2006 Winner: Root Doctor

by Scott T. Hutchison

WHEN THE FARM BOSS determined I was old enough to move up from grass-cutter to work with the Thoroughbreds, he put me with Lucas Jefferson. The boss just grabbed me up one day when I was stowing my mower, took me to the layup barn, stood me in front of Lucas and, hand on my shoulder, said, "Listen to Lucas. Damn near everything you need to know about horses you can learn from this man, and then some." Then he walked away, leaving me there with that crazy old coot. Lucas was an ancient, light-skinned black man with freckles. He had shaky, palsied hands, and a bad leg that he tended to pull along with him rather than walk with. Lucas was thin, wiry, a whisper inside his clothes-he was scraggly bearded, bad-toothed, and, truth to tell, he scared the hell out of a kid like me.

"How old are you, boy?" Lucas's voice was soft and deep. I already didn't like this new job.

"Thirteen."

"Thirteen. That's how old I was when I got this leg thinned by the polio. You know what polio is, boy?" He gestured for me to sit down, just as he was doing, against the concrete wall shaded by the shedrow roof. The shade lent some cool to my typical day. Horses pawed in their stalls or picked at their hay-the only other sounds besides the old man they'd tied me to.

"No sir, I don't." I was expecting Lucas to go ahead and start teaching me whatever it was everybody said he knew about horses, and here he was talking about his bad skinny leg. For the first time in my young life, I had a pang of longing for my weeder and the scorch of the Kentucky summer sun.

"Polio is a disease. Kills quite a few, lames up the rest. Maybe that's why I work with the broke-down horses-we've got something in common. Anyway, this bad leg of mine I drag around with me, the only reason I've still got it is my mama poulticed it night and day-poultice is a hot, moist mush you put on hurts, I'll be teaching you ?bout it soon enough with these here horses we've got to nurse back to health-my mama poulticed this leg with white vinegar, mustard, creosote, and the pistils of water lilies all mixed up in bran. That's the only reason I've still got my leg, only reason I ain't crutching my life around using a Y-shaped stick."

Lucas Jefferson looked me straight on. His voice dropped an octave. "You ain't got no need to be scared of me, boy."

He put his age-pocked hand on top of mine for a second, then lifted it, shooed away a buzzing fly, and smiled. And from that moment on-I could hardly tell you why-I don't think I've ever been afraid of much of anything.

"HORSES HAVE WILD BLOOD in ?em, same as most people," Lucas said one day when we were on our rounds in the layup barn, going from one sick or injured horse to the next. Lucas took the time to explain every little thing to me, which was good-I was full of questions, and not that many adults had the patience to listen to everything spinning around in my head. "They also have great hearts, righteous needs, which actually makes horses better than most people."

Lucas was continuing with my newest lesson: how to hold horses. I was fine for mucking stalls, scrubbing water buckets, haying and feeding all the sick and injured horses in our care, but holding horses-taking care of the horse as well as whomever might be working with them, be it groom, vet, or blacksmith-and administering to a "noble Thoroughbred's" various medical needs was something he told me I'd have to grow into, and grow into right, because there was more to it than just hanging onto the end of a shank. "You respect a horse proper, you listen to him and find out what those needs are, then you'll be all right standing there with him."

We were working on a two-year-old colt who recently had been pin-fired. Seemed like some medieval torture to me, but Lucas assured me that brought along correctly, the colt's legs and muscle tissues would be better for it in the long run. Still, when I looked at the pattern of burns in the colt's shins generated by metal and electricity and someone's need to get their money's worth out of this horse, I couldn't help but think that if it had been done to me, the pain would be insufferable, and I'd probably be thrashing around, throwing a fit. You could tell the colt was thinking along similar lines.

