Liza moaned in frustration and snuggled deeper into the covers. When
she heard her father shout up at her again, she rolled off the bed and stood
up. She stumbled sleepily over to her closet where she, without bothering to
look, pulled an old T-shirt out and, working her way out of her sleep shirt,
slipped it on. After getting her brush from the dresser, she marched over to
the bathroom ajoining her room.
As usual, her dog, Beethoven, met her at the door. She glanced at the
dog, acknowledging his presence by a pet on his back. Last year she had
found him by the road while riding the trails on one of her family's many
horses. He apparently had been hit, and the insensitive driver hadn't
bothered to stop, leaving the still moving little puppy to die on the side of
the road. She had taken him home and, against her father's strong conviction
to put him down, had nursed him back to health. He hadn't fully recovered
from the accident though; one of his hind legs was weak, and sometimes
spasmed uncontrollably. When Liza had taken him to the veterinarian, he had
told her that there was nothing he could do, and that the condition would
just be a fact of life for the dog, lasting probably all his life. As a
result of the uncontrolability of the leg, Beethoven limped constantly,
making it weaker than the rest from lack of use.
As she washed her face, she took a long, appraising look in the mirror.
She seemed ordinary to herself; her friends, though, always disagreed with
her, telling her that she was only being modest, that she was anything BUT
ordinary. Frankly, she couldn't see herself as they saw her. She had light
blond hair that could did nothing she wanted it to do, and dark green eyes.
She had to admit, though, that her skin was flawless; she had never gone
through that phase most people went through, when they broke out in zits and
other blemishes. She had always had smooth skin, never needing makeup to
enhance any features. Although all her friends all tried to get her to wear
makeup, she had always hated it, thinking it weighed down her face and not
caring for all the extra care needed to keep her face clean. As a result,
her friends had admitted that she had a natural beauty that makeup would only
ruin. That didn't stop them from trying to make her wear it though.
She sighed at the slight burn on her cheeks. She doubted it was super
distinct, and hoped that her mother wouldn't notice. Getting the aloe vera
gel out, she put a generous portion into her palm and worked it into her
skin, hoping that it would take care of the burn in the long run. She was
certain she was being paranoid, but growing up with a paranoid mother, to
whom every little sunburn was a certain skin cancer death sentence, she
supposed she had an excuse. Taking one last glance in the mirror, she put
the aloe vera gel away and headed out the door, going towards the kitchen.
Even before she got through the kitchen door, she knew what was for
breakfast. Groaning, she plopped down on her chair and stared at the
multicolored omelette on her plate. "Mom," she whined, giving her omelette a
dirty look, "why can't you make something different? You know I hate these!"
"If you don't like them, then you make breakfast," her mother said in a
soft voice, which belied the strength she had if she thought to use it. "And
anyway, I don't ever see you not eating them in the morning. Oh, another
thing," she said, turning from the stove, "do you have any homework?"
Oh brother, Liza thought, sighing. "Mom, it's Saturday. I have the
whole weekend to do it."
"I'll take that as a yes, then," her mother replied, turning back to her
cooking. "I want you to finish it right after your chores today. And no
buts or excuses, young lady," she said sternly as Liza opened her mouth to
argue.
Liza grumbled under her breath but held her tongue, picking up her fork
and tentatively poked at her omelette. Sighing, she took a bite,
alknowledging that, despite her words, her mother was an excellant cook, no
matter what she made. Liza was just wishing that it was something besides
omelette's.
When she finished her breakfast, she studiously put her dishes and glasses
into the dishwasher before her mom told her and, not waiting for her mother
to assign her kitchen duty, headed out the door towards the barn.
A few years ago, her father had come up with the idea of a daily chore
list for everyone to do each day. At first, it had been simple, like only
grooming horses and giving them hay. It had evolved over the years, though,
as the farm grew to a ranch, to mucking the stalls, excersising the horses,
or to go so far as, for the men, chopping firewood. As the oldest child of
the family, she was expected to do most of the mucking of the stalls and the
grooming, while her little brother, who hated horses, only had to feed them.
She personally thought the situation discriminating, but was smart enough not
to bring it up. She would probably get lectured on how one must be a role
model for the younger generation, and that, as a little boy, he would not
have the strength anyway to do many of the chores. He was only two years
younger than me, she thought angrily, getting the wheelbarrow and pitchfork
and heading toward the first stall.
