Horses Can't Ride Alone

Horses Can't Ride Alone

By Casey McGill

A city on a plain knows nothing but the horizon, just as a denizen of said city knows nothing but an interrupted horizon. Michael, fair of hair, knew less than that. A steady prairie sun disagreed with the complexion years of genetic neglect had refused to harden. All day, Michael slept in a fitful stupor, waiting for that sun to sink into an infinite pancake of sweeping grass and give the moon a minimum wage of light for the work she did with the stars. Only then would Michael stir to boundless activity.

The stables after dark are a casual coalition of organisms that know nothing of each other, save what they can safely share in that space. Horses, the undisputed kings of pasture and barn, keep scurrying rodents safe from predators that have neglected to remember the collagen wallop of a laser-guided hoof. The fleas on their pelts scatter in the dirt, the chickens and two huffy turkeys scratching through it for some Thanksgiving and breakfast protein. 

Michael, contrary to the belief of those outside the stable (and of those who own it), is firmly at the bottom of the stack. A horse will kill Michael with suggestion from those hooves, and a flea might infect his blood with a pathogen that would call the landlord running to collect rent from a corpse. 

Michael knows this, and Michael is comfortable with this. His role is to keep the horses fed (keeping their hooves on the ground), keep the chickens alive (condemning the fleas to a healthy micro-population), and make sure nothing burns down (even though he would personally light the first grain if all the animals were safely out). 

No one knew how Michael convinced the landlords, distant oligarchs with a near-forgotten hobby, to hire an overnight stable hand, but it probably involved an underpaid secretary and a few exaggerated accolades that convinced those well-fed hungry rulers that Michael knew what he was talking about. 

He did, of course, he had seen all the classics: Shane, Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, and of course, The Hannah Montana Movie. Foundational texts in horsemanship and horsecareship. Alfalfa in the barred top slot and grain at the bottom. Brushed once a day. Clean water. Eggs left in a bin for a local guy to sell at three times the price of a grocery store to people who don’t know the true value of a fresh orange yolk. 

Two weeks into the gig, Michael noticed deep gullies carved into the packed dirt beneath the horses’ feet, and wood panelling chewed with a gumption only a recluse of the Great Plains recognised – one stemming from being fucking bored. 

Well, citing the deep magic of Shane: Spirit of the Hannah Montana, Michael figured how the leather thongs and metal bits fit onto the grand silhouette of the beasts, in desperate need of a sprint. 

The sand had long compacted into grainy cement in the arena, but horses adapt. Horses dig into the soft purchases in the colloidal grains, and rip the bonded macro-atoms into a shifting paradise that only hurts when interrupting the fall off a horse (instead of killing you, of course) – a good thing, with how often Michael fell in those first few weeks. 

The desperate stampede of horses hastily saddled into an abandoned arena left Michael with no choice better than gripping with white-kneed terror. Untreated broken fingers callused into claws curved to grasp reins with an automatic precision envied by the sluggish brute that is muscle memory. Muscles knotted into shields capable of withstanding ramming speed assaults on green fences. Crumple zone thighs melted into the not-yet-broken-in leather of a saddle far too expensive to be wasted on just taking desperate circles around an arena. 

Michael took to the natural selection of his body composition without complaint and marvelled at the efficiency of his gnarled hands just as he learned he could control the horses without them. Trust is one thing, but a mechanical guarantee is entirely another. Horse and Michael reached an equilibrium Shaffer longed for, and soon each knew what the other thought before the synapses could even be fired.

For years Michael grew with the stable, and for years the landlords neglected to visit as money poured into the stable and Michael’s pocket – until Michael could afford to make an offer on that slice of land which convinced the hobbyists that a few dollars in hand is better than a hobby out on the plains. 

Michael went on, as usual, riding and feeding and maintaining a biosphere sheltered under the eaves of the barn he painted and repaired. Michael’s horses paid for themselves. A horse from his ranch won titles and ribbons faster than they’d breed, making the waiting list years, decades out into an uncertain future. One sold horse paid for the lives of seven. One forced insemination paid for the lives of three. Michael grew rich and old, the horses grew famous and fast. But he still slept in the barn, he still gave the eggs away to the daughter of the man who sold the eggs at a markup (she set them next to a box with a slit that said “give what you can”); and he still rode every night.

A bone is a strong thing, with layers of calcium as armour for a blood-producing core. Armour rusts. Calcium grows porous. A young horse stays strong. A wall stays sturdy. 

Michael, alone as he was until the end, died with his bone jutting from where it sat his whole life, atop a mound of silky sand that he had raked just that afternoon. 

It took three weeks to find his body, and three hours to sell his life.

The highest bidder sold the eggs himself, and the daughter took her sign and moved to the coast.