Mandy Retzlaff - One Hundred and Four Horses

The Arabian stallion, then, would not only be fed and watered during his stay at Two Tree; he would be catered to in other ways as well. The day after he arrived, Charl led him into the paddock where Charl’s mares were grazing and let nature run its course.

I had never seen Pat and Charl more delighted when the news came back about two months later: several of the Two Tree mares were coming into foal. A new dynasty was about to be born.

Almost a year later, the stallion long gone to his new home in Zambia, Two Tree was home to a fantastic new generation of half-Arabians. Grey was a silvery male, his half sister a bay whom Resje named Princess. As we stood in their paddock and fussed over them, we didn’t know how well we’d get to know them over the years.

I would always look back on one particular moment in the lives of those foals.

Princess had grown to be a delightful little mare, the kind without any natural instinct to fear or mistrust humans. Most horses need gentle teaching on how to have their hind feet handled, to rein in that instinct to kick out at what they cannot see, but Princess loved being handled from the very start. She was gentle, she was patient, she delighted in having a saddle on her back and a girth fit around her—and, as she grew into adulthood, she loved nothing more than venturing out onto the farm, a rider in her saddle, to explore the bush.

The new horses of Two Tree had become as familiar to us as the horses of Crofton. One herd mingled with the other, so that soon I would more often find myself in the half-Arabian Grey’s saddle than in the saddle of any other horse. When Frisky was still with us, she would nose around Princess, Grey, and a little foal named Fleur as if they were her very own offspring. So, as the Retzlaffs and Geldenhuyses became such strong friends, so too did our horses.

Frisky had been gentle and patient in teaching Kate to ride, and Princess was just as gentle and patient in teaching Charl and Tertia’s daughter, Resje. Princess had developed into a beautiful horse, with the temperament of her Arabian sire and the stature of her dam, Chiquita. Now, when Pat and I took the children out on rides, we could see Charl and Resje following the same trails. Sometimes they were just small silhouettes on a distant contour, a fleeting glimpse between the fields of crops, Charl on another Arabian stallion named Outlaw or the silvery shimmer that was Grey, Resje trotting on Princess in his wake. Sometimes our rides converged, and we cantered with them alongside the herds of tsessebe.

There is one particular day that will forever stick in my mind. We had been riding down by the dam, and as the afternoon light waned we turned to follow the tracks up, out of the bush, and toward Crofton. We saw Charl long before he saw us, riding a trail deep between fields of tall wheat. Behind him, Resje sat proudly in Princess’s saddle. As we got near, I could see her hands loose around the reins. Princess, so gentle and patient with her riders, simply followed Grey and Charl, seemingly pleased to be out in the fresh African air.

We called out to Charl, but we were too far away for him to hear us. In her saddle, Kate started waving her arms, as if to catch Resje’s attention. Resje must have seen Kate, for she lifted one hand to wave back. Then she took hold of her reins and carried on riding. Soon the tracks would snake together, and we would meet Charl and Resje in a clearing of red dirt between the fields.

Suddenly, something changed. Princess, normally so sedate and calm, reared up. In the still afternoon air, we could hear her whinnying, even at this distance. She brought her two rear hooves up from the ground, scrabbled at the air, kicked and then bucked. In the saddle, Resje clung to the reins. The buck tore them from her hands. I saw her little hands grappling out to catch them again, but the reins flew free. She was about to fly out of the saddle when something caught her. She snapped, taut, in the air, and seemed to be snatched around Princess. Too late, I understood what had happened: one of her feet was held in the stirrups; she could not be thrown free.

In panic, Princess crashed down and began to hurtle forward. Up ahead, Charl turned Grey to see the commotion—but it was too late. Princess cantered past, with Resje dangling beside her, one foot still in its stirrup, the whole of her body being dragged across the ground.

I looked at Pat. Pat looked at me. In that same second, he dug his heels into Frisky’s flank and drove her on. Princess was cantering in our direction. Perhaps he could head her off before Charl.

Moments later, we took off too, cantering in Frisky’s wake. Though Pat and Frisky surged ahead, we tried to keep up. For a moment, they disappeared over a ridge in the track, obscured by the undulating wheat. When we caught them again, they had reined down. Frisky was standing contentedly by, while Pat knelt at her side. When I got close, I could see Princess standing at a distance, seemingly calmed down. Pat was cradling Resje in his arms. She was battered, bruised, shaken beyond measure, but mercifully she did not appear to be seriously hurt.

Soon, Charl appeared through the maize. He brought Grey to a sudden halt and leaped out of the saddle.

“She’s okay, Charl,” Pat said, gently lifting Resje toward him. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t her fault. Something came out of the bush, a duiker or a … I don’t know. But it spooked Princess.”

“We saw her buck.”

Charl nodded, running a finger along Resje’s brow.

“Thank God nothing’s broken.”

Princess, startled at whatever had hurtled out of the bush, had panicked, shying away. In the saddle, the reins had whipped from Resje’s hands. Though she grappled out to take them again, it was too late. She flew up and out of the saddle, and would have crashed into the ground at Princess’s flank had her foot not caught in the stirrup.

We accompanied Charl and Resje back to Two Tree farmhouse. I watched Resje, finally able to breathe again, following Tertia into the farmhouse and remembered vividly my weekends trying to climb into Ticky’s saddle and stay there, my father’s face swimming in and out of focus that afternoon at the gymkhana when Ticky had thrown me off and wandered, dispassionately, away.

That, I remembered now, was the last time I rode until Pat walked into my life, in his undersize suit and battered cowboy boots. A fright like the one Resje had had today was enough to drive somebody away from the riding life forever.

While Tertia tended to Resje, Charl led Princess back into her paddock, along with Grey and all the other horses of Two Tree. In the garden at the back of the house, Lady was aware that something had happened and turned in little circles, as if demanding attention.

That was the very last day that Resje ever rode. She loved horses and would always love horses, but the thought of being thrown from the saddle and snaring her foot in the stirrup would live with her forever.

At last, it was decided that Princess could not remain on Two Tree. The memory was too fresh, and though Resje would always love Lady, Grey, Fleur, and the other Two Tree horses, the thought of Princess spooked her. Like Frisky long ago, Princess would have to be sent to a new home, to find a new family to love her, without the shadow of that one terrible moment in her past.

Charl did not have to look far to find a new home for Princess. Les De Jager’s son farmed at Ormeston, in the district of Lion’s Den, and agreed to take Princess on board. As well as being a strong working mare, Princess had her Arabian ancestry, and with careful management might add a little of her Arabian strength and endurance to the bloodline in Lion’s Den.

I will always remember the day that Princess walked up the ramp into Charl’s truck and left Two Tree Hill Farm. We thought we would not see her again—but the world has a strange way of subverting your expectations. Princess had left Two Tree, but she had not left our lives for long. When she returned, it was to be under the most terrible circumstances. More change was about to come to our beloved Zimbabwe, and devastation as well to the new world we had tried to create at Crofton and Two Tree.