One Hundred and Four Horses

In the highest branches, she stopped dead. Then, from the corner of Crofton, came Jay and his friend Henry, the son of a neighboring farmer. Both of them were holding their pellet guns.

In a sudden scramble of limbs, Kate jumped down from the tree just as Jay and Henry were disappearing into the first fringe of the bush. Quickly, she made to follow.

From the kitchen window, I watched her go. Jay, I knew, was going to be furious. I had seen her do this before. Jay and his friend were going to take potshots at birds in the bush, but it distressed Kate so much that she simply had to do something about it. Rather than run and hide, she had taken to sabotaging their hunts by frightening off the birds they were stalking. She would clap her hands and sing loud songs—and it had been a long time since Jay had proudly brought back a feathery carcass to Crofton farmhouse.

Kate followed him from deepest gully to highest ridge, along winding game trails and farm tracks, down to the tall reeds on the shores of Two Tree Hill Dam and up along the rivers that held our home in their cradle. With every step that she took, she clapped her hands wildly, oblivious to her brother’s orders, his threats, his pleading looks. Every time she clapped her hands, the birds on which Jay had trained his pellet gun took off, a chaos of flapping wings and cries of alarm.

In this way, Jay was deprived time and again of his kills. At dusk, he tramped back into Crofton, dejected, his pellet gun still full. When he threw it down in disgust, Kate clapped again.

“Don’t worry, Jay. If Dad found you, you know what you’d have to do …”

Jay had been under strict orders ever since he unwrapped his prized pellet gun that he could shoot a bird only if he planned to eat it.

Jay looked at Kate.

“You’re just jealous,” he said, “that you can’t shoot, too.”

But when they lined up tin cans in the garden and took potshots at them, Kate won every time.

She took after her mother, you see.

In later years, Frisky began to wither. Pat had never known her true age, but the lines deepened in her face, she lost weight that she would never regain, and when she and Pat set out across the farm, driving what few cattle we had left into their crush for dipping or simply reliving the days of their youth, she lived up to her name less and less often. No longer was she frisky; now, she was stately, quiet, reserved. A gentle horse in her dotage, slowly winding down.

In 1998, she left the paddocks and moved into our garden. She liked to lie down on the grass, and Kate nestled contentedly between her legs, our daughter and our horse breathing in unison. She ate from our hands but was hidden away when guests came to Crofton. She was too old, now, skin and bones. Questions were asked when those who did not know her laid eyes on her: Wouldn’t her passing, they wondered, be considered a kindness?

It would not be the first time Pat had lifted his gun to shoot an old friend. Children on farms learn, very early on, that death is a part of life. Livestock are culled, poachers’ dogs are shot, horses with tumors and disease might need their master’s mercy. But, every evening, Pat went into our garden to put his arms around his oldest friend, and I knew he would not, could not do it. Frisky just grew older and older. Neither one of them would let go.

Pat was away from the farm on business when I stood in the kitchen window and saw Frisky lying in the shadow of the mango tree, her chest barely rising or falling. I left what I was doing and went out to see her. Kate and Jay followed, but instinctively they knew and hung at a distance. For the briefest moment, Frisky lifted her head, eyes rolling as if to search Pat out; then she laid her head down, and the only movement was the twitching of her nostrils. I sat with her for hours, her head in my lap, teasing her ears, whispering to her. I knew there was no coming back; her time had come. Her breathing grew low and ragged. It slowed. Then it was no more.

Kate and Jay sat with her for the longest time, but Pat would not be back until after dark. I was putting Kate to bed when I heard the telltale stutter of an engine that told me he had returned. I left Kate half tucked-in and went to meet him as he climbed out of the car.

Hanging above us, in a frame of lantern light, Kate watched from behind the bedroom curtains. Perhaps she had that old childhood terror of seeing your parents crumple, revealing themselves as mere mortals. She was watching, but she did not want to see.

I told Pat that Frisky was gone and he did not breathe a word.

When he went to her, Oliver and some of the other workers were trying to lift her from where she had lain. One by one, Pat waved them away. And then, almost thirty years after she first came cantering into his life, Pat knelt down beside her and put his arms around her for the final time.

He did not come to bed until late that night. He laid Frisky in the ground himself, gave her to Crofton. It is what she would have wanted.