"Now I ain't partial to this method of getting legs right," Lucas said as he patted the young chestnut's neck with one hand while pulling me into place beside him. "Can't rightly say if the vets like this neither, but it's what the owner wanted. There's only one problem in this whole business of Thoroughbreds. And it ain't all the owners, ?cause there are some fine, compassionate owners, but it's the impatient types, the ones who think about racing before they think about the horse himself. Sometimes the folks with the money don't always want to hear what's best for a horse-sometimes they just want to hear what they call the ?most expedient' method of getting a Thoroughbred running again."

Lucas studied the pin-firing pattern on the colt's shins. "Maybe we have to clean this up since somebody else is writing the paychecks, but me, I ain't gonna teach you the fast way." Lucas continued patting the colt, and his voice lowered, his eyes narrowing. "So, what do you think this horse needs, boy?"

I thought that was pretty obvious. "He needs some medicine on those shins, probably needs some painkiller."

Lucas turned and looked at me, frowning. "We already have our share of dumbasses working this farm. If the boss man wanted another one of them, he'd have put you with somebody else to learn horses. Now, slow your hot brain down for a second-and if you're angry about me calling you a dumbass, then get over it-and pat this horse. Slowly, sleek and slow, with a little love of who and what he is mixed in-look him in the eye, and tell me what this horse needs." Lucas backed away from me and the colt, moving toward the stall door.

First, I decided to cool out and stop being mad that some rickety, old, half-crippled, uneducated man had called me stupid, since when it came to horses I was, admittedly, pretty stupid, and so far Lucas Jefferson seemed worthy of the trust so many people put in him. I patted the colt's strong neck around his mane line, and I did what I was told: I looked him in the eye as best I could, even though the colt was jerking his head up and down and his eyes were rolling to whites.

"This horse is scared." I kept my chin up, kept eye contact, kept patting.

I heard the voice behind me. "Good. Good. So what's he need?" Lucas had a way with his teaching. He tended to ask me questions, and he gently demanded me to reach inside myself for the common-sense answers. The colt hesitated in his head tosses.

I thought about that colt before I spoke. "He needs to not be scared. He needs to know we want to help him."

I didn't even hear Lucas move up beside me. "This horse is gonna be all right. Know why?" I shook my head. "He's got me, and now he's got you. We know what that wild blood-that strong racing heart-needs. He's gonna be all right, and you're gonna be all right, too, boy. Now, how do we tell him that?" Lucas's old fragile hands seemed to steady as he took to patting the horse once again, slowly, slowly, on the other side of the colt's strong, young neck. He winked at me, and then I watched him. I slowed my hand down to Lucas slow. He took his time. Whatever time it might take, I reckoned. I watched him as he tilted his face up and looked the colt straight in the face, and his face said worlds. His face said, "Trust me, I won't let you down." I was unsure.

"Tell me how, Lucas."

"I'm telling you."

BILLY BRADLEY, 12 years old, was my successor on grass cutting. And when his mower went over the top of a yellow jacket nest hidden in the ground in the boss's yard in early July, Lucas and I were the first ones to hear and answer his howlings. I sped ahead, Lucas was no match for my speed, and I rolled the kid on the ground away from the hole, away from the now-dead mower that was getting stung just like Billy himself. I pulled my T-shirt off and slapped at the remaining yellow jackets that the rolling hadn't crushed.

The kid was hysterical. There wasn't much meat on Billy, so the stings were prominent. He looked to have about 20 of them on his arms and face where his clothing hadn't covered skin, and even though the sting spots were welting, he didn't look like he was puffing up with any big allergic reaction-just pain and panic and an uncontrolled wildness coursing through his bloodstream. Lucas finally arrived, but instead of coming over to me and Billy, he bustled as best he could to the boss's wife's flower bed and started picking leaves off of some plant. Meanwhile, Billy was doing some serious tossing back and forth and crying.

I straddled over the top of the kid, putting my knees on either of his arms to keep him from any more swatting and scratching. I took Billy's face in both my hands and looked him in the eyes.

