1996 Winner: The Passing of the Torch

by Avalyn Hunter

They will come back-come back again-
As long as the red earth rolls.
He never wasted a leaf or a tree,
Do you think He would squander souls?
-Rudyard Kipling

THE OLD HORSE shifted restlessly in the thick straw of his stall, his legs twitching as he dreamed. Abruptly, he woke, listening, then heaved himself to his feet, disregarding the old, arthritic aching in his knees and ankles. The dull clank of a water-filled bucket being hung in place sounded loud in the quiet old barn, a relic of other days that was now filled mostly with memories, living and otherwise. Like himself. He swished his tail, feeling the straw caught in it tickling his hocks, and pricked his ears toward Thundercloud's stall.

As he had anticipated, an elderly human emerged in a moment, flipping a rag playfully at the once-gray head-now white with age-that poked out after him with a mischievous attempt at a nip.

"Hey, you! Git back there. You done had your rub, an' you cain't have this rag neither. I still got ol' Torchbearer to rub."

He got the door safely latched in spite of the gray's half-hearted attempt to shoulder past him, and gave an affectionate tug on the animal's forelock.

"You just git back an' eat your breakfast," he ordered. "Mebbe later, if it ain't too cold, I can take you out on a shank an' let you graze a bit. Y'all could use it, I's sure; it's been an awful long winter."

As if he understood, Thundercloud's head bobbed once before vanishing back into his stall. In a moment, the steady sounds of munching drifted out, as they had already been doing from the other two occupied stalls. Torchbearer's nostrils flared at the scent of grain as the old groom refilled a bucket from the bin in the tackroom next to his stall, but he did not feel accompanying hunger as he would have even a few days ago, only a sluggish dullness in his belly.

When the man unlatched his stall door and stepped inside, he moved aside patiently and stood, waiting. He heard the rustle as the oats poured out of the bucket and into his feed box, and after the man had taken his water bucket and gone out to fill it, he turned and nosed the grain languidly, but did not begin eating. The short, shuffling footsteps came back, and the scent of water trailed into the stall as the bucket was rehung in its place in the corner. He flicked his ears as the man whistled slowly through his teeth, a soft, easy sound, before pulling the curry comb from his pocket and beginning the job of grooming.

"This is the third day runnin' that you ain't hardly touched your feed, Torch. You ain't sickening, is you, boy?"

The curry comb moved behind the withers, scratching an itchy spot that Torchbearer had not been able to reach for himself, and the old stallion leaned into the strokes with a contented sigh. He turned his head slightly, listening to the flow of talk, though he understood none of it.

"Time was when you had to have a bridle on when you got your feed, to keep you from givin' yousself the colic with your gulpin'. But now you ain't eatin'. And you been lyin' down an awful lot lately, too. Now, don't tell me you hasn't," he added as Torchbearer shook his mane, trying to dislodge a particularly annoying piece of straw.

The man reached over and pulled the offending straw away.

"Used to be that I'd come in here and you'd be the first one stickin' your head out the stall door. Now I comes in an' you're laid out flat. Dreamin', mebbe."

He worked in silence for awhile, then dropped brush and comb into the empty feed bucket.

"Well, you're done, boy. I'll look in on you later."

He gave the old horse an affectionate and worried slap on the neck, then shuffled out. Torchbearer listened a moment longer as the slow, uncertain footsteps receded, nosed his feed disinterestedly, and let the weariness of the last few days wash back over him. With a long, slow sigh, he laid down again in the straw, and the dreams rolled over him like a rising tide. ...

Sometimes the dreams were of other lives, other days. Like dim, half-remembered shadows, he felt the legs of a Mongol warrior around his barrel and heard the wild cries as they met the Kharesmian lines with lance and sword. ... Saw the other stallion, a paint, challenging for his mares, and feinted and bit and kicked in the ancient war dance of his kind until the other fled over the Western prairie with head and tail low. ... Felt the weight behind him as he leaned into the collar and pulled the great wagon. ... And once, tasted sugar in a child's hand as he peered at his young mistress through a pony's thick forelock.

But, more often, and far more vividly, he dreamed of more recent days, when he had been young and strong, and the men had fussed over him like the king he was, leading him out to be shown to others of their kind, or taking him to the shed where the mares waited.

He grunted deep in his throat, remembering the urgency and the pleasure. But it had been long seasons since he had gone to the shed. He stirred, his legs twitching, and the old pain in his legs half-roused him before he settled back into sleep. It had been a long time, a long time indeed since he had taken a step without that nagging pain. ... His legs stirred again, but this time the pain never touched him as he fled far into memory.