The morning after Frisky left us, I woke early to find that the bed beside me was empty. Reeling downstairs and out into the morning sun, I saw Pat and Kate tending to Deja-vous at the bottom of the garden. Her leg was healed now, and Kate led her gently up and down on a lead rope. Her dark eyes glimmered.

I went to Pat and put my hand in his.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

It is a terrible thing to lose a beloved horse. Pat had known Frisky longer than I had known him. They had grown together, changed together. She had taught him to ride, and she taught our children, too. And, as we rode out onto the farm that day, I had the inalienable feeling that she was still there, cantering alongside us. She would be here forever. She was part of Crofton now.

In a way, I felt as if Frisky had entrusted Pat to me. I would be with him for the rest of his life, while Frisky cantered on alone.

I did not mean to let her down.

Chapter 3

SOON AFTER WE came to Crofton, we drove over to the neighboring Two Tree Hill Farm to see trucks being unloaded at the farmhouse on top of the hill. The new neighbors, it seemed, had finally arrived. Our lives—and the lives of our horses—were about to become richer than ever, as we welcomed long-lasting, genuine friends into our world.

We had heard that new managers were moving into Two Tree from the farm’s owner, a middle-aged South African named Les De Jager. During the bush war, Les had fought with a unit of the SAP, the South African Police, who were supporting the Rhodesian army. On patrol deep in virgin bush, he and his unit had set up camp along the banks of a river. That night, Les had an epiphany: this was the perfect site to build a dam wall, opening the river for the irrigation of all the untamed land that stretched around. When he closed his eyes, he could see it: the bush driven back, the land opened up with tobacco, soybeans, wheat, and more. It was an image so vivid that, when the bush war came to its conclusion, Les left his native South Africa and came here to see the dream fulfilled. Two Tree Hill now stood, testament to the nocturnal visions of a soldier too long away from home.

As we reached Two Tree, we saw a slim man, perhaps the same age as Pat, rolling up his sleeves and stepping into the back of one of his trucks. He had the most wonderful smile, vivid blue eyes, and curly blond hair. He stepped into the darkness of the truck. He was out of sight for only a few moments before he reemerged, leading behind him a beautiful bay mare.

It was while he was turning to lead a second horse out of the box that he first saw us.

“You must be Pat and Mandy,” he began. “My name’s Charl. Charl Geldenhuys.” He took a step back, his eye line almost level with Kate’s. “And this must be …”

“Her name’s Frisky,” Pat cut in.

Charl stepped back, admiring the old mare that Pat and Kate were riding. Then, he turned, ambling back to the horse he had already offloaded.

“This is Lady Richmond,” he said, laying his hands on her flank.

Charl, it transpired, had been the manager on Two Tree some years before. He had spent five years managing the farm before meeting and falling in love with the woman who was to be his wife, Tertia. They had been married in South Africa and spent two blissful years there, Tertia giving birth to a wonderful daughter, Resje, who was only a little younger than Kate. Charl had talked so nostalgically about his time on Two Tree that he had convinced Tertia to visit it as a holiday—and it was then that Tertia, a city girl at heart, had fallen in love with the wild, open spaces of Two Tree Hill. The farm, she saw, was a paradise, its wild places teeming with reedbuck, tsessebe, kudu, and sable. Charl could do nothing other than petition Les De Jager for his old job.

When Charl introduced us, I liked Tertia immediately: small, with dark hair, and the most expressive brown eyes I had ever seen. Resje clung to her as she introduced herself. She had the same warm brown eyes as her mother and, we were to learn, had been born with a birthmark that covered almost all of her body. As a result, the brave little girl had to spend many months in hospitals across the course of her young life, and Tertia was the most devoted and caring mother.

Having managed Two Tree once before, Charl was familiar with its every hill and outcrop of bush, the bream in the dam, and the contours of the land. Tertia seemed to take to the country life with brave aplomb, playing the role of the perfect hostess. We began to spend many weekends with the Geldenhuyses at Two Tree farmhouse. Tertia would host lunches or preside over a braai (barbecue), and while we swapped stories long into the night, Pat and Charl would talk about the land, the game—and, most of all, their horses.

Charl was as avid a horseman as Pat, and countless were the days that were lost as they rode together, from one end of Two Tree to the farthest side of Crofton, taking in the sweeping bush and fields full of crops. As Frisky was to Pat, so was Lady Richmond to Charl—and when she came into foal, there could not have been a cause for a greater celebration on Two Tree.

