Firehorse

One

I've always been running, it seems. Or galloping. Yes, that's it: galloping! It's not very ladylike and it drives Mother to distraction — not to mention what it does to Father. But I believe it's a way of drinking every last drop out of the glass life offers you.

In Wesleydale, my hometown in Illinois, my horse Peaches and I tore around the countryside like a pair of wildlings. Saturdays, especially, we'd ride out early, make our usual stops, and be waiting in the oak grove past the Murdock farm by mid-morning. When the nine thirty train whistled in the distance, the townspeople thought it was announcing its approach. But I knew otherwise. I knew it was calling me. And the challenge it presented kindled a fire in me as hot as the locomotive's furnace.

One Saturday morning — June 15, 1872, to be exact — was already hot and muggy, and my skirt was bunching around my knees. The sidesaddle would have kept it cleaner, but who can run a race with one leg tied up high? Or while wearing a corset, for that matter? I'd left both behind.

Eagerly I gathered the reins up tight, my heart chattering with the clickety-clack of the onrushing train. I plaited my fingers through Peaches' mane, and she began dancing. Then, for mind-shatteringly long seconds, we waited. When the train was just around the bend, I eased Peaches onto the road and huddled down, watching over my shoulder. The instant the locomotive came into view, I thrust my arms forward and Peaches bolted.

Belly to the ground, she shot out of the oak grove and raced alongside the railroad tracks. The locomotive charged up behind us. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the engineer lean out the window. He tried to look grim, but I knew he was fighting a smile. Two short whistle blasts nearly split my ears and then the locomotive was right up next to us!

I crouched so close over Peaches' neck that her mane whipped my cheek. When I drummed my bare heels against her sides, she doubled her speed. The pebbled dirt road melted into a blur. My heart pounded through my skin.

Again the locomotive rumbled at our flanks. It pulled up beside us, then past us, and the engineer, tasting triumph, leaned out the window and waved. I grabbed a hank of mane with one hand and shook the reins at Peaches with the other. I hollered like a heathen. And, bless her heart, she pulled even. We were almost there! For breathless moments we ran side by side: the black machine and the red mare. The panting and the chugging and the pounding swallowed up my world and spit me out anew, free as a winged bird.

The finish line was the brick tunnel near the Evans Dairy, where Jericho Road dipped, curved sharply, and passed beneath the tracks. Taking the turn at such speed was pure danger, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. Seeing it ahead, I clutched Peaches' mane with both hands, centered myself on her bare back, and put my trust in her. She pricked her ears and hunched lower, then suddenly scrambled out of rhythm. Bits of gravel flew into the air as she lost her footing, and for one sickeningly empty beat we were falling. The ground rushed up at us. But somehow she planted a foot and stopped it, heaving us forward in the same instant. And we managed to dash into the dark tunnel just as the locomotive thundered over it.

The whistle sounded once as we shot out the other side, a shrill good-bye. I thought I heard the engineer's laugh carried on its pitch. Before the entire train passed, I spun Peaches around and dived back into the tunnel. Reining her to a standstill, I savored the deliciously frightening roar directly over our heads. The vibrations shook our very bones. And then the train was gone and I was left smiling.

Satisfied, we headed for home. Mundane chores were waiting: The same old weeds, it seemed, were always sprouting up just to be dug up; the same old hens had to be nudged aside to gather the same old eggs. A chemise that never seemed to get properly mended required yet more stitches. The civilized world was impatient to fasten its buttons around us. But we still had a little time. We weren't captured yet. Peaches nodded contentedly as she shuffled, trailing little clouds of dust with each hoof fall. I swung my legs freely and hummed a favorite hymn.

Galloping, I know for a fact, washes you cleaner than any scrubbing. It sends air rushing into your darkest corners and chases the cobwebs out. Every Saturday after our race I felt as clean as a swept porch. Light and happy. And hungry. As usual, I'd slipped out to the barn without any breakfast, and my stomach was noisily reminding me. So when I looked up to find us passing Mr. Jude's apple orchard, I have to confess I was sorely tempted. A new rail fence ran along the side of it, the splintery boards gleaming a pinkish yellow in the sunlight. It was four feet high if it was an inch, and put there, I was certain, simply to make those apples look all the sweeter. My mouth watered.

I knew that orchard. A few months before we'd wandered into it from another direction, and Mr. Jude had chased us out with his dogs. Then he'd gone straight down and told Father about it, adding that Peaches and I had trampled his newly tilled garden, which was a lie. He'd accused me of something else, too, something that I still didn't quite understand.

From my bedroom over the porch, I'd tried to hear what they were saying, but I couldn't make out the words. The front door slamming was plain enough, though. I'd peeked out my window to see Mr. Jude stalking down the drive. Inside, I heard Father's clipped and carefully measured voice, the one he used when explaining his wishes to little children or the elderly. Like a muffled echo, it was followed by Mother's even footsteps skimming the stairs. Father was sending her.

