Black Tail

An exclusive short story by Janet Rising

I’m delighted to feature a short story by Janet Rising you won’t find anywhere else: a poignant read of love and loss set on the hunting field.

***

Henry eased himself into the saddle, his bones settling, his muscles relaxing into their familiar positions as he nodded to the driver of the horsebox to remove the rug. The strawberry roan shuffled under him, unusually restless. It wasn’t like the Shrimp to be anything other than calm and workmanlike at a meet. A former Master’s horse, he knew his job and carried it out in a manner befitting an equine professional, but this morning Henry felt the old horse quiver under him. The movement put him in mind of horses he had hunted long ago – youngsters intoxicated by the scent of hounds, by the other horses, by anticipation of excitement ahead, the best equine party ever devised.

    “Morning Henry!” boomed Phillip Casters, fellow follower who had a tendency to talk in clichés and who, like Henry, favoured mid-week meets empty of over-excited weekend riders Henry considered to be over-horsed, out of control, and far too talkative. “Thank goodness Christmas is over and the masses are back at work. Much smaller field today, eh? We should get a good run or two if the snow holds off!”

Henry nodded, and after agreeing that youth was indeed wasted on the young, acknowledging that yes, thank you, it was cold enough for him and nodding that time, tide and hounds did indeed wait for no man, they joined the small, regular group of followers and hunt staff, waiting for hounds to move off.

The temperature had risen slightly as clouds – white, heavy and promising snow – drew across the sky. Doctor Julian Porter rode up beside Henry, his dark bay gelding jogging, impatient to be off.

“Be lucky if we miss the snow,” he said. Henry nodded. The doctor’s bay always reminded him of Emma’s old Waterford. Her excitable bay had always jogged everywhere, but Emma had never minded. She had always had him hunter-clipped, even though a blanket clip might have kept him warmer and better behaved.

“I can’t abide hairy backs,” she’d shudder when questioned, “he’s a hunter, not a riding school nag,” and Henry had been grateful that his own back had not been a hairy one. Had their fifty-one years of marriage relied on the fact that he hadn’t needed clipping?

Hounds picked up the scent laid before them and the Shrimp settled behind Phillip Casters’ flea-bitten mare and the haphazardly marked skewbald rump of Nicola Williams’ new mount. As always, tears were torn from Henry’s eyes on the first chase as hounds led them over set-aside, across a ditch and around a field of plough, where everyone was forced to slow down. Clouds of expelled equine breath hung on the cold air and Henry could feel his mount’s sides heaving already. The Shrimp was feeling his years, thought Henry. He empathised.

The pink horse had been called the Shrimp for so long nobody could even recall his real name – for the Shrimp certainly wasn’t the name on his passport. He’d been a regular in the hunting field for almost twenty years, and Henry’s mount for the past three. The partnership suited them both as they were no longer thrusters, content to enjoy the sport within their limitations.

Henry noticed Doctor Porter’s bay again. The sight of its tail showing black against the mushroom-grey of its clipped coat took Henry back to hunts gone by when Emma had legged Waterford on ahead of him, her eyes twinkling, then serious, seeing a stride to a hedge, urging Waterford on, asking for greater effort. Whenever they had come to a particularly intimidating fence they’d slow together, shooting each other daring glances. “I’m game if you are!” was the challenge, and neither had ever shied from it. It was for these moments of memory that Henry lived, when his body’s limitations were pushed aside for a moment or two, and why he hunted still.

In those days, before the ban, you never knew where quarry and hounds would take you. How many times had he and Emma walked the horses home in the growing dusk, not realising the miles they’d travelled during the thrill of the chase? And then Waterford would walk – between the odd token jog – and they’d relive the day, the fences tackled growing larger and more formidable in the glow of their memories. There had been other horses, of course, but whenever Henry thought of Emma it was on the spirited Waterford he pictured her. But of course they had both been full of youth, of enthusiasm for life – it had been the best of times for them both. Those images were imprinted on Henry’s memory as though seared by a brand.

Away from the plough the field made its way through the gloom of a wooded glade, bursting out into the strange, grey light once more, galloping up a hill to a post and rail. Henry could feel the Shrimp rally, full of running now, and the black tail of Doctor Porter’s bay drew Henry on, the small red triangle of unclipped coat above his tail pointing the way like an arrow. The fence was big – but Henry felt the Shrimp check under him, adjusting his stride before pricking his ears and galloping on confidently.