The first stall she had to muck belonged to Red Devil, a roan stallion
whose reputation lived up to his name. He and Liza had worked up a rapport,
an agreement of sorts, which had taken a while to create. She was now able
to work in and around him safely, with him ignoring her, as long as she did
nothing sudden or tried anything stupid. But woe to the person who got too
close, or was dumb enough to try something stupid. When they first bought
him, one of the neighbor's trainers, an arrogant, cocky fool who thought he
knew everything about horses, had been impressed by the stallion and had
asked Liza's father if he could ride him once. Not fully knowing at the time
the roan's full nature, her father had agreed. The trainer had then tried to
saddle the horse on his own, even though the former owner, who had delivered
the stallion that day, cautioned him against it. The trainer hadn't listen
to the man and had put the saddle pad and saddle on without even trying to
tie the horse up. Well, Red Devil had simple whirled around, dumping the
uncinched saddle and blanket onto the ground, and had bit the arrogant
trainer on the shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Liza smiled wickedly,
remembering the trainers scream of pain and fear of the horse. At the time,
though, it had been no laughing matter. Her father had rushed in and grabbed
the horse's lead rope and had calmed him, speaking softly until the stallion
had quieted. The trainer, on the other hand, had not quieted. He ran,
cursing at the top of his lungs and screaming in pain back to the neighbor.
Liza had noticed, as he had raced past, that he had wet his pants, and she'd
had to cover her mouth to keep her laugh in. Two days after the incident, the
trainer, the neighbor said, had turned in his resignation.
Finishing the stall, she edged her way back to the door, still not fully
trusting the horse, and let herself out. Reading the daily chore list, one
of which was stapled to every door in the barn, she noticed she had seven
more stalls to clean. Sighing with relief, she also noticed that today, her
mother would be grooming all the horses, giving Liza some free time.
Skipping her heals, she headed to her next stall, wondering what she would do
in the free time.
Finally, she finished the last stall and, wiping her sweaty forehead,
rolled the wheelbarrow to its usual place. Placing the cleaning instruments
in their designated spots, she looked around for her father, but couldn't
find him anywhere. She searched through the tack room, grain room, and
checked each stall, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Going outside, she spotted her mother cleaning one of the older horses,
Black Minnow, and headed towards her. "Mom, have you seen dad?" Liza asked,
pulling up beside her mother.
"I have, just a minute ago," her mom said, turning off the hose. "He
was loading Runaway into one of the trailers. He's going to take her to the
auction today at the Victorian Ranch. Um," she said, scanning the vast yard,
shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. Then she pointed directly
behind Liza. "There he is."
Liza didn't even look at where her mother pointed; she just turned
around and started off in that direction. Belatedly, she heard her mother
shouting at her about her homework, but she ignored it, and eventually was
out of earshot.
Her father was just closing the trailer when she caught up with him,
panting slightly from the run over here. Her father frown slightly but said
nothing. He didn't like people running anywhere on the farm, since they
might scare the animals.
Not waiting for him to say anything or even pausing to catch her breath,
she blurted out, "You promised!"
Looking somewhat puzzled, her father looked at her while she tried to
catch her breath. That yard sure isn't getting any shorter, she thought,
breathing big gulps of air somewhat noisily. When she wasn't breathing so
heavily anymore, her father said, "Of course I promised. I remember that."
"Then why were you going to leave me?" she asked, incensed. She had
been waiting for this day for about a month and knowing he was about to leave
her at home, to do HOMEWORK of all things, made her say hotly, "Do you always
go around breaking promises?"
"I was NOT going to break my promise to you, young lady," he said, his
tone firm. Liza wished she had chosen different words to say; if nothing
else, her father kept a promise. "In fact," he continued, ignoring the
chagrin on her face, "I was just about to go find you." He stared pointedly
at her for another minute, then his face broke out in a puppydog grin,
causing her to grin just looking at him. He had a knack for defusing tough
situations just by smiling, she thought, smiling a little more. She had
never been able to stay angry at him, or sad, for very long when she saw his
smile; it always cheered her up. This time was no exception.
"Sorry," she said, her smile slipping a little.
"Oh, it's okay sweetheart!" he replied, giving her a big hug. "I know
you didn't mean it." Which only made her situation worse in her eyes; she
had meant it. Uh oh, she thought, sighing mentally; guilt trip.