VOICES woke him suddenly from a slack-hipped doze: low voices, sharp-edged with an unfamiliar urgency. He snorted softly, uneasy. The barn had been filled for several days now with the smell and feel of tension: not danger, precisely, but an undefined something that kept him from lying down to sleep or ever completely relaxing. It had not helped at all that the unseasonable cold had kept him stall-bound for two days, leaving him with entirely too much pent-up energy. No bits of apple or carrot, no visits from the sweet-voiced, soft-handed woman that the grooms called the "Missus." He missed that. And now these voices, moving down the shedrow much earlier than the normal hour. Small things, all, but upsetting to the sensitive colt. He pawed the floor of his stall, and snorted like a rifle shot when his door swung open.

He knew the humans who came in, of course; even in his unsettled state of mind, he had a nicker and a nudge of his nose for old Smoke, the ex-jockey who usually rode him in his morning workouts. But this time Smoke did not return the affectionate gesture. He turned to the boy beside him.

"He fit? Nothin' wrong with him?"

The young groom-little more than a half-grown boy-bobbed his head as he slipped on Torchbearer's bridle and clipped a lead to the bit.

"Fit as a fiddle, suh, and full of hisself. You sure Mistah Sanford want him out, though? At this hour?"

"He said saddle the best horse in the stable and git ready to ride with a message," the old rider snapped. "Torchy's the best. Lead him over by that mountin' block, will you, so's I can get the saddle on."

"But he's only a colt! What 'bout Foxfire?"

Smoke snorted. "Fust time I'se ever seen a groom say the hoss he rubs ain't the best! Torchy could give Foxfire ten lengths over a mile and beat him, even if Foxfire is risin' five. 'Sides, Foxfire won't stay the trip we's got to ride." His voice softened. "I know-you're worried 'bout this here colt, ain't you? Well, so's I. But it's got to be him. Mistah Sanford said it was life an' death."

The boy's eyes widened to two saucers. "Where you goin'?"

"Doctor's," Smoke answered tersely. "Hold him steady, now."

Torchbearer had seen excitement in Smoke many times before, but never fear. The smell of it was acrid in his nostrils as the old rider laid the saddlecloth on his back. Nervous, he danced sideways, causing the boy at his head to take a sharper grip on his bridle to bring him back beside the mounting block. Once on, the saddle felt strange, and he shifted about, his ears flickering.

"That ain't his regular saddle," the boy objected.

"No, it ain't." Smoke's breath came out of him in a sharp grunt as he tugged the cinch tight. "But a racin' saddle ain't good for long ridin', and it ain't got no place to fasten a saddlebag. This ol' Army saddle does."

The boy's eyes widened. "You useta be in the Army?"

Smoke tugged the saddlecloth smooth and gave the girth another inspection. "Now, when would I have been in de Army, boy? This was my uncle's. He went west fo' a Buffalo Soldier after the war-brought this with him when he got mustered out. Just lucky it fits ol' Torchy here well enough."

"But why-"

Footsteps hurried towards them, cutting off the boy's question in mid-breath. "It's Mistah Sanford!" he whispered, his eyes going from saucers to dinner plates. "At this time o' the night? What's goin' on?"

"Didn't you hear nuthin'? It's Miz Sanford-shhh!" The ex-jockey straightened respectfully as his employer came up. "He's ready, suh. Sweet Lord, you all right? You looks like a ghost."

The white man choked on what sounded like a sob before mastering himself. "Never mind me. Here's your message."

Torchbearer sniffed curiously as a paper passed from the white hand to the brown one, releasing a faint, familiar scent of vanilla and roses as it was handled.

The old rider tucked the note into his jacket and vaulted from the mounting block to the saddle. Freed from the ground lead, Torchbearer danced expectantly. "Ground's hard as a rock, suh. Hope this don't ruin him-there's a lot ridin' on him this spring, ain't there?"

"Can't be helped, Smoke." The white man's face was agonized, but his voice was firm. "Don't spare him. It's Death you're racin' tonight, and if it takes this colt to bring the doctor back, do it! God speed, Smoke-if you an' Torchbearah can't fetch him in time, no one can."

"Yessuh!" Legs squeezed against Torchbearer's sides, sending him forward, and suddenly he was galloping out into the night, away from the stables, away from the track, away from everything he knew. He shook his head, confused, then lengthened his stride as the wild exhilaration of speed began to take over.

