Minnie, the mare who loved children

The moon shone bright in the cool November night. The mare stood by the brush pile.

She seemed asleep, but wasn't.

The child strolled aimlessly about the stable yard, dragging a stick along the hard-packed sand, one moment in the soft silvery light, the next in the deep dark shadows cast by the giant live-oaks. He ran the stick across the boards and battens of the barn.

The mare heard the scraping of the stick. She didn't move a muscle. Just stood, the way a sleeping horse will stand.

The child came past the corner of the barn, whacking the gatepost with his stick.

The mare saw the stick as it lightly slapped the post. She didn't bat an eye.

Just stood, the way a sleeping horse will stand.

The child stirred a pile of droppings with his stick.

The mare smelled the fresh green scent of half-digested hay and grain. Her nostrils didn't quiver. She simply stood, the way a sleeping horse will stand.

The child, seeing the old horse sleeping way over towards the back of the paddock, smiled. She was what had brought him from his bed in these, the hours after midnight.

He thought back to the morning of the day before, when his father had lifted him into the cradle of her saddle. He'd been afraid, never having set a horse before. "Don't be scared", his father had said. "The man said Minnie's old and quiet. She wouldn't hurt a fly."

His father had taken the reins and they'd started out at a slow walk towards the gate. The child had held tightly to the saddle-horn, his muscles tensed with nervous strain. She might be old and gentle but that didn't make her any less tall. The saddle had swayed from side to side and back and forth as the old horse's old hips moved one long leg behind the other.

"Minnie loves children" his father had said.

And that was true; Minnie did love children. In her own unique and very special way.

They'd walked around the stable yard, his father leading the old horse, the child clinging to the saddle, slowly becoming more confident as he sensed that the old horse was not only aware of him, but also seemed to be concerned lest he fall off. Maybe she really did love children. Maybe she'd be his friend.

It hadn't taken long before he knew the horse was really trying to take care of him, to see he'd not be hurt. From that time on he'd really enjoyed the ride. It was a lot different then the pretend horse in front of the supermarket, the one his father fed quarters while he sat on top and rocked back and forth.

Finally he had been no longer afraid. He'd ridden, with pleasure, while his father had led. He'd sat the saddle and, looking down, he'd seen the massive muscles in the old horse's shoulders as they had worked beneath the thick sleek skin. He'd seen the awesome power there and felt the old horse using just the lightest touch of all that strength to keep him balanced on her back with tiny flicking movements.

After the ride, he'd petted the old horse's velvet nose as she had taken corn from his hand, and as she licked him when the corn was gone.

That was the morning of the previous day. It seemed now as though it had been many days ago. It seemed also as though he and Minnie were old old friends, friends with the special bond of trusting rider and trusted ridden.

The child looked through the fence. The old horse seemed somehow closer. He hadn't seen her move but she seemed somehow further from the brush pile and closer to the fence.

He didn't like the brush pile. Something about it just seemed wrong. More like old bones than brush. It made the hair stand up between his collar and his neck.

He looked toward the barn. He'd get in trouble if someone found him here. Or if his father or his mother woke and missed him. He was their only child and they seemed to always worry and think that something awful was going to happen to him.

But nothing bad could happen here with Minnie to protect him.

He shivered slightly, maybe from the coolness of the slight night breeze, maybe from the knowledge that he oughtn't to be here, or maybe from some other unknown cause.

The old horse seemed closer still.

He stirred the sand with the end of the stick as he stared at the beauty of the gentle old horse. She stood there in the moonlight looking somehow vulnerable, the way all grass-eaters look at night. He thought about the nature programs, and how they told about the difficulties of being a grass-eater. In olden times there had been wolves and lions and all sorts of other eaters of flesh. And those eaters of flesh had preyed on the eaters of grass: the horses, the cows, the zebras and other such.

"Well they'd just better not mess with Minnie" he thought, and hit the ground with the end of the stick. "I'll protect her." He swung the stick around and listened to the satisfying whistle that it made.

He looked up and, startled, realized the mare was closer than he'd thought. Her ears were up and listening, alert for any sound. Her nostrils were wide as she smelled the air around her and he could tell that she knew more by smell then he by all his senses.

He looked at that big soft muzzle which he'd petted just yesterday. As soft as any soft could be. And then he looked at the mouth that had so gently taken the dried kernels of corn right from his hand. The teeth were huge and yellow and silently spoke of a strength and power even greater than that shown by her size and nearness.

He looked into her eyes. Yesterday, he'd seen her eyes up close - big, and soft, and deep as deep - filled with gentleness and love. That's when he'd known he'd have to come back and see her again -- she'd even seemed to tell him so.

Tonight, though, something in those eyes was different.

Yesterday those eyes had looked so gentle – he thought again of the cows and zebras.

But tonight? What was that look?

The stick fell silently and unheeded from his fingers.

He started to step back, remembering the look on the faces of the lions in his mind. A look of terrible purpose. A look of something true and hard and cold and hot, and something he had never known: the awful look of hunger.

He glanced towards the brush pile with its look of sticks and bones. He looked back at the now-burning eyes and monstrous teeth of the gentle old horse. He tried to turn and run away, back to the motel, back to his father, to a better-known and better-understood life.

He looked up at that awful mouth just inches from his tiny tender face. He felt the fetid breath. He turned to run away…

The moon shone bright in the cool November night. The mare stood by the brush pile.

She seemed asleep but wasn't.