably expect me to be a gracious house guest and give my uncle a hand in the stables. Yeah, right.
The two and a bit hour drive from Melbourne goes quick when music and Clash of Clans gets involved. The town wasn’t what you’d call exciting. A sign displaying an image of the legendary Black Caviar (she was born here) a main street and the recently erected statue of the legend looking over the infamous Lake Nagambie. Maybe the trip would be more colorful if conducted during the day. I don’t plan to find out. Noel, or Uncle Noel as my parents wish me to call him, welcomes us graciously into his home with open arms. Acting is a second nature to me. So I smile and pretend I’m grateful like a good, well-mannered young lady. Maybe the two weeks will go quickly if I hide away in my assigned room the whole time.
Noel is expecting a delivery of a new horse in the morning. “Morning” to him is “bedtime” to me. A 3am start?! Maybe I’ll sleep through it… but no. As my room looks out over the yard, I hear every thud, every shout and every clang of metal on metal as the beast is unloaded in the half-light. Unable to sleep, I watch from the sanctuary of my window. A horse, smaller than the rest of Noel’s horses, stands wrapped from head to toe in travelling gear. A perfect diamond shape rest between its large, inquisitive eyes. I can’t tell if it is from the pale color of the yard light, but its mane looks to be a pale blonde color. The horse is then moved off and into its stable. I lay back down in my bed, with the blonde-maned horse cantering in and out of my dreams.
Unexpectedly, I wake up at eight thirty. That’s the earliest I had woken up in years. I get dressed in the oldest clothes I own. I want to see the blonde maned horse again. I scramble out of my room and into the kitchen. Marie, or Auntie Marie, has still got her hair wrapped up in those overnight curlers old women wear. She was in bed when we arrived last night. She gets up each morning to cook breakfast for Noel and the stable hands. She smiles genuinely when she sees my half attempt to dress casually. “Good morning, Cherie-” (no one had called me that for years. It’s always been Chez since I hit high school) “-are you hungry? There’s still bacon in the fry pan and tea in the pot.” Tea. Not coffee. How country do you get? I smile and nod. “Yes, please,” and before I can stop myself, I hear myself asking; “when can I go and see the horses?” OMG. What an idiot. I probably sound like some five year old child. But the lovely Marie just smiles her toothy smile and says, “Noel should be in soon. He’ll take you and show you around.” Then she shoves a mug of the best tasting tea under my nose.
The yard was amazing. Horses aren’t so bad after all. I got to brush one, supervised by Uncle Noel (yes, he’s my uncle now), and also got to watch one of these beautiful animals run around the training track. The beat of a thousand drums shook the ground as the thundering beauty raced past us set my heart beating so loud it was amazing Uncle Noel didn’t hear it. Now I see why he did it; who cares about money. Its reward enough seeing such a fit and beautiful animal run without it having to win.
For the next few days I helped feed, water and muck out. All of the twenty or so horses were magnificent. But there was one I was never allowed to go near. The only one I longed to pat, groom and saddle like the others. That one was the blonde maned beauty I saw being unloaded the night I arrived.
He (as I found out, was a boy) was a stallion; a hormonal bundle of muscle and power and attitude. Add a mare (a female horse. Strange terms; I thought Uncle Noel was talking about the mayor a few times) into the mix and there’s a mini hurricane of fur and muscle and hooves on the loose. Uncle Noel hopes to race him, but he’s no good anywhere apart from his own stable unless he was under sedation. So the nightmare stayed excluded up the end of the stable block, swinging his head from side to side over the top of his half door. Back and forth, back and forth. Weaving my uncle calls it. A sign of boredom apparently. Giving himself a crick in the neck more like.
About a week into our two week stay I could see mum and dad were regretting their idea. No Foxtel, Facebook, no friends. I found it funny but somewhat depressing. Their big plan was backfiring, but did that mean they’d want to leave earlier?
The Friday after we arrived Uncle Noel decided to give me a riding lesson. Hate to brag, but I was a natural. Although, I hate to admit, the horse I was riding was one of his retired veterans and did everything I asked him to do without kicking up a fuss as some of the younger horses might have. I was still proud; I didn’t fall off. I’d watched The Saddle Clubas a child, but everything was so different in real life. Now days I laugh at my stupidity; basing my riding on a trio of actors, when the real deal was standing in the middle of the training ring. I loved every second I spent in the saddle.
But through all this, there was still one lonesome horse at the back of my mind. That one horse everyone ignores because he’s different and unmanageable. He’s even excluded by the other horses because he’s so different. He’s the only stallion on the property; he can’t be turned out with the mares, but he also can’t be turned out with the geldings because they bully him. He’s different in appearance too; a flashy reddish-brown (there’s a proper name for his color, I just don’t remember; too many new terms) with a blonde mane and tail. Being the one that doesn’t belong doesn’t seem to be affecting his ego, though. Or yet, I should say. He reminds me of a little Asian girl in my class in primary school. She was harassed, embarrassed, ridiculed, annoyed and bullied because she was different. At the time, I stood to the side and even laughed along sometimes. Geek, four-eyes, Ching Chong and Chopsticks were some of the nicer names given to her. By high school, however, she silenced her bullies by silencing herself. The torture, taunts and tears became too much for her; she had moved to a new home only to be tormented by her peers because she was different. Like the stallion. I wasn’t about to let the same fate happen to him.
None of the hired hands would go near him. Only Uncle Noel had the guts to approach him. I was going to change that. So one night I snuck out into the stables. I entered through the back feed room door instead of the main door; it was less noisy and the horses wouldn’t start neighing expectantly for food and give my plan away. The stallion was closest to the feed room anyway; I wouldn’t be disturbing too many horses along the way. Armed with a bag of apples, I approached the stall, speaking softly to the stallion. His bright, intelligent eyes watched me from the musty depths of his stall. I lingered for a moment, observing him. The diamond on his forehead shone as bright as the stars outside. Those alert, delicate ears; with their tips almost touching, listening intently to every word I say. His soft, sensitive nostrils flared as he caught my scent. His eyes shone, bright and analytical. He didn’t look like he was going to flee or hurt me if I entered his stall. I pulled back the catch on his door and entered the stall. I held out my hand, palm up; offering the apple. Keeping my eyes low and using non-threatening body language, I took a step closer and closed the door. I heard the straw rustle underneath his hooves as he took to hesitant steps forward, stretching his head out cautiously. He snatched the apple from my upturned palm. I felt his whiskers brush my skin as he took the treat. Crunch, crunch, crunch. A moment later and I felt his breath and tickly whiskers on my shoulder as he searched for another apple. I smiled and plunged my hand back into the bag.