"Steady, Torchy." He flicked an ear back to catch the familiar voice, and felt the supple touch on the reins. "We got the turn onto the road to make. Steady, now-"

The hands gathered him in and he slowed, changing leads to negotiate the turn. Frozen clods skittered from underfoot as he fought for purchase and won. He snorted, the frosty air cracking in his nostrils, and lengthened stride again as he straightened into the road. Now he could run! He picked up speed, surging into the bridle, and felt a vague sense of disappointment when he was checked.

"Not so fast, boy," Smoke's voice said along his neck. "Got to pace you-it's seven miles out and seven back. Mov'n 'bout a two-fifteen clip, an' you'll be done before the trip is. We won't help the Missus by lamin' you before we git to doctor's place."

The words meant nothing, of course, but the calming tone and the gentle, immovable hold on the reins did. Torchbearer pulled a moment more, begging for more speed, then resigned himself and settled to a steady gallop.

Luckily, the dirt road was smooth, with only a few small dips and holes. Torchbearer ran easily, his blood pounding with the rhythm of his long stride: the coiled thrust of strong loins and haunches; the stretch of long forelimbs reaching for ground and then sweeping under him as the haunches gathered for their next leap; the bellows-sweep of air in and out of his lungs; the familiar feel of Smoke balanced on his back, almost as much a part of him as his own muscles.

The wind rushed by, washing away any sense of time; it was almost with surprise that the colt saw lights blooming out of the darkness, and Smoke's hands pulled him up in a lantern-lit courtyard. A Negro boy scurried out of the little stable, his mouth making an "O" of surprise. Smoke didn't waste time on conversation. He swung his leg over Torchbearer's back and slid to the ground, flinging the reins to the startled boy.

"Keep him moving," he said curtly, and ran to the door, pounding briefly before it opened and he vanished inside.

Torchbearer circled uneasily, ignoring the feeble clucking sounds that the boy was making to sooth him. Another horse whinnied from the stable; he ignored that, too. Now that he was no longer galloping, he could feel the stinging in his legs from pounding the hard-packed unyielding surface of the road: nothing severe, but uncomfortable. Steam rose from him in a cloud, and he shivered, feeling the wind searching his sweaty sides. He switched his tail sharply, his ears flicking as he tried to make some vague sense of it all.

The door reopened abruptly, sending Smoke and another man, tall and white, spilling out into the courtyard. Torchbearer stopped his circling and pricked his ears as they approached, his nostrils dilating with an unfamiliar prickling scent. It came from both men-or did it?

"You're sure you want me to take him?" the stranger asked as Smoke threw loaded saddlebags across the colt's back. "He's already come a long way to get here, and this frozen road has to have been rough on his legs. Lucy's fresh." Smoke stood on tiptoe, fastening the bags. "Mistah Sanford said so, suh. An' you know he's faster'n Lucy, fresh or not. If he cain't get you there'n time, ain't no hoss can. Now git up there! I'll bring Lucy 'long behin' fo' you."

The stranger mounted, and Torchbearer danced nervously as he felt the unfamiliar hands gather up the reins. The prickling smell was stronger, filling him with uneasiness. Then the man loosed his hold on his mouth and he was away, back up the road by which he had come.

No easy gallop, this time; Torchbearer felt the urgency of his rider, and responded with such a surge that a blur of words gasped out and the reins tightened. But this man, though a good rider, was not the master Smoke was. The colt pounded on, faster, faster, until he reached the limit that his flesh would endure, until his lungs and legs burned with pain. But the prickling scent came faster still, rising along the wind.

Hoofbeats sounded in Torchbearer's mind, galloping, galloping. And out of the wind, out of the vague starlight, the other horse came: a pale horse, the merest of flickers in the colt's side vision, but gaining. The strange scent was tenfold stronger now, as if it had found its focus in the horse, or perhaps in the black-cloaked rider that bestrode him. ...

Animals do not fear Death the way Man does, for they lack the anticipation that makes him a horror to our kind. But Torchbearer felt an apprehension strange to him nonetheless as the pale horse and its dark rider surged closer, now at his haunches, now at his girth, now at his neck.

He dug in stubbornly, the inbred desire for dominance greater than any fear. The pale horse's advance slowed, slowed ... but still on it came, inch by painful inch. Half a mile, perhaps, to go-breath burning in his lungs, eyes glazing with effort.