"Billy! Listen to me! Listen!" He was cursing and whining, and it took a bit for him to focus on me. I dropped my voice. "Billy, it's all right. Hey, you want that pain to go away?" His face nodded quickly in my hands. Lucas finally leg-dragged his way to us with a handful of leaves. Lucas winked at me, and I patted Billy's head. "Then you got to trust us. We're gonna help." I climbed off Billy and looked to Lucas.

I had no idea how we were going to help. Lucas handed me a leaf. He stroked one of the leaves in his hands with a long, yellowed fingernail. "See how I'm scratching just the barest little bit of skin off this leaf? Getting to the moist inside? You do that too, then put it on the stings."

I did what I was told, and together we worked on Billy, even as some of the other farmhands finally made the scene. Lucas smiled at Billy and said, "These leaves, they're cooling off those stings, ain't they?" Billy nodded and actually smiled back. Lucas and I kept scratching the leaves and putting them in place.

"My mama taught me ?bout these leaves. But she also taught me you can't hold nothing against them yellow jackets. They're just doing what they're supposed to be doing: Living the best way they know how, doing what instinct tells ?em."

By the time the boss and Doc Hardacre-the farm's veterinarian-arrived, Billy was sitting up and laughing. Doc Hardacre practically elbowed me out of the way to take charge of Billy. He looked at the leaves, looked at Lucas, then pulled out some packaged pills.

"Here," he said, tearing a package open, "here's some quick-dissolve Benadryl. This is what you need right now."

Doc had Billy stick his tongue out and he placed the pills there, then he started picking the leaves off the kid before turning to Lucas, who continued kneeling beside them both.

Satisfied with Billy, Doc's voice went cold as he addressed Lucas. "So, the old Root Doctor is up to his tricks once again, eh?" I saw an uncomfortable look come into some of the farm workers' eyes.

The boss must have seen it, too, because he started yelling for everybody to get back to what they were doing. Everyone shuffled away except for me and Lucas and the Doc. The boss helped Billy up, took him by the arm, and escorted him off, saying he was going to drive Billy home where he could rest for the remainder of the day. Billy called back, "Thanks, Lucas!" and that's when the Doc unleashed.

"I've warned you before, Lucas Jefferson-you need to leave off with these old, quack, folk medicines. First the horses, now this boy. I'm going to say it again: You are not a vet, you are not a doctor, and when you go putting your root and herb concoctions on wounds, you are in violation of medical standards-and the law."

Doc Hardacre was usually a pretty decent man-he had all the dedication you could ever ask of a vet. From what I'd seen and heard around the farm, he would come at any hour, he would spend any amount of time doing whatever was required to help an ailing horse. He and Lucas, and now me, went through the layup barn together on a daily basis, and even though it was hard, intensive work there was something about it that you could tell meant more than money to both the Doc and to Lucas. And now me, too.

But on this point, Doc was not playing around. He was a fairly tall, stout man, and he was using that height and heft advantage to tower over Lucas and wag a finger in the old man's face. "You could go to jail for practicing ... well, I don't want to even call it medicine, so let me just say it again, Lucas: You leave off. You hear me? If not jail, at the least I can get you canned from working here with the horses. Which would be a damned shame, ?cause you know there isn't anyone else I trust like you for holding horses when I'm working on them."

He cast a quick glance my way, then returned his focus to Lucas. "So this is the last time we're ever going to talk about this, right, Lucas?" Lucas was calm and even, as usual. "Yes, sir." He smiled, crinkled up his freckles. Lucas was typically deadpan dry with his delivery in any kind conversation, so watching his smile while getting reamed out seemed sort of off his character. "No more root-doctoring from me. If I'd known you were around when that boy got stung, I'd have called you first. Absolutely."

Lucas smiled wider, and put his hand out to the Doc. Doc Hardacre backed up a step, looked down at the hand, then back at Lucas without taking the hand. He obviously had one more point he wanted to make.

"This is like the summer sores. You and that goldenseal. How long has it taken me to get you to stop that nonsense? That stuff's no good on a summer sore, Lucas. In your heart of hearts, you know that. It's just some of that old hoodoo voodoo learning you got from your mama. That's not what these horses need, not what this boy you're teaching needs. You just keep putting that salve on the sores like I told you. And leave the doctoring up to the professionals."

