Infinity

Chapter 9

    It was Saturday morning, three days after Hermes took flight for the first time. But this day was different. It was on this day, that she stepped on the track for the first time. My uncle insisted. He just had to see how she performed. He said he would never be content until she ran. I, on the other hand, would have been just fine if she never did run, because I was the one who had to ride her. I wanted to refuse, but I didn't. I didn't because of Hermes. I knew she wanted to run. I knew she had so much potential. It would be a sin to hold her back.

    I shoved my feet into the thick leather boots that my uncle set out for me. I lost half of my energy just doing that. The zipper was refusing to go up, and my thumb went raw. Once the zippers retreated from their fight, I reached for the helmet and molded it to my head. The leather on it was worn and scratched, and there was a part that stuck out and stabbed my skull. It was the only helmet that fit, though, so I had to suffer. I was nervous. I didn't know why, though. It wasn't Hermes. I trusted her completely. I just had this feeling of anxiety. I guess it was because I was stepping onto her playing field, about to play her game, and I didn't know what to expect.

    I made my way to the door, and the sun greeted me as I exited the barn. I walked at a timid pace, kicking the gravel as I went. I adjusted my gloves, making sure the straps were as tight as could be. They basically cut off my circulation. The air was still, yet it was still cool. The trees were still, as if they hadn't woken up yet. A cherry-red Cardinal flew in front of me, perched on the nearby fence, and examined the ground for his breakfast. As I approached the track for the first time, I saw her. Her copper coat was glistening in the sun. She was spinning in circles, not able to stand still. Her tail violently swished from side to side, as if it was being preyed on. She ferociously snorted, and had thick, white foam coming from her mouth. She had fire inside her. She was ready. But I didn't know if I was.

    I finally approached them.

"Ah you showed up! To be honest I thought you wouldn't. I was prepared to call Hank." He said with a grin.

"To be honest, I wasn't sure I would show up, either." I admitted.

"Don't be scared. That's the last thing you want to be. She can sense it. But, I don't think you have any reason to be scared. She will take care of you. Just trust her. Feel her. She knows what to do. And when she's ready to take flight, she'll tell you, and all you have to do is let go. Let her fly." He said with a soft smile. He gingerly patted my shoulder. The contact of his tough hand sent a sensation of comfort and confidence. I looked up at him, but had no words. He got the message though. With that, he tossed the reins over Hermes' ears, took my foot, and threw me aboard her back. She lurched forward a bit, and I quickly grabbed her mane. Once she settled, I collected the reins, reached down to the stirrups, guided my feet in, and began to walk forward. My knees were sticking straight out and brushed her shoulder. I had never been in a racing saddle. It didn't even feel like you were in a saddle. My bad knees began sending me code-red messages, but I brushed them off. My uncle walked alongside us, gently resting his hand on the left rein, just in case Hermes were to spook at something. We said nothing. We just took a nice, serene stroll up the gravel path that led to the track. Hermes was calm. Her stride was steady, almost bouncing. Her neck was bent, and she played with the bit. I stroked her fiery mane with two fingers, and entangled some of the hairs in them. A smile arrived on my face. Even though I was terrified, I was at peace. Being on her back brought me complete peace, and nothing else could even compete.

    We finally arrived at the track. When we entered, I got a rush of adrenaline and excitement. There were about five horses working their hearts out. There were two average bays cantering side by side to the right, not giving a care in the world. To the left, a steel-gray rounding for home at top speed, as if he were being chased by a tiger. A light, almost bread-like chestnut swarmed by some twenty yards in front of us, his rider encouraging him to his breaking point. Then I looked straight ahead. There was a mountain-of-a-horse standing dead still, as if he were waiting for his prey. He was jet black, with muscle protruding from every visible part of his body. He was called Phantom of the Opera. Phantom for short. The name suited him. He stalked his prey in a ghost-like fashion, and attacked at last minute, showing no mercy to his victims. He was the best horse on the entire property, and we were his next scheduled appointment.