Heart and Soul (rewrite)

Chapter Thirteen

Paloma's ears pinned back at the unfamiliar sight before us. Miles and miles of uninterrupted grassland, capped by mountains in the distance. I felt a surge of excitement in my chest, and suddenly, forgetting the pain in my hindquarters, I leaped around Paloma like an overgrown foal. She caught on, nipped my neck, squealed with joy, and took off bucking. With a snort I followed her, then it was a race, but there were no jockeys, no starting gates, no rail to crash through, no sandy footing that became mud when it rained. Just me, Paloma, and the wide open sky.

By the time we finally stopped galloping the trailer and highway were lost to sight. We were deliciously free. We followed the scent of fresh water to a pond and waded in, splashing each other and rolling in the thick mud. The trailer ride had bonded us, and now there was no need to pin my ears at her if she got too close. We were in this together, and she was the only one I had left.

Until, of course, that early summer day when Paloma napped and I grazed nearby, tail flicking my hindquarters. The bugs were out in full force already. I heard them before I saw them, the distant four beat, monotone drum of hooves. I raised my head, grass falling from my mouth. Paloma scrambled to her feet, ink lined ears pricked. Then, over the ridge, came a head. It was a fine head, marked by a broad blaze, and when the rest of the horse capped the rise there were four more heads behind it. The horses kept coming, jostling each other, ears pinned, sometimes breaking into a trot to go after another horse, or escape one. Mostly, though, they just walked, unconcerned. The group clustered around us, shoving each other for a position to drink. The blaze mare was already at the water, her bay coat twitching wildly to keep flies off.

Eventually the herd settled down. Paloma and I stared in awe. There had to be at least twenty horses, and we stood out like sore thumbs. They were short, stocky, and shaggy. Paloma and I were tall, lean, and sleek, and our manes were still roached. Paloma's ears were pressed against her poll in uncertainty, until the entire herd parted hastily to allow passage to a massive, heavily built strawberry roan stallion. He spotted us and his ears perked up. With a swagger to his stride the big stallion trotted to us, and attempted to touch noses with Paloma. She squealed and snapped at him, drawing blood from his soft muzzle.

Blaze Mare's head popped up from the water, and stared at Paloma, muzzle dripping. Then with a squeal of rage she spun and began to gallop at Paloma, ears pinned, mouth agape. She breezed past me, but I was faster, and heavier. I had realized her intent, and needed to protect Paloma.

I leaped at her, slamming into her shoulder, knocking us both to the ground. I landed on top of her, and scrambled for footing, stepping on her several times as she writhed. Then I was up, and she staggered to her feet, battered and bruised, her initial blood rush gone. I stared at her, ears back, challenging her to another fight. But she only limped away.

The herd of horses stared at me, eyes wide, ears perked. It hit me in a sudden realization.

I was their lead mare now.

Not only that, I was at a complete loss as to what to do.

Paloma stepped closer to me and I to her. Then the herd dropped their heads, and pushed for a spot at the water once more.

I was quick to learn their ways. I never left Paloma's side, and defended her from pushy mares. Our manes grew out until they spilled over our necks. Winter was brutally cold, but we learned to huddle together, and spring came again. I soon forgot the touch of a human hand, forgot the weight of a saddle, forgot all my experiences except the ones in the wild, beside Paloma. Every so often a brief flash returned with a certain scent or sound, but life as a lead mare was difficult, and I couldn't spend my time recalling lost memories. They were useless to me.

I was heavy with foal, as was Paloma, and we wallowed away the hours watching mares vanish, then return with wobbly newborns at their sides. Finally, my day came.

An insistent urge drove me away from the herd. I walked for about a day before the first pains began. As the sun set I fell to my knees, then to my side. By the time the moon had reached its highest point a glistening foal lay beneath me.

A colt. As I cleaned him off and he dried in the cool night air I saw his brilliant red color, a gorgeous chestnut, and felt my heart swell with pride.

This child was mine. He had come from me. He was of my own flesh and blood. A profound feeling overcame me, and as he took his first steps I named him after what had first joined me to the herd, and to his father.

Río.

River.

I watched as he became steadier upon his long legs, watched as he learned about the world. When I led him back to the herd I watched as he met Paloma, the lead stallion, Puma, his father. I watched as he formed friendships with other foals, even Paloma's roan filly, and finally, two long years after I had watched him take his first breaths, I watched him driven off by Puma. I missed him, but it was part of life, and I had another foal at my side to worry about, and a rambunctious yearling that had to be kept in line. Salvaje was a strawberry yearling, with two long socks in the front and a broad, bright blaze. The resemblance to her father was striking. She spent her days flirting with colts, luring bachelors to the herd, and running rings around the herd. She had Thoroughbred blood.

Azulejo was a chestnut with a bald face and a single blue eye, hence her name, meaning bluebird. She was sweet, timid, and an innocent filly, frightened by everyday things. What scared her most, however, was the massive, shiny bird that roared as it passed over us. It swooped low, startling Puma into action. He drove us forward, and galloping easily I took the lead, Paloma behind us, heavy with foal. Azulejo galloped beside me, ears back and eyes wide. I nudged her, consoling her, soothing her, and eventually she fell into an easy rhythm beside me. But the bird kept coming, driving us on, diving and swooping. As we galloped at breakneck speed down a rocky slope the first horse fell. She was a black mare called Cuervo, and she stumbled on rocks. With a scream she crashed to the ground, and horses behind her either trampled over her corpse or leaped over the sudden obstacle.

Then the foals began to fail. Their little hearts could take it no more, and with a dying squeal they simply dropped. Seven miles in, little Azulejo screamed. Even I was beginning to tire, but I was conscious enough to recognize the death cry. Her heart had simply burst under the strain. I watched as her legs buckled beneath her, watched as her eyes rolled back in her head after meeting mine for a brief second, watched as she tumbled, lifeless, the momentum from her gallop continuing her motion, and watched as she was crushed beneath the hooves of the horses behind us. The sight of scarlet blood on her bright, glossy red coat made my stomach churn, and a scream of anguish was torn from my throat. My baby. My beautiful baby. Torn from my side by an evil bird. My Azulejo. Gone. Memories, once forgotten, came ripping back at the brief glimpse of blood. A man, flying over my head and lying still. A horse behind me, impaled by a white pole, somehow by my doing.

 A nudge on my shoulder drew my attention away from Azulejo's brutal, sudden death. Just behind me galloped Salvaje. My hope came back in a glimmer. Salvaje was bigger, stronger, older, more rambunctious, taller, with longer legs and more energy. She was more Thoroughbred than Azulejo was. And behind her, Paloma labored, carrying the weight of two, but fighting regardless.

That was when I saw it. The massive cluster of pens, surrounded by men and holding horses. Cages, made to take away the wings of freedom. Murder, covered in chain link fence. Men drove us towards a chute, but I spun away, nearly colliding with Salvaje. She spun away with me, but Paloma was swept up with the rest of the herd, and forced down the chute. Two men on horses came after me and Salvaje, but I pushed her in front of me, and drove her away. Away from these monsters, away from the metal birds, away from what had caused the death of my beautiful Azulejo.