It wasn't the first time she'd served as his messenger. While Father could talk to me rationally about the weather, or the condition of the surrounding corn crop, or sometimes — sometimes — about the columns he wrote for his newspaper, he couldn't and wouldn't discuss my many instances of "unbridled behavior," as I once heard him describe it to Mother. I was her daughter then. That was her job. Funny thing was, I was nothing like my mother.

She came into my room and began darting about, tidying this and smoothing that. She moved as lightly and noiselessly as a butterfly. "Next Saturday morning," she said, "let's invite Mary Grace over and we'll bake up some gingersnaps. Or we could look through flower catalogs; I've just received a new one." I murmured something evasive and left my bed to straddle the chair in front of my dressing table. Fingering its chipped green paint, I waited for her to tell me what she'd really come to say.

She fluttered some more. Then, reaching for the brush, she gave out a little sigh and motioned me to turn around. With her first stroke, the brush caught in my windblown hair and our eyes caught in the mirror. One pair was the color of faded hyacinths, the other was as green as the fields and unnaturally defiant. Two more dissimilar faces you could not have found, yet somehow we'd been planted in the same family.

She petted my shoulder. I knew it was coming: her message. "Your Father thinks, Rachel dear," she said, "that perhaps it's time you give up your horse?"

"No!" I jumped up and shouted the word so vehemently that she actually blanched a shade paler, which I instantly felt bad about. After all, she was merely the messenger.

She reached the brush toward my hair. I took a step back, shaking my head.

"Well, if you'd promise to use the sidesaddle," she cajoled, "maybe your father would consider letting . . . and if you'd promise to wear shoes and gloves, too. Why, just look at what those leather reins are doing to your hands." She lifted them by their stained fingertips and made a face. "Honestly, Rachel, you're fifteen years old. Can't you please ride like a lady," she begged, "because . . . well, there's really no other way to put it: The way you're tearing around — astride," she whispered the word dramatically, "with your limbs showing — well, people are calling it indecent."

Indecent.

That plopped me back down on the chair. I'd always thought that indecent was the way Mrs. Winnow flirted with our minister, whose wife was deathly ill but not yet passed. Or the way two of our church elders raised their hands and swore not to let alcohol pass their lips, yet were happy to pass the cider jug at the fall plowing match. I thought indecent was leaving a dog tied to a tree day in and day out, for its whole miserable life. But just like that, she threw me into the same sinful category. She sewed a scarlet letter onto me. She and Father and Mr. Jude. When all I'd done was gallop.

That had been three months ago, but the word still rang in my ears: indecent. So as I was sitting there on Peaches with my stomach rumbling, I got to thinking about eating an apple — just one — to spite Mr. Jude and his lies.

That's when I heard them coming: the boys. Farther on past the orchard, I saw them, four abreast. Riding into town and to their summer work at the granary and the livery and the slaughterhouse. Riding with their hard boots and their harsh words and their heavy hands. We'd met before.

The road was narrow along this stretch and fenced on both sides. I had no choice if I wanted to avoid them. Angling Peaches toward the orchard gate, which was slightly lower than its fence and situated between us and the approaching boys, I pressed my heels into her sides. She understood at once. With her ears pointed toward the top rail, she picked up a canter. I felt her hindquarters gather beneath me and, with each powerful stride, her withers lifted higher. The boys hooted with glee, thinking we were mounting a foolhardy charge at them. I gritted my teeth and focused on the hurdle ahead. At the critical moment, when there was only freedom or crashing failure, Peaches left the ground and we were flying. For one breathless instant the earth couldn't hold us.

As we swooped down inside, the boys came galloping up to the gate to hurl some jeers over it. I ignored them, as I always had. They had nothing I wanted or needed.

Peaches kept cantering smoothly between the tidy rows. I stroked her neck with gratitude. The coarse voices behind us faded, then fragmented in a sudden flurry of hoofbeats. And we were left alone.

Pulling Peaches to a walk, I let myself fall under the orchard's spell. It was so quiet among the trees — a private, sun-dappled world that locked out the injustices of everyday life. A low humming lulled us as we ambled along. The ground gently sank and swelled, and I could swear I heard it breathing. Lacy white flowers arced in abundance, their honeyed fragrance seeming to grow sweeter in the warming sun. I reined Peaches down a different row, and then another and another, just wandering. My mouth watered at the thousands of hard, glossy green orbs, but the apples weren't ripe yet and there was no use in biting into even one.

After a time, we found ourselves back at the gate. No need to risk our necks again, so I slid off and led Peaches through, then climbed onto the fence and onto her back. The sun was even higher in the sky, and I knew the chickens wouldn't be the only ones squawking at home.

Sweat had glued my dress to my skin by then, and it was all I could do to keep from wading into the shallows of the Gilead River for a quick dip. The waters sparkled invitation, but I kept Peaches pointed straight and we clip-clopped across the planked bridge.

Turning onto Bell Road, we hurried into a trot to get past the Stokeses' farm. Not only because we were late, but because I couldn't bear to look at their slatted barn with its string of orange fox pelts nailed in cruciform beneath the eaves. It seemed there was always a price to pay for crossing someone's boundaries. Always a price. But what place did death have on a morning as glorious as this?

Copyright ©2006 by Diane Lee Wilson