The Storm

It was a Friday night. The grounds were clean and dinner was nearly finished. We raced up the hill beneath an ominous grey sky, past the old, limbless pine in the courtyard and into the aisles of the grey barn. There was still time for a ride if we hurried. The campers wouldn't be coming up for another ten minutes, and if we were mounted by then, we were golden. Jane and I snatched old, well-oiled saddles and bridles off of their racks, labeled respectively with duct tape and the names of our mounts, Topaz and Summer, written in faded sharpie. With pause only for a shared smile, we hurried to the only two stalls left occupied.

I patted Topaz’s golden rump and he moved to the side, glancing back over his shoulder at me with liquid brown eyes. As I lifted the saddle pad and saddle onto his broad back, I inhaled the sweet scent of horse and hay. There was electricity in the air. I cinched the brown girth up beneath his stomach and took the opportunity to stroke the pale white star on his forehead as I bridled him.

There was no need to lead him into the courtyard. He followed without the slightest pressure on the supple, laced leather reins. Jane was waiting there for me, already astride the chestnut Summer, who danced in place, sending echoed shuffles of sand as far as my boots. I slipped one foot into my silver stirrup and swung into the saddle, immediately feeling at home with the familiar shape of gold and black beneath me.

We cantered up to the ring, ignoring the sky, afraid that a single glance might cause the pregnant clouds to open up and explode. Through the crooked gates, and onto the sand, measured hoof beats drummed on the earth. It was the best ride of my life. That night, Topaz was a titan beneath me, and fine-boned Summer was a fey creature from some other place. Jane and I were not riders. We were guests. By now the campers had wandered up the hill, tame after a hard day’s work. The gathered around the edges of the ring, watching, chattering to one another, intrigued by the opportunity to see their instructors ride.

Life was perfect, in that moment, but the sky couldn’t hold out forever. In response to the thunder of hooves, the sky rumbled back. A flicker of lightning zigzagged across the sky and we knew our time was up. We fled the ring, ushering the scattered girls into the safe space beneath the aluminum roofs of the barn. Saddles and bridles came off as the clouds began to boil. Jane and I glanced at each other over little brown, blonde, red heads and young faces. The horses had to be turned out. Storms in the Green Mountains could turn to destructive monsoons in the blink of an eye, and the horses were safer unconfined, where instinct could take over. But could we make it in time? Another shared smile presented the challenge. We bolted from opposite ends of the barn, heading towards our respective fields, hers down the short, low road into the wooded Back Pastures, mine up the long, steep dirt road to the Hunt Field at the top of the grounds.

I picked up a jog, my tall black boots making as much noise on the packed dirt as Topaz’s hooves. I wove the fingers of my right hand into his coal black mane and let that contact bind us together, leaving the lead rope to hang loosely between my left hand and the bottom ring of his red nylon halter. We ran together past the archery targets, past the double pine, past the crooked-fenced sports field. Up, up, up. Onto the grass where the clip-clop of hooves and boots became muffled thumps and swishes. Past the campfire circle and down the green path. Past the ponies, past the mares, and past the old geldings. We stopped and I pulled back the wire gate of the Hunt Field. I stroked his pale white star again, pulling the halter off over his head and watching him canter off towards his pasture mates, then lower his head to graze, unfazed by the rumbling thunder and the streaks of wild lightning.

I stood watching him until I heard it. At first I thought it was just the storm wind in the pines, but then I looked up toward the tree line. A fine haze was sweeping across the trees, then the field, enveloping everything in a line of grey. It was rain. A solid sheet of rain. I turned and fled. By the time I reached the dirt path, the rain was only a few feet behind me. The wind of my own speed was whipping my hair out of its unstable pony-tail as I veered onto the narrow, winding path that began just past the small, green shower house. It was harder to navigate, but more direct, and my only hope of staying dry.

Heavily wooded, the back path was much darker than the road, barely lit at all when the clouds swallowed the sun. Spurred on by an irrational fear of darker things, I ran even faster, taking long, leaping strides over roots and stones. The rain was right on my heels. Arms pumping and legs flying, I streaked around the last corner, putting on an extra burst of speed as the barn came into view, the worried faces of thunder-spooked children and the willowy Jane looking out at me. They moved aside as I tore into the barn without a second to spare. The rain enveloped the barn, literally inches behind me. The sound of billions of raindrops splashing down on the tin roof was deafening. I stopped, bending with my hands on my knees, taking great gulps of air, laughing from the sheer adrenaline of the run. Laughing harder upon noticing that the rain had been close enough to wet the heels of my boots.

I’ve never run like I did that day. There’s something about the ferocity of the elements that can inspire things in you that you didn’t think you had. To this day, whenever it rains I think of that storm, that ride, that run. When everything somehow seemed bigger than me.. even though I was bigger too.

Topaz is older now, and so am I. I took him home with me from the mountains that summer, and even though we haven’t been back in years, we still run beside each other, my hand tangled in his mane. His white star has gotten bigger, spreading out with the white hairs of age, but he’s still my Titan, gold and black. He’s my walking memory of that day. The lightning in my life that doesn’t fade away, even after the storm has passed.


-J


I wrote this in college, and just found and revised it a bit. It's one of my favorite pieces, because it's 100% true. March 22nd makes ten years since I lost Topaz, and not a day has passed when I haven't missed him.