Doc's eyes had gotten big and round, a strange alarm somewhere in the back of them. Lucas continued to stand in place, hand extended. Doc cocked his head to the side, sighed, then shook Lucas's hand. He put his arm around Lucas's shoulder, and the two of them began slowly walking back toward the layup barn, Doc yammering on about the benefits of modern medicine, Lucas smiling and nodding his head.

AT THE END OF EVERY WORKDAY, Lucas would pull out from inside his shirt a little cloth pouch that was attached to a leather thong hung around his neck. The two of us would go through the shedrow, tending to the horses who had cuts or scrapes or procedures that had developed into summer sores, putting goldenseal from the pouch on each of the open wounds that the flies tried to pick at or lay eggs in.

What I liked best about the goldenseal was that it had a drying effect on the sores. If any of the horses in the training barn or the mare barn or the stallion barn got a summer sore, the grooms of those respective barns dutifully used the pharmaceuticals that Doc Hardacre prescribed. But I never really saw where those salves helped a single bit.

"Only thing closing up those summer sores at the other barns is autumn," Lucas would say. That was a kind of patience that Lucas did not advocate. The horses in our charge would have a sore maybe two, three weeks tops. We put goldenseal on in the evening, and first thing each morning we would wipe the yellow coloring away with a damp sponge. Then we'd take out a bottle of the goop Doc had left us, and we'd paint it on, just to keep up appearances.

And the world was none the wiser for it. I guess I finally came to understand what that old saying really meant.

THAT FIRST SUMMER, I did a lot of things some people would call silly or backward or wrong, and I did a lot of things that if they could talk, the horses would probably tell you were right.

I think it was something of a testament to Lucas Jefferson when the workers from the mare barn would turn to him when they had a sick foal. Sure, Doc Hardacre would give the baby a shot of something, and they'd rub yet another kind of pharmaceutical goop in its nostrils. But when Doc would finish up his rounds in the mid-afternoon, they'd call on Lucas, with me in tow, to do a little secret root-doctoring. He'd bring in all sorts of flower petals and roots he'd collected, have me get a towel and a bucket of boiling hot water, then he'd crush his mixture up and stir it into the water. I'd hold the mare, and I'd watch as Lucas whispered in the ear of the foal, who would ultimately let Lucas drape the towel over his head, coaxing the steam up for the foal to breathe in deep. He'd do this for 40, 50 minutes at a time for three consecutive days.

When the foal would spring back, all cleared up, Doc would take the credit for his shots and salves, and he'd charge the big dollar that owners willingly would pay for their investment's health. Meanwhile the workers in the mare and foal barn would buy Lucas a bottle of Old Mr. Mack, a potent, sweet wine that Lucas held a special penchant for at the end of the day.

The exercise riders were different, though. Lucas would put a hand on my shoulder and hold me back from returning fire when one of the riders who worked in the training barn talked trash our way. The lane to the training track ran right between the layup barn and the training barn, and when the riders were walking their horses to or from the track and they happened to see us, they always thought it great sport to call out to Lucas Jefferson.

"Hey, Root Doctor. How ?bout you put a spell on J. C.'s mount today?" Angel taunted. "J. C. keeps saying he can't get no speed out of that plug he's riding. You could maybe spark some lightning into that horse's rear end, maybe throw a few bolts into J. C.'s butt while you're at it!"

Lucas would just smile and wave slowly as the riders ambled by on top of their mounts, laughing and cocky and sure of themselves. Lucas always seemed calm in the face of Doc's warnings, wild crazy horses, and other animals like these that didn't fully understand the wisdoms he gladly would share if asked. On that day that Angel was making fun of J. C.'s horse, J. C., as well as Lucas, Lucas explained why he didn't want me reacting to their taunts.

