HARPG: January

FINALLY getting a move on. The beginning is a bit of a repeat. I wanted the yearling stuff with the yearling picture. sorry.

For new readers, or those wanting to brush up, the first segment of the story is here

JANUARY
December rolled into January, and with the New Year, the string went south, three new foals joined the rapidly growing Darkshadow Stables young stock. Blind Grace, Dark Ember and Morwen foaled in rapid succession, bringing two fillies and a colt into the world, the weanlings of the year before turned one, and began their training.

To the terror of all, Diablo’s Defiance fought, tooth and hoof, every hand that tried to bridle him. For some reason, the saddle he minded not at all, nor the halter. It was the bridle. Not the bit, the bridle. He would let you slip the metal into his mouth and hold it there as long as you liked, but woe betide the trainer or stable hand who tried to pull the leather over his ears. Then, on a whim, Jose gave James a bridle that had seen better days. It had once been a western bridle, so there was no noseband, but the brow band had also been removed, and it was light and old – so light and old, in fact, that it looked like a good tug would pull it to pieces. Diablo took it, to everyone’s surprise. Took it and was obedient to the gentle guidance of a very wary Jose. The others gave no such trouble – well…not of the same kind anyway. Dauntless gave all manor of exuberant mischief, Feanor fought like the spirit of fire he was, but in the end James tamed him, and Starlight was the little sweetheart she always was.

The Eclipse Awards went by in a blaze of triumph for the stable. Oberon came away Champion Male Turf horse, Silver, Champion Female Sprinter, Puck Champion Sprinter, Shadow, of course won Champion Three-year-old Filly, and Mormegil, Horse of the Year and Champion Three-Year-Old Male horse. Rebecca was literally speechless, though her tears and shaky smile said it all. James managed to be coherent, even eloquent, before tearing up himself, and letting the replay of the Triple Crown stretch duels between the grey filly and the black colt say it all.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the honours bestowed upon him, the warrior waged war with his inner demons, and with the humans around him. Only Shadow could safely be in his presence for more than five minutes.

With fear and trepidation, Rebecca and James coaxed Mormegil into a slightly better temper, and by dint of loading Shadow into the trailer first, were able to convince the fractious stallion to follow her, and then they rolled off for their long trek to Heartbreak Ridge. The string was going down to the Gulfstream for the spring season, and from Gulfstream, they would fly Mormegil and Shadow out to Heartbreak.

Physically, Gil was improving, Rebecca’s constant care, James’ good horse sense, and the tireless work of the doctors and therapists administering the stem cell therapy were healing his body, but they had made nearly no headway for his mental state. And he wasn’t the only one. Rebecca woke one night to take her turn in checking on the horses, and slipping down to the stables, and found the lights already on. The young jockey sat before Mormegil’s stall, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, his posture suggesting utter despair. Mormegil stood defiantly in his stall, as best as he was able between the cast on his foreleg, and the crippling stiffness in his shoulder, his ears back, his eyes trained on his jockey. Shadow’s head was thrust over the partition between their stalls, her soft whickers causing the black ears to swivel and the tense muscles to relax.

“Tom! What on earth happened?” Rebecca exclaimed in surprise, not to see the jockey, as both Jose and Tom usually stayed at Shady Maple Farms, but at this hour!

Tom looked up, and the expression in his eyes would always stick in her head as one of those images she longed desperately to forget, along with the image of her black colt going down among the thrashing legs, and the sound of his shriek. They were as haunted as the colt’s.

“Bad dream.” He replied hoarsely.
“About the race?”

Tom didn’t answer, but nodded, standing up and walking over to Shadow’s stall door. Sensing his distress, Shadow withdrew her head from Mormegil’s stall, and thrust her head into Tom’s chest.

“No body blames you, Tom, it wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done. You know that. Everyone knows that.”

“I know,” his voice was hardly above a whisper, “But the dreams. They’re so vivid. I was there again. His scream. I’ll remember that scream until the day I die.”

Rebecca nodded, and against her will, she saw the race unfolding again. Mormegil, freed, bounding around the turn, almost home free, glorious in his speed, and then his path blocked, the sea of horses about him, the sudden disappearance of all running room. Then the stumble, the desperate scramble, and the scream as his great body failed him, as his legs folded, his legendary athleticism deserting him. And then as she tried to shake the image away, the memory of the black body slick with sweat, forced itself to the forefront, the nostrils flared, the head jerked high in pain, shock and fear, and his painful attempts to relieve the pain in both forelegs and shoulder.

She felt the blood drain from her face, and was glad to cling to the neck that thrust itself into her trembling arms. She hung on to it tightly, before abruptly jerking her head up. It was Mormegil. His eyes were wary, still, but he let her stoke him as Tom stared in astonishment.

The next morning, the whole event could have been a dream. Mormegil screamed at Rebecca when she came in to give him breakfast, and he shrilled his protest to the world incessantly, but Rebecca allowed herself to hope. To believe that somewhere under that vicious ferocity that resembled nothing so much as his famous half brother El Diablo, Mormegil’s better side still lay, and could be lured to the surface again.

Shadow began the season with a rousing victory in the Hal’s Hope, which she won by a length, with such class that the world promptly announced that she had only gotten better with age. Two days later, she and Mormegil were back on the road on the last leg of the journey to Heartbreak Ridge. When they arrived, Shadow unloaded calmly, even happily, looking about in great interest, but Mormegil was a different story. He came down the ramp at as close to a run that he could approximate with a not entirely healed foreleg and a partially paralyzed shoulder, and threw everyone into a flurry of worried movement as he reared up and danced on his hind legs. When he came down, to everyone’s great relief, it appeared that he had not damaged anything, but no sooner had that passed, but he jerked on the lead rope and shrieked, snapping at the few people around, and lashing out with his healthy hind legs. They saw him settled in as well as possible, and then drove back to Gulfstream for the debuts of the other horses.

Puck came next in the Mr. Prospector Handicap, his mind sharp as a sword from his layoff, and his works straight and true, the zigzags of his three-year-old year a thing of the past. That is not to say that he still wasn't the lithe prankster he was before, but rather he had decided that his business was racing, and that being a prankster was more rewarding after one had firmly trounced the opposition.

He broke alertly, and after a few sideways bounds, he straitened out and his opposition never got closer to him than five lengths. James and Rebecca never were able to figure out why he had refused to run in a straight line, but he never did it again. However, that didn't stop him from flopping his ears and wagging his tongue, or from attempting to slobber all over the trophy or trying to steal everyone’s racing programs.

Tiz Lin was all business in her three-year-old debut, and slaughtered the colts sent against her in the Holy Bull, as Lava Runner was not present to offer her a challenge. She stalked a longshot through the opening fractions, breathing fire down his neck, before making her move and inhaling him with no new challenges materializing. Jose was unable to pull her up until they had made nearly a further loop around the track.

After such rousing successes, Oberon's victory in the GII San Marcos was almost anticlimactic. He stalked, he made his move, and he drew away, perhaps harder ridden than in the past, but nevertheless, opening lengths on his opposition.

Darkshadow Stables was back in style.


Pictured: The Yearlings
top left: HMS Dauntless
top right: Dee's Starlight
bottom left: Feanor
bottom right: Diablo's Defiance