He slewed into the farm lane with a great scrambling of hooves, barely keeping his feet. The pale horse was nose to nose with him, moving as easily as the ghost it was; yet it could not shake him, though his feet and lungs both screamed with pain. All through the last two furlongs to the barns, he battled on, refusing to quit even after the pale head thrust in front and slowly, slowly crept away.

Lights and buildings loomed out of the darkness, and suddenly he was hurtling towards a solid wall of people. The weight on his back shifted back, and hands pulled hard at his mouth, bringing him to a desperate, sliding stop as the grooms and servants scattered; then the man flung himself from the saddle, grabbed his bags, and hurried towards the house. Torchbearer watched him go with dull disinterest. It did not matter, any more than the fussing of his groom or the excited swirling of the other humans. The long race was over, and he had been beaten. Now there was only pain, and the waiting.

Before him, just below the steps, the pale horse waited also, riderless. ... News came with the dawn, and it was the master himself who brought it. He came stumbling to Torchbearer's stall like a blind man, nearly kicking the bucket of icewater in which the colt's near forefoot soaked before Smoke could steady him. Torchbearer scarcely took notice, his attention consumed by the pain that throbbed from hoof to knee in both forelegs.

"How is he?" the white man asked, his voice rough and unsteady.

Smoke shook his head slowly, his eyes wet. "Bad, suh. I sent Two-Bit fo' the vet, but I'se seen enough bowed tendons to know this one ain't goin to heal enough to race again. He done foundered, too. Mebbe we can save him fo' stud, but his racin's done fo' sure."

The man reached out a trembling hand to stroke the colt's rough black mane. "I'm sorry, boy. You did your best, I know. But death had the heels of you. Death had the heels of you!" He stifled a sob as Smoke locked gazes with him, a terrible understanding in his eyes.

Outside, on the edge of hearing, hoofbeats passed by. Torchbearer did not need to look to know what-or who-moved slowly away. Only this time, the pale horse carried a double burden.

The hoofbeats faded, and were gone.

OR WERE they? Memory shaded into present awareness of the sharp, ringing sounds of a horse's feet on hard ground. They were coming back, stronger, faster; in fact, they were stopping just outside his stall door. He felt a shiver go through his frame, and stirred feebly in the straw. Outside, he heard the soft rustle and thump of someone dismounting, and then the lighter steps of a riderless horse fading away.

"Torchy! Hey, Torchy!"

His eyes flew open, and in a sudden rush of energy, he bounded to his feet-ignoring the worn and useless shell he left in the straw. With a joyful whicker, he stretched his head out to the man who waited across the stall door for him. It was Smoke, unmistakably Smoke, but somehow changed from the worn old man he had last known years ago. Bent and crippled with age at their last meeting, now he was a shining and ageless god from whom boundless energy flowed. Torchbearer whuffled affectionately against his chest, feeling the loved hand scratching just behind the ears where he had always liked it.

Smoke grinned, showing teeth that would have been the envy of any pearl fishery. "So you remember me, do you, boy? It's been a long time-if you can say there's any time here, that is. And it's high time you were free from this life." He vaulted to the horse's back. "Let's go, Torchy!"

He reared eagerly, troubling his laughing rider not in the least, and sprang away through barn walls that faded like smoke even as he leaped. In their place, green meadows surged and billowed like waves around his knees, and the ground had a glorious give to it that invited speed and more speed. He neighed joyously as he ran, feeling the effortless give and play of his muscles and the current of delight between himself and the man. It was marvelous, this new sensation of boundless, inexhaustible speed and energy, and when he pulled himself up, it was not for weariness, but for the simple joy of the change.

"You like it?" Smoke's voice asked as the man slid from his back. He snorted his agreement; odd, now, how the sounds suddenly made sense. "These are the Summerfields, where beasts go 'tween times-though they usually don't stay long." Torchbearer's ears flicked a question at him. "You want to know where you're going?" Smoke grinned. "Why do you think I'se here? I did want to jus' have a visit with you, but I'm also yo' guide."

The horse reached out mischievous teeth, nipping, and danced away, clearly inviting a game. Smoke laughed, but did not follow.

"Sorry, Torchy. I'd like to play, but our time here's growin' short, and I'se got other work to do. And so do you, now I think 'bout it. Come on, boy. I'll show you where you's 'sposed to go." He walked away, down the long gold-and-green meadow, and Torchbearer followed.

They walked what seemed a long way through the sweet-scented, rolling grass. The horse sensed rather than saw the change at first: a faint wavering in the golden air that gradually coalesced into a passageway of glowing green. He looked an inquiry at the man, who understood.

"Yes, boy. That's it. You just walk in there, and the rest will follow." He looked up at the golden sky, his eyes full of something that even now Torchbearer could not understand, and then looked back at the horse. "It's time, Torchy. Go on."

The green glow pulled at something deep inside the horse, beckoning. He took a step forward, then hesitated, looking back at Smoke. The man laughed softly.

"No, boy. I cain't go with you, not this time. You see, Adam's chilluns, we only passes through the world once, and then them that believes goes home to Jesus, hallelujah! But hosses, they's bound to the earth till world's end, and they pass through agin and agin."

Smoke laughed again, a rich, deep laugh that rippled the grass and set the light itself dancing.

"In the ordinary way o' things, the turn of the wheel's a mite random, and you could come up as anything from a cart-horse to an Injun pony. But I asked a favor for you, Torchy. You gave your racin' life fo' one of my kind, though you couldn't understand that. Now, you'll get it back ... and this time, the world'll get to see the racehorse you was born to be. So go on, big fella. It's waitin' for you down there, and I think you're goin' to like it."

Smoke's hand clapped him on the haunches, and Torchbearer found himself-walking?-no, drifting into the green passage. As he slid forward, the walls constricted and darkened, and a strange feeling came over him: not frightening, but oddly familiar. The last of the green shimmered down into black, and waves of pressure rippled along his sides with increasing immediacy and intensity as the darkness closed around him. He found himself stretching his neck out along his forelegs as though he was diving, and felt himself impelled forward ...

Light! Not the golden light of the Summerfields, but brilliant enough after his journey through the darkness. A firm grip on his ankles pulled him further, and suddenly he was out, lying on warm straw, and shaking and snorting his head to clear his nostrils of fluid. Beside him, a dark mare nosed him interestedly and licked his rough new coat, then heaved herself to her feet.

She gave off a rich, promising scent that filled him with an instinctive need, and he wobbled to his feet. His legs sprawled awkwardly, and the two men watching him laughed as he fell in a tangle, but before they could move he was back up and wavering to his dam's side. Hungry lips fumbled for, then found, the teat, and in the urgency of his first meal, the other life he had known faded away, until there was only the here and now. At last, his small belly filled, he collapsed into the straw and slept, and if he dreamed, he did not remember. ...

"WELL, WHAT do you think of him, my dear?" the man asked his wife.

She smiled, watching the chestnut colt playing beside his mother. "Oh, Mahubah's done well by us, I think. Such a big, strong rascal, and only two days old!"

She laughed as the colt frisked up to her where she stood by the fence, sniffing at her outstretched fingertips, and then whisked behind his mother in a sudden fit of shyness. The mare flicked her ears and continued grazing, unperturbed by her son's antics. After a moment, the colt's white-starred head peeked out from behind his dam's haunches, and then he was suddenly off, bucking and kicking as both humans laughed.

"Well, what do you think of him, Mr. Belmont?" the woman challenged, her eyes twinkling impishly.

"Hmmm, he does seem lively enough, and a good-looking fellow too," the man observed. "I'd certainly like to continue working with the Fair Play-*Rock Sand cross; we've had a couple of good ones out of it already, and the trainer says this colt's sister, Masda, looks to have a lot of speed if he can only settle her temper. She's a bit of a Tartar, it seems. By the way, dear, I did promise you that you could name the next one; now that you've seen him, do you have any ideas yet?"

"Oh, I don't know." The March wind chose that moment to send a chill gust blowing over the nursery pastures, and the woman drew in closer to her mate, who obligingly draped an arm around her shoulders. She looked up at him, her face half laughing and half serious.

"Since those awful Germans started the war in Europe, and you've talked a good deal about rejoining the Army-well, if you do, perhaps I'll name him after you, my man o' war."

"Man o' War?" he said, tasting the name consideringly. "I like that. It has a good ring to it; a name people could remember."

The woman tucked herself in closer under her husband's arm as they turned away from the pasture and started the walk back to the house. "Oh, they will, love. They will."

About the author

Avalyn Hunter is a 34-year-old wife and mother who works in psychological testing for a community health center. She has been horse-crazy ever since about age two (her dad has the photos to prove it), got hooked on Thoroughbred racing at about age 11 (thanks to the book The Smashers by C. W. Anderson), and has been following racing ever since. "The Passing of the Torch" is her first fiction credit.