The Fault In Reality

Chapter Twenty

Wind sweeps over the land, as though trying to dry out the storm's damp aftermath. Devany is restless in his stall when I next come by the barn. He tosses his head and draws me towards him with the plaintiff look in his golden eyes.

Out, out, out, he seems to be telling me. I have to smile at his eagerness, and also give him a few firm taps when his excitement brinks a little too far on pushiness.

Then the halter is finally done up and the lead rope is clipped on, and we stride out into the watery sunshine. The day is big and blue, full of opportunity and expectation. I feel like an artist in front of a canvas, certain of my final product but not quite sure how to get there. The paint brush, I decide, must be the lead rope in my hands, and so I begin there.

I test the lengths of our communication: how subtle can I make my tugs, our turns? How far does he read into my body language? If I angle my hand like so, and twist my fingers so that the rope ripples with the faintest hint of a snap, will he stop?

We test each other in the confines of the corral, but the memory of yesterday is fresh in the glittering rain on the grass. I can't help but remember our various walks home... one from the kill buyer, one from the storm... the quiet tranquility of those moments calls out to me, ensnares with its ideals and finally guides my hand into unlatching the gate.

We burst free of the corral, and suddenly Devany is no longer a horse scarred by his past; he is a foal. His legs are like springs, coiling at the ground tentatively, pulling away to fold exuberant twists in the air, then landing again. He tests my grip, surging forwards, and when his antics are met with my unmoving reprovals, he begins to trot in place. His mane bounces over her neck with each step, his eyes twinkle with merry cheer. I don't have the heart to make him walk. He's practically piaffing, nose buried in the scents of the air like it's a bag of oats, tail whisking my arm occasionally.

I decide what he needs is a good run in the pasture. My fingers close around the rusted latch of a gate, and then again later at the clip of his lead. The next moment Devany is a flurry of black, charging the air with his whirling mane and streamlined tail splayed wide to the wind.

I watch him twist and dance and spin on his heels. I know instinctively I'm not the only one who's looking. My father is at the rail behind me; I can hear his quiet breathing.

"That horse of yours... he's quite the creature," he finally says. I swallow a lump that has formed in my throat - from what, I can't be sure - and nod.

"You've worked wonders on him," my father goes on behind me, "despite my every effort to keep you two apart, your iron will has forged something out of it. Era, I can't deny the reality in front of me much longer. Of the many challenges I'm sure you'll face in his training, you don't need to consider me one of them any longer."

I turn and look at him. His face is shadowed in by the morning, and I admire the sun's work as an artist. She's underlined the serious crease of his brow, the earnest set of his lips. She plays with the reflection in his eyes, highlighting the flecks of blue in them. For a moment he resembles the handsome man I remember so long ago, the one who held my hand on the first day of school and led me through the hallways.

Right to the door of my kindergarten teacher, Miss Penelope. I can still remember the instant hatred I felt for her the very moment she looked at me. And so now I think to myself, bitterly, how apt an analogy it is. My father, always meaning the best for me, prying my four year old grip off his leg and leaving me with a warm wave and a, "Have fun!".

Four year old me crying by the blocks, certain I'd be better off with him than in a room filled with strange children and the abhorred Miss Penelope. The realization hits me, slowly, and spreads like ice in my chest.