J. Anderson Coats - The Night Ride

The Night Ride

J. Anderson Coats

To everyone,

young and old,

who dreams in

hoofbeats

1

ITS BEEN YEARS since I was small enough to ride Buttermilk, but shes still the best pony in this whole town.

Buttermilk is who you lead out when a kid isnt sure he wants a pony ride. She is round and soft with big, dark eyes under a shaggy white forelock, her back so broad its like a nice, sturdy chair. Her step is so even that kids forget they were scared and start pretending theyre rangers, or bandit hunters, or fleet riders.

When the ride is over, kids hug her goodbye. Sometimes mothers have to drag them by the hand off the town common while they bawl and plead for another turn.

Hazy likes to kick up her heels. You put an adventurous kid on her back, or one whos a little older, or whos ridden before. Boris is strong enough to carry two kids at once and sweet enough to be willing to do it. I love all three of our ponies, but Buttermilk is the one that keeps bringing in kids.

This is why shes the best pony in Mael Dunn. Its definitely not her attitude. She breaks wind like a dockhand and enjoys nabbing hats off passersby. Shell eat apples and candy sticks right out of the hands of children who arent paying attention to their treats.

But every time I put a kid on Hazy or Boris or Buttermilk and lead them in a well-trodden circle on the common, we earn a copper piece.

More kids mean more coppers, which means every pony ride puts me a little closer to making Ricochet my own.

Greta and I are supposed to trade off every other day, one of us giving pony rides and the other going to school, but Father found out she was letting me have her turns on the common because shed rather go to school and Id rather be with the ponies. We both got in trouble, and there were extra chores and a lecture about honesty, but thats when Father started giving us one copper out of every twenty that each of us earned from rides.

My sister puts her coppers aside to buy books.

Im saving for Ricochet.

Mother and Father can only afford the half-day school session, so the instant that noon creeps near and Mistress Crumb reaches for the handbell on her desk, Im already gathering my copybook and pencil stub.

Before the ringing stops, Im out the schoolroom door and galloping through the lanes. I duck into our house just long enough to dump my copybook and change into trousers, then its a quick canter to the royal stables where they spread out like a crescent hugging the steep mound topped by the castle.

Theres an armed guard at the entrance, of course. A ranger who drew the short straw. Theyre used to me, though, and Im always waved inside with a bored flick of the hand.

To my right is where the royal familys personal mounts are housed. Ive never been through that door, but I like picturing the kings beautiful stallion and his daughters ponies content in giant box stalls.

Straight ahead are the cavalry horses: big standardbreds that are all muscle and Arabians that can run forever. If a soldiers going to ride it, it lives down that straight-ahead hallway.

But I turn left, into the long corridor lined with stalls where the fleet horses live.

Theyre not called fleet simply because of their speed. These are the working horses of the royal household. If a message must be sent to a neighboring kingdom, the courier gets a mount here. If one of the princesses needs a coach-and-six, these are the stalls theyll clip-clop out of.

These horses are a fleet, like a fleet of ships.

Im counting. Sixteen stalls down. Face left. And there he is. Shining chestnut coat. Beautiful brown eyes. Four white stockings up to his knees.

Ricochet.

I let myself into his stall and press my face against his neck. He smells clean, like someone just rubbed his coat with fresh straw.

So far I own roughly one of his hooves. I did the figuring on a day when Greta and I were cleaning pony stalls out behind our house. Ricochet is worth fifty gold dinars. There are one hundred coppers in a dinar. So to buy him, I will need five hundred coppers.

Right now I have twenty-two coppers. I keep them in a small linen bag that I drew a horseshoe on with berry ink.

We scrubbed walls and floors that day and tried to decide how to divide Ricochet into parts so Id know when I earned what part.

I dont think it matters, I tried to tell her. Master Harold says I cant have him until I can pay all fifty dinars.

No, it does, Greta assured me. Youll need to earn a lot of coppers, and theres going to be a point when you get discouraged. Youll want to spend all your money on candy sticks just to have something now. But this way, you can tell yourself: Look, I already own one hoof. Twenty more coppers and Ill own two. Buying Ricochet will seem possible, and when something seems possible, its that much easier to make it happen.

Greta is pretty smart for someone whos only ten. Id say it was all the school, but she was this way long before either of us started going.

I kneel and put a hand over Ricochets left front hoof and whisper, I wont let you down.

Theres an echo of bootsteps, and I leap to my feet in time to see the royal stablemaster rounding the corner. Master Harold is big like a draft horse, with the same powerful, deliberate strides and shaggy mane. He waves, then makes his way down the aisle toward me.

Ive known Master Harold since I was tiny. Hes laughed at our hearth and eaten at our table and shared more than one mug of cider with Father. But he goes home to a four-story townhouse with real glass panes in the windows and eats meat at every meal, and when he stops outside the stall, I curtsy with the ends of my shirt.

Time for our ride, I say, patting Ricochets neck, and even though Master Harold has told me hundreds of times that I dont have to ask permission if Ricochet is in the pasture or his stall, I add, If thats all right.

Yes. About that. Master Harold strokes his whiskery chin. Ricochet is in top form largely because of you. All that time on the exercise course. The extra attentiongrooming, bathing, fussing. And thats on top of his sweet, calming nature.

My heart goes still. Youre selling him.

Sonnia. Master Harold puts a big hand on my shoulder in some version of a hug from an old man with no kids of his own. Its not my choice what the king decides to do with his horses. But I meant it when I said Id do what I could to keep Ricochet from being sold to anyone but you. Besideshes teasing nowyoure the only one who wants him.

Ive known the rhyme since I was a little kid. White on his forehead, white on his feet, grind up his bones and throw away the meat. I dont say it aloud, though. I dont want to hurt Ricochets feelings.

Ricochets been chosen to be a companion for the kings newest racehorse, Master Harold goes on. Perihelion is supposed to tear up the track this season, but hes high-strung and skittish. He needs a good calm friend to walk beside him before the starting bell and settle him down.

Only Master Harold hasnt yet looked me in the eye. Hes still blocking the door of Ricochets stall.