"It's like this: Now Doc, he's a good man. He's scared of licensing boards and losing his connections with the big drug companies. Still, his first values are to the horses. Me and Doc respect each other, and sometimes when you don't dab the yellow off the sores quite good enough, Doc gives me a look when he sees it. But he doesn't say nothin'." My face must have registered my quick fear.

Lucas waved it off. "You didn't know that, did you? Yeah, sometimes he gets all fired up, like that day with Billy and the stings, but Doc, he sees what's good for a horse is what matters most. His heart is all about these animals we're privileged enough to work with. Me, I've got nothing against Doc, no." Lucas looked across the paddocks to the various horses grazing in the summer sunlight, squinting his eyes as he took in their calm munching while swatting flies with their tails. His voice was smooth like the bluegrass fields themselves, quiet as the air with little more than the occasional snort from a horse dismissing dust.

Then he motioned for me to follow him, and we took our time walking toward the training barn where the riders were hosing off their mounts. "But those rider boys, they ain't like Doc, ain't like you and me. They don't all have the same respect. They're all the time thinking speed, they think crop-popping, they think beating the other man around the curve and through the straightaways. Not all of ?em, but Angel and J. C., they're just speed freaks, they're into dogging every ounce out of a horse they can for their own needs, never thinking ?bout the horse. They're all about the race."

Lucas Jefferson and I stood off a ways, observing the wash racks, watching how fast Angel and J. C. worked on their horses with hoses followed by scraper blades. Angel and J. C. were my size, but they were men-hard-muscled, young men-and they both had dreams of getting skills on the farm circuit before moving on to racetracks and big money. They finished up in the wash racks and whisked the horses off to the electric walker.

Lucas motioned for me to follow him once again, and we moved on to where the whirlpools were located on the other side of the wash racks. The two whirlpools smelled strongly of chemicals and chlorine. A horse was tethered and unattended in one of them, cold-water jets bubbling at his legs. The horse looked uncomfortable.

"Back in my day--back when I was a younger man--we didn't have any electric walkers. Even me with my bad leg, I hot-walked Thoroughbreds when they came off the track. I'd spend 20, 30 minutes with a horse, walking, grazing, communicating--man and a horse, in close together, sharing a part of the day." Lucas looked at the whirlpools, frowning and pointing. "And we sure didn't have nothin' like that."

Angel bopped by on his way to somewhere with a bridle and spied the two of us. "Hey, Lucas, we got an open bay for you there," he laughed, though there was something hard in his face and voice in spite of his mirth. "How about we put you in there, fix up that bad leg, then you and me can have a race?"

Lucas flagged for me to follow him, and we started walking back to the layup barn. Angel's voice chortled emptily behind us. "How about it, Root Doctor? I know the ways to get you right!"

THAT AFTERNOON, Lucas introduced me to what quickly became my favorite part of working with horses who needed a little help with sore legs. The Newfound River, which in truth wasn't long enough nor wide enough to have the designation of "river," ambled down behind the paddocks of the layup barn, and Lucas and I each led a horse through the lower paddocks, out of a back gate, where we coaxed them into the shallows of the Newfound. We'd rolled up our pants legs, and we led the horses in shin-deep where the cool, swirling waters could embrace us all.

"Don't know why men bet on Thoroughbreds," Lucas said, handing me one of two small branches of sassafras he'd plucked off the bank. I followed suit, peeling the bark off like he did, before sticking it in my mouth for a sweet little chew. "Thoroughbred legs, now that's a risky bet. These horses, they're born to run--it's as fine a sight as anyone could hope to see. I love it, I do, but those legs, oh, they create mighty problems sometimes. But you and me, we've got ways of helping the horses. Don't know how to help the men with the bets, but we can at least help the horses run the way they're meant to, the way they love to run with each other across the fields and around the curves."