Lady Richmond gave birth to a chestnut filly with a flaxen mane and a stately, self-assured look about her. The foal was so striking that Charl decided to name her Lady, after her mother. But in the first few hours after Lady was born, Charl knew that something was wrong. He had been around horses all his life, and instinct told him that this was bad. That night, Pat arrived at Two Tree to see for himself. In her paddock, Lady Richmond lay, weak and exhausted, seemingly not having recovered from giving birth. There was very little to say, for both men understood what had happened. In giving birth, Lady Richmond had torn herself inside; her foal, Lady, was strong and healthy, but Lady Richmond herself was rapidly fading away.

Come the morning, Lady Richmond’s eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and ragged. Come the evening, she was gone, leaving behind her day-old foal.

Lady Richmond was buried on Two Tree, but her foal needed Charl and Tertia now. They would have to act as surrogates to the orphaned horse. Now, when Pat and I took the children to visit Two Tree farmhouse on a weekend, we would find Tertia and Resje sitting on the lawn with the dainty little foal greedily sucking on her bottle. Once she was full, Lady would race around the lawn, cutting circles around her adoptive family, kicking out with her hooves.

Watching the tiny creature hurtle around the garden, seeing how Resje delighted in watching her tumble, I knew that our new neighbors were the very best kind of ­people: the kind who would reach out to a creature in need and step up to whatever challenge life threw at them. Without Charl and Tertia, Lady would have perished at her mother’s side. Now, watching as Kate was allowed to hold out a bottle and let Lady suckle from its tip, I was reminded more than ever of the trust that our horses, and indeed all our animals, put in us. It was a thought that would come back to me time and again over the following years as, too often to mention, I would look into a helpless horse’s eyes and, though I knew we did not truly have the means to help, promise them we would never let them go.

As the months and years passed, Pat and Charl sat up long into the nights, reminiscing and dreaming of the things they could do with this land. I had always known that my husband was a very specific kind of dreamer: the kind of man who could concoct an elaborate, wild scheme and actually see it to fruition. He had been that type ever since he was a boy, building great chicken empires or collecting his own herds of cattle, and I began to see now how our new life on Crofton was the natural conclusion. He and Charl would ride the boundaries and talk about which corners of bush might be conquered next. They would dream of new dams and roads, irrigation schemes so ambitious they might bring greenery to deserts. But most of all, they dreamed about their horses, and how they might breed something very special into their herds.

The opportunity for something a little special came soon after Lady was orphaned. When a fellow farmer was looking to transport one of his Arabian stallions to its new owners in Zambia, Charl agreed to provide a temporary home for the stallion on its journey north. This, Pat and Charl both agreed, was an opportunity too perfect to miss, a chance to add something of the Arabian’s natural versatility into the bloodline on Two Tree. Arabian horses are one of the most recognizable of all horse breeds and date back almost five millennia, to when they were first bred by the Bedouin ­people on the Arabian peninsula. Selectively bred for the strength of the bond they develop with their riders, as well as their high spirits and endurance, Arabians have a distinctive head shape and high tail carriage—and the thought of letting this opportunity pass by was more than any avid horseman could bear.

The Arabian stallion, then, would not only be fed and watered during his stay at Two Tree; he would be catered to in other ways as well. The day after he arrived, Charl led him into the paddock where Charl’s mares were grazing and let nature run its course.

I had never seen Pat and Charl more delighted when the news came back about two months later: several of the Two Tree mares were coming into foal. A new dynasty was about to be born.

Almost a year later, the stallion long gone to his new home in Zambia, Two Tree was home to a fantastic new generation of half-Arabians. Grey was a silvery male, his half sister a bay whom Resje named Princess. As we stood in their paddock and fussed over them, we didn’t know how well we’d get to know them over the years.

I would always look back on one particular moment in the lives of those foals.

Princess had grown to be a delightful little mare, the kind without any natural instinct to fear or mistrust humans. Most horses need gentle teaching on how to have their hind feet handled, to rein in that instinct to kick out at what they cannot see, but Princess loved being handled from the very start. She was gentle, she was patient, she delighted in having a saddle on her back and a girth fit around her—and, as she grew into adulthood, she loved nothing more than venturing out onto the farm, a rider in her saddle, to explore the bush.

The new horses of Two Tree had become as familiar to us as the horses of Crofton. One herd mingled with the other, so that soon I would more often find myself in the