Her father, not noticing his daughter's face, turned around and headed
towards the car. "Well?" he called over his shoulder, "Are you going to come
or not?"
By the time her father saw her face again, it was back to a beaming
smile, as they pulled out of the driveway and headed toward the auction.
"You have your money?" he asked, glancing at Liza.
"What do you think?" she retorted. "Is there ever a time when I DON'T
have my horse money?"
He chuckled, knowing she did always have her little black and white
wallet on her, or somewhere near her. She was almost too cautious sometimes,
he thought. Then again, one should be cautious with fifteen hundred dollars.
The only time she ever parted with the wallet was when she took a bath, but
it was still right beside the tub. He knew she was ready to pounce on anyone
if she thought they had even touched her wallet. He smiled; his daughter was
anything if not cautious.
She always tried to come to as many auctions as possible. One never
knew whether they would find the perfect horse. She dreamed constantly of
her perfect horse: white, with absolutely not markings on it; not too short
but not huge either; intelligent, knowing everything she needed, wanting to
please. Her last wish was something she had always wanted, stuff she read in
books, but knew never happened in real life; she wanted the horse to know her
thoughts and her know her horse's.
She had always wanted a horse of her own, but her parents had never had
enough money before recently. And she had always wanted her OWN horse,
bought with her own money and hers in everything. Her parents had tried to
give her one, now that they had the money, but she had always declined, no
matter how much she had liked the horse. She'd stuck to her own principles.
Another reason she liked auctions was because of the less expensive
prices. A good horse, if one was looking through a newspaper, magazine, or
bulletin board, could cost around four thousand dollars. At an auction,
though, those same horses could sell for only a thousand dollars. That was
the kind of price she wanted, a real good horse who should be expensive but
wasn't.
She went to the first in the lineup of stalls and peered in. This one
featured a black filly with a single white forelock, much like what she
remembered with Black Beauty. Its coat was pure black, not dulled to brown
by exposure to the sun, and the diamond on its forehead was perfect. When
she stuck her hand in to pet it, though, it didn't act the black beauty; it
lunged at her hand, narrowly missing it as Liza hastily jerked her hand out
of the stall. Sniffing, she turned from the beautiful horse, whose ears were
laid back against her head, and headed towards the next stall. That one, she
thought, needs a thoroughly experienced handler. While she knew she was
pretty good with horses, she didn't want to have to break her own horse, or
have someone else do it for her. She wanted a horse she could ride the
trails with, or excercise any time she wanted to.
The next stall held a pitiful old pony, its back swayed, its head
lowered to the floor, totally unresponsive to her or anyone. Too old, she
thought, and her heart went out to the old horse as she tried to coax it over
to her. She had immediately ruled it out as a potential prospect, but she
couldn't help feeling sorry for it. It had probably come from a good family
who had loved it and cared for it. But whatever the story, it had ended up
here, in an auction, where it would probably be sold as dog meat. Such things
were illegal but common at auctions. She knew that she couldn't save all of
the horses even if she were to try but it still hurt, seeing these horses,
knowing what waited for them down the line. So, with a heavy heart, she went
to the next stall, which contained a light brown stallion.
Now this one caught her eye. She knew he wasn't more than four, but his
eyes made him seem much older. Growing up around horses had taught her what
good horseflesh looked like, and she could tell by the legs that this one had
great potential. She looked him over and the more she saw, the more she
liked what she saw. He had a well defined head, almost like an arabian, but
not as dainty. He had a deep chest, which had great potential for deep
muscles, and thick flanks that would be good for a trail horse.
She could also tell he had been thoroughly abused. He reeked; she could
smell him from ten feet away. He very badly needed a good bath and needed to
be groomed equally as bad. She saw open sores all over his back and neck
(probably fly or horse bites) and a few around his ankles, that needed
aniseptic badly. He looked to be in pain too, she saw, noticing how he
stepped lightly around his stall. He probably had a few little pebbles
caught up in his hooves, and she could see how his two front hooves, which
needed desperately to be shod, were already cracking. One had a very visible
crack running about two inches up his hoof.
She took a carrot out of her pocket and, snapping off a piece, slowly
reached into the stall and held her hand flat, the carrot piece in the
middle. Her breath caught in her throat, though, when he shied away, clearly
frightened. He huddled next to the back wall in fright, and, not getting any
positive response, sighed and pulled her hand back and put the carrot into
her pocket.
"He's a pitiful sight, isn't he?"