As the teasing siren of black tail took off in front of him Henry kicked on, hearing Emma’s laugh in his ears as the Shrimp gathered up his forelegs and soared into the air. For a moment which seemed to last forever they defied gravity, and then they were heading for the ground, landing hard. Henry felt the Shrimp stumble, and for a moment he imagined falling, hitting the ground, the shock of the impact. He remembered how it felt – it had happened often enough – but then, miraculously, the old horse seemed to recover, leaping forward and onwards, drawn as always toward the music of hounds.

There was that black tail again, like the standard on the field of battle. On the other side of the hedge Henry felt the years recede as his mount galloped on. Hunting always made him forget his aches and pains, masked by adrenalin and memories. Emma still galloped beside him, her challenge ringing in his ears, and nothing was beyond them. He could see her sitting serenely in the saddle, her long, dark hair fiercely contained within a hairnet, her cheeks flushed with excitement, Waterford fighting for his head as they approached a gate. She held him until his stride was perfect and he took off as though his legs were springs, landing neatly on the other side and galloping on. The Shrimp, like a young horse again, made nothing of the gate to catch up with them and they galloped, side-by-side, united by this love of hunting as much as their love of each other.

They were not new, these glimpses of Emma. Henry saw her ahead of him in town, queuing in the bank, reaching for something on a shelf in Waitrose, walking amongst the cars in a car park. She was everywhere – and yet nowhere – morphing into a stranger whenever he got close. But it was in the field where Henry saw her most often, galloping ahead of him, beside him, all around him, at her most beautiful, vibrant, alive, exactly how he remembered her. How he missed her. Oh, how he missed her…

The clouds hung in the air, low now, mist swirling around the horse’s legs, but on they galloped, as though on fresh mounts. Henry could see hounds ahead, scrabbling through hedges, over gates, hunting down their quarry, calling for them to follow. And follow they did. It was only when hunting that Henry felt truly alive, and this chase, with Emma beside him, beautiful and vibrant, how he always remembered her before the cancer and the misery and the brave fight – the one she promised him she wouldn’t lose – had taken her, was why he still pulled his boots over his old feet, paid the monthly livery as well as the horsebox fee for the Shrimp every Wednesday, and dragged himself out to become Henry once more. Hunting was the portal to Henry getting high on an intoxicating mix of excitement and nostalgia, melting away the confines of age he suffered in his everyday, non-hunting life.

Hounds checked and Henry caught his breath, looking around, as always, for Emma. And then hounds picked up the scent once more, racing out of cover and streaming across another field, the enticing black tail of Waterford behind them, beckoning to Henry to follow. The Shrimp was after them before he had a chance to suggest it himself and he caught up with the black tail as hounds were thrusting their way through a thick bullfinch. Henry pulled up, the Shrimp dancing beneath him, as keen as his rider to ensure hounds didn’t get away – but it was a big fence. Even allowing for the fact that they could push through the top branches, it still loomed huge before them. Looking right and left Henry could see no way around it, the hedge disappearing on either side into the swirling shrouds of mist. Hounds were disappearing on the other side, leaving them – unthinkably – behind.

“What do you think, Henry?”

Henry turned to see Waterford plunging, furious at being checked. Holding the bay, Emma looked first at the hedge and back at Henry. With a chill of excitement, Henry knew what was coming. He shortened his reins and rode the Shrimp in a circle, facing the huge fence again.

“I’m game if you are!” called Emma, and put Waterford into a canter, her eyes fixed through the upmost branches. But Henry was ahead of her, urging on the Shrimp with heels and elbows, a thrill rising in his breast like a roar as he felt his horse launch them towards the twigs, upwards, onwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Emma take off beside him, her laughter filling his ears as the first flakes of snow swirled around them, enveloping them both in a blanket of white as they flew on towards hounds.

***

Back at the post and rail Doctor Porter pursed his lips. “Poor old boy’s gone, I’m afraid,” he said. “Broken neck.” He pulled out his mobile phone. The paramedics were in for a long and muddy walk.

“Bloody bad luck, but it’s how he would have wanted it,” said Phillip Casters, shaking his head and struggling to hold the doctor’s wide-eyed bay gelding upset by death, desperate to get back to the comfort of the chase. “The Shrimp must have had a heart attack. He’s had a bloody good innings. Well, they both have. Peculiar coincidence, the pair of them going together like that.”

“Yes,” sighed the doctor, nodding. He frowned as he watched the first snowflakes drifting down, melting into the strawberry roan coat that lay still on the hard ground, and sprinkling like salt on the lifeless rider whose old lips seemed upturned, as though smiling.

***

Illustrations: T Ivester Lloyd (1873-1942), from John Ivester Lloyd, Joey

Janet Rising has written and ridden for most of her life. She’s written her own brilliant series Pony Whisperer, as well as the Valegro series with Carl Hester, and much more. You can find Janet’s books on the Troubador site.