The Fault In Reality

Chapter Three

Dinner that night is tense, the soft slip of knife against plate marring the otherwise silent air. My mind is a whirlwind of questions, all looping back to the enigmatic horse. I steal a glance at my father. He's in the process of sawing at his steak, with a look on his face that indicates perhaps he wishes he is cutting into something else. Frustration is evident in his turned brow and glinting eyes.

I return my gaze to my own plate, where a lump of steaming mashed potatoes and asparagus await my fork. If they expect to be eaten anytime soon, they're in for a disappointment. Excitement has turned my stomach into a writhing, flipping mass of general unwelcome to any food. Instead I gather a deep breath and set my face.

"What's his name?" I say, and am pleased to find my voice steady and unwavering.

There's a moment of silence, in which several looks are tossed around the table.

"Who's name, dear?" Pat finally answers. I internally bristle at being called 'dear', but let it slide. Keeping my voice stiffly polite and directing my words at my father, I say,

"The black one. The one you told me not to go near..?"

"Ah," is my father's reply. The clock dishes out the seconds with awkward and entirely audible flicks of its dial.

"His name, yes..." my father continues. "Well, as it is he doesn't have one."

I'm a little taken aback by this response.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we never got a name. He came to us under strict circumstance. It was a huge bust up by Mapleridge, some man had them all crowded together in little paddocks. The other horses turned out alright, though, a women from AW took them on."

"And the black one?"

"Listen, Era, it's not really a subject I want to discuss at the dinner table," my father says.

"Tell me."

"He was found in a stall, all alone, alright? Covered in burns and blood and scars, the poor devil. Put one of the Welfare workers in a coma for a week when we first tried to get him out. I was the last option, it was either staying here or having the vet put him down, though I don't doubt the latter might've been kinder. He's ruined, Era. I had old man Fredrick come up from Airrlyle, people there say he can win over any horse with kindness and a steady hand. Not this one."

"So he doesn't have a name?"

"No. You can choose one if you like," the way my father says it, like he doesn't really care, makes my eyes narrow.

"Fine."

"And Era?"

"Yes?"

"You're not to go near that horse."

But when have I ever done what people tell me to? Half an hour later I've found myself leaning on the rail of the corral, watching the black horse. His coat is a collage of scars and tufts of missing hair, and the way he watches me, with eyes drowned in fear, tells me all I need to know.

The muscles in my leg are long accustomed to swinging over rails, and the feeling of doing it again is familiar, safe. Even if what awaits me isn't.

My fingers wrap around the leather of the lunge whip; it's long and flimsy, a flashy tool, but of no real help to me should this horse decide to charge. I'm counting on his monumental fear to keep me safe; I'm counting on it giving way to find out what this horse is really about.

As I enter the corral, his whole demeanour changes. Haughty behaviour is replaced with him folding himself up against the rail, eyeing the whip in my hand. I can only imagine what his previous owner must have done to him using such a thing, but he has no reason to fear. Today the only person getting hurt will be me, and maybe not even that if I'm lucky.

Once I've reached the center of the corral, I allow myself one deep breath. Dusty, stale air fills my lungs. With practiced movements, I flick the lunge whip at his hind end. The wiry string of it hasn't even made it close to him before he bursts forwards, legs slashing at his surroundings and mane a blurry banner behind him.

Dirt bursts from the impact of his hooves, showering me with its million grains. I watch his inky form whirl around and bolt towards me, his head go down and his tail whisk against the sky. I flash the whip at him and the game changes once more as he takes off. Again and again he tests the limits, tries to veer in towards me. Again and again I drive him along the rail, until he's galloping a full circle.

I swing the whip at his rump, watch him bolt into an ever faster pace. His energy seems unlimited as I send him reeling around in the other direction. His muscles bulge under his lathered coat, his nostrils are flared wide to the wind.

Every now and again he loosens a hoof from his stride and flicks a clot of dirt towards me. On such an occassion I merely urge him faster, press him further. The sweat that lathers his coat catches the light and glints a steely color. I will keep at this until his frusteration cracks his cowardice, drive him deep into the raw anger I've seen frequenting his eyes. We need to get down to the base of his instincts, of mine. I need to find out what's under that rage. If there's anything at all.

Then it happens. His ears flick forwards momentarily, his eyes glint with malice. His hooves bunch up and his momentum swings him around to face me.

I give the whip a little wiggle, testing his new found bravery. His ears pin and he takes off like a bird, flashing over the ground. It's another few minutes before he tries again, this time with firmer movements. I swish the whip at the ground, close to him. He holds his ground. Another swing. The string of it brushes against his skin.

His whole body quivers, but I'm certain now. His fear is gone, and now there's anger. Intense anger, like I've never seen before. He paws at the ground, lowers his head.

"Come on," I whisper.

He half raises one ear forwards, perahps trying to catch my voice.

"Come on!" I yell, and my words lash at the air, cut faster than any whip. He rears, hooves snapping at the sky, feet away from my face.

And I smile. That's more like the horses I know, horses I used to work with. Horses, I thought, I'd shut myself away from many years ago.

A/N: I hate writer's block... -_-