Nicholas Evans - The Horse Whisperer

When Tom said, in all truth, that he'd never heard of a vet being able to save a horse so sorely injured, Logan laughed and said he dearly wished he hadn't. He said things had gone all wrong later at the Dyer place and the Lord only knew what those two boys had done to the poor creature. He said he even blamed himself for going along with some of it, like trapping the animal's head in the door to give him those shots.

Grace was getting cold. It was late and her mother would be wondering where she was. They walked slowly back to the barn and passed through its dark, echoing emptiness and out the other end to the car. The beam of the Chevy's headlights tilted and dipped as they bumped along the track toward the creek house. For a while the dogs ran ahead, throwing pointed shadows before them and when they turned their heads to look back at the car, their eyes flashed ghostly and green.

Grace asked him if what he now knew would help him make Pilgrim better and he said he'd have to do some thinking but that he hoped so. When they pulled up he was glad to see she no longer looked like she'd been crying and when she got out she smiled at him and he could tell she wanted to thank him but was too shy to say it. He looked beyond her to the house, hoping he might see Annie but there was no sign of her. He gave Grace a smile and touched his hat.

'I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Okay,' she said and swung the door shut.

By the time he got in the others had already eaten. Frank was helping Joe with some math problem at the big table in the living room and telling the twins for the last time to turn down the sound on some comedy show they were watching or he'd come and switch it off. Without a word, Diane took the supper she'd saved him and put it in the microwave while Tom went through to the downstairs bathroom to clean up.

'Did she like her new phones then?' Through the open door he could see her settling herself back at the kitchen table with her needlework.

'Yeah, she was real grateful.'

He dried his hands and came back in. The microwave was pinging and he took his supper out and went to the table. It was chicken potpie, with green beans and a vast baked potato. Diane always thought it was his favorite meal and he never had the heart to disabuse her. He wasn't at all hungry but didn't want to upset her so he sat down and ate.

'What I can't work out is what she's going to do with the third one,' Diane said, not looking up.

'How do you mean?'

'Well, she's only got two ears.'

'Oh, she's got a fax machine and other things that use lines of their own and with people calling her all the time, that's what she needs. She offered to pay for the lines being put in.'

'And you said no, I'll bet.'

He didn't deny it and saw Diane smile to herself. He knew better than to argue when she was in this kind of mood. She'd made it plain from the start that she wasn't crazy about Annie being here and Tom thought it best just to let her have her say. He got on with his meal and for a while neither one of them spoke. Frank and Joe were arguing about whether some figure should be divided or multiplied.

'Frank says you took her out on Rimrock this morning,' Diane said.

'That's right. First time since she was a kid. She rides good.'

'That little girl. What a thing to happen.'

'Yeah.'

'She seems so lonely. Be better off in school, I reckon.'

'Oh, I don't know. She's okay.'

After he'd eaten and gone out to check the horses, he told Diane and Frank he had some reading to do and bade them and the boys good-night.

Tom's room took up the whole north-west corner of the house and from its side window you could look right up the valley. The room was large and seemed more so because there was so little in it. The bed was the one his parents had slept in, high and narrow with a scrolled maple headboard. There was a logcabin quilt on it that his grandmother had made. It had once been red and white but the red had faded a pale pink and in places the fabric had worn so thin that the lining showed through. There was a small pine table with one simple chair, a chest of drawers and an old hidecovered armchair that stood under a lamp by the black iron woodstove.

On the floor were some Mexican rugs Tom had picked up some years back in Santa Fe, but they were too small to make the place seem cozy and had more the opposite effect, stranded like lost islands on a darkstained sea of floorboard. Set into the back wall were two doors, one to the closet where he kept his clothes and the other leading to a small bathroom.

On the top of the chest of drawers stood a few modestly framed photographs of his family. There was one of Rachel holding Hal as a baby, its colors now grown saturate and dark. There was a more recent one of Hal beside it, his smile uncannily like Rachel's in the first. But for these and the books and back-issues of horse magazines that lined the walls, a stranger might have wondered how a man could live so long yet own so little.

Tom sat at the table going through a stack of old Quarter Horse Journals , looking for a piece he remembered reading a couple of years back. It was by a Californian horse trainer he'd once met and was about a young mare who'd been in a bad wreck. They'd been shipping her over from Kentucky along with six other horses and somewhere in Arizona the guy towing the trailer had fallen asleep, driven off the road and the whole rig had flipped clean over. The trailer ended up lying on the side where the door was so the rescue folk had to get chainsaws and cut their way in. When they did they found the horses had been tied into their boxes and were hanging in the air by their necks from what was now the roof, all but the mare dead.

This trainer, Tom knew, had a pet theory that you could use a horse's natural response to pain to help it. It was complicated and Tom wasn't sure he fully grasped it. It seemed to be based on the notion that though a horse's first instinct was to flee, when it actually felt pain, it would turn and face it.

The man backed this up with stories of how horses in the wild would run from a pack of wolves but when they felt teeth touch their flanks they would'turn in' and confront the pain. He said it was like a baby teething; he doesn't avoid the pain, but bites on it. And he claimed this theory had helped him sort out the traumatized mare who'd survived the wreck.

Tom found the right issue and read the piece again, hoping it might shed some light on what to do with Pilgrim. It was kind of short on detail but it seemed all the guy had really done was take the mare back to basics as if he were starting her afresh, helping her find herself, making the right thing easy and wrong thing difficult. It was fine, but there was nothing new there for Tom. He was doing that already. As for the turning-into-pain thing, he still couldn't make a lot of sense of it. But what was he doing? Looking for a new trick? There were no tricks, he should know that by now. It was just you and the horse and understanding what was going on in both your heads. He pushed the magazine away, sat back and sighed.

Listening to Grace this evening and earlier to Logan, he'd searched every corner of what they said for something to latch on to, some key, some lever he could use. But there was none. And now at last he understood what he'd been seeing all this time in Pilgrim's eyes. It was a total breakdown. The animal's confidence, in himself and all around him, had been shattered. Those he had loved and trusted had betrayed him. Grace, Gulliver, everyone. They'd led him up that slope, pretended it was safe and then screamed at him and hurt him when it turned out not to be.

Maybe Pilgrim even blamed himself for what happened. For why should humans think they had a monopoly on guilt? So often Tom had seen horses protect their riders, children especially, from the dangers that inexperience led them into. Pilgrim had let Grace down. And when he'd tried to protect her from the truck, all he'd gotten in return was pain and punishment. Then all those strangers, who'd tricked him and caught him and hurt him and jabbed their needles in his neck and locked him up in the dark and the filth and the stench.