Liza whirled around, startled: her father had snuck up behind her back.
He was staring intently at the stallion; probably noticing the same things I
had, she thought. "Oh, I don't know," she replied, turning back to the
horse. "He's got a great body, and probably comes from good breeding. I
mean, look at those legs," she said, pointing. The horse shied away from her
pointing hand and she quickly pulled it back, not wanting to frighten him any
more.
It was then she noticed the papers on the stall doors, telling about the
horses and the starting prices and so on. She briefly glanced at this
horse's papers, noticing a lot of info missing, like the date of birth, the
parents, or anything to show lineage. She frowned, wondering how such a good
horse could have no lineage, but figured that his papers had been lost or he
had never been registered. She continued reading what little was on the
paper. She glanced at the asking price and paused there. The horse was only
starting at one hundred and fifty dollars. She frowned at so little a price,
but shrugged; the former owner probably didn't know the value of his horse.
He probably thought that it was a cheap, no good, waste of money. She had
been angry when she had seen the condition of the horse but this only fueled
her anger. She put a rein on it though and continued reading.
When she glanced at REGISTERED NAME, she noticed it was curiously blank.
She looked up at the horse, then back down to the paper, wondering what his
name had been.
::Thyme.::
Startled, Liza looked around, trying to find the owner of the voice.
There was nobody in the vicinity but her father, but the voice hadn't been
his. Who was that, she thought puzzledly.
::Me.::
She looked around again, then turned back to the stall. YOU?, she
thought.
::Yes.:: The horse tossed its head up and down, making it look like it
was nodding.
Liza could just stare in confusion. There is no such thing as
telepathy, she thought.
::What am I then?::
You're my imagination, she thought, her mind all in a jumble. Am I
going crazy, she thought.
::No, you're not. I'm really here.:: With that, the horse stopped
cowering and slowly straightened, and edged over to Liza. ::You won't hurt
me, will you?:: he thought, caution heavily lacing his voice.
"No, I won't hurt you," she said out loud, suprised to hear her own
voice. She looked around for her father, but he had gone on to the next
horse and was reading the paper on the door. Okay, she thought, no help from
that corner.
She pulled out the broken off bit of carrot and once again offered it to
him. This time, though, he timidly, slowly, drifted towards Liza, his
thoughts seeking reassurance. Finally, convinced, he quickly put his head
out as far as it could go and took the carrot. When he had it, he drew back
again, and chewed it contentedly.
"Okay feller, le's go now." A stout, muscular man shoved Liza none too
gently aside and, opening the stall door, entered Thyme's stall and, before
the horse could pull away, clipped a short lead rope onto the brown halter
the horse wore. "Time to get yerself sold." Turning back and heading out
the door, dragging the horse behind him, he finally noticed Liza, looking
rather indignant at being shoved so rudely aside and horrified by the
treatment of the horse. Smiling, the man said in a voice that sounded like
gravel, "Don' you worry none, honey. We'll take care of this little pony."
He jerked the lead rope to emphasize his point. Then, hauling Thyme behind
him, he walked down towards the auction arena, the horse following dejectedly
behind him.
Liza couldn't believe what she had seen. Never in any of her visits had
she seen such cruel treatment of a horse, no matter the condition. But what
had torn her heart the most was when she had seen how little a fight Thyme
had put up. He had cowered when the man had arrived, but once he had been
jerked and hauled out, he had given up. Why, she thought, both indignant and
sad at the same time, if that had been Red Devil, he would have trampled the
guy!
Tears sprang into her eyes as she remembered the old horse. But that's
not possible, she thought fiercly. Thyme can't end up as dogmeat! He's too
good. But people only see the outside, and they didn't know what she did.
Then an idea took shape in her mind. So simple, she thought, so very
simple. The more she thought about it, the better it looked. She looked
around for her father and found him eight stalls away, gazing at a little
grey filly for sale as a broodmare. She grabbed his arm and pulled him
towards the auction arena. "I found something I want, dad."
He stared at her, nonplussed. He had seen no horse that his daughter
might want, and he knew his daughter would not stoop lower than what her
dreams called for. "You sure?" he asked, regaining his composure. "Once you
get a horse here, that's no turning-----"
"I know dad. Come on," she said, pulling harder on his arm, "he's about
to go up for sale."
Pulling him toward the arena, she just hoped her father wouldn't think
she was too crazy.
© 1997 The Dragon Queen