Some of the guys around the barns laughed about how Lucas talked, about the way he was "old school." But I was okay with that. I was growing stronger from the good, hard work of that summer. I was growing in other ways, as well. What Lucas knew and understood he shared freely, and I listened to every word he said. He talked about how when he looked at J. C.'s horse, there was fatigue not just in the legs, but inside as well, though J. C. couldn't see it. Lucas wished the young animal were in his charge; he could help him.

And Lucas talked about the beech trees and the dogwood lining the banks of the Newfound, about the powers-good and bad-of the mistletoe growing up in the top of one of the nearby oaks. He could tell you about the sap running in the veins of the trees, about the sparkle of each grain of sand between our toes, about the small, silver fish that didn't spook at the four slow giants in their world.

The horses seemed to grow especially calm in the river-horses that still had vitamin cocktails in their bloodstreams from their time at the track and still had the heart and desire to bolt if given a chance. But when they were in the river, and Lucas Jefferson whispered in their ears, time slowed down, and they would sip at the surface, or nuzzle the two caretakers holding them, or they'd stand and listen when Lucas started soft-clapping time as he crooned the blues into the green canopy above us, into the blue sky beyond.

EVEN WITH MY YOUNG AGE compared to so many of the other farm workers, Doc Hardacre didn't want anyone else but me holding horses for him after Lucas passed. He said I was the only one he'd trust wholeheartedly, the only one who truly understood. Lucas Jefferson died the winter after my first summer working with the horses. But at 86 years old, he was allowed to, I suppose.

I've never smelled the perfume lilt of a flower without thinking of the Root Doctor. And when summer in Kentucky warms the air, I still hear his old voice in summer buzzings. And when I think back to how the horses high-stepped out of the Newfound River, I'd swear on a crossvine that Lucas Jefferson danced out lightly, too, his pants legs rolled up, his skinny leg no burden.

My four-year-old son's name is Luke. And when I tend to his childhood nighttime fevers, I look at the measuring spoons and bottles and I want something more. My boy tosses, and his eyes speak to me, I sense his needs. And I touch his hand, lean close, and whisper softly to him not to be scared-I will be there, I will stay by him, do right by him, do the best I know how. We will get him right. That's something I know.

And in the dark hours of the night, I look at that sweet boy, and I think about it this way: Occasionally, I go dancing with my wife, and when my life-my good life-fills, with a sense, with a soft, flowing rhythm, I'm in the current once again-with horses, and song, while the earth flowers, while everything heals.

About the author

SCOTT T. HUTCHISON, who wins the Thoroughbred Times Fiction Contest for the second time, grew up on his parents' small Thoroughbred farm in Virginia and at 13 began working for Ed Stevens at nearby Rocketts Mill Farm. An acquaintance at Rocketts Mill inspired him to write "Root Doctor."

"When I first started working at Rocketts Mill ... there was, indeed, an old fellow we called the Root Doctor," said Hutchison, who worked at the farm for 16 years. "And yes, he knew some old herbal remedies for the horses-and best of all, we really did spend time in the Newfound River, holding horses in the cold rushing water to help tighten their legs. It was time well spent-as a young horseman, certainly, but spiritually as well, and ultimately ... as a writer."

Hutchison currently lives in the Belknap Mountains of New Hampshire with his wife, Gail, and daughter, Caitlin. His brother, Alan, lives in Lexington and insures Thoroughbreds.

Winning the Thoroughbred Times Fiction Contest is just the latest writing accomplishment for Hutchison, whose fiction and poetry have appeared in more than 70 magazines. He was named New England Poet of the Year in 2001 by the New England Association of Teachers of English, and he published a book of poetry titled Reining In in ?03 with Black Bird Press. He is state director of the New Hampshire Young Writers' Conference, and is on the faculty of the New England Young Writers' Conference.

"My life with horses and the people who work with horses has forever formed my work and, more importantly, my character," Hutchison said. "Whenever I introduce myself to a new audience who might not be familiar with me, I let them know that I had the great and wondrous fortune to have grown up on a Thoroughbred farm. They know I'm different; they come to understand that I know things that only a lucky few get to know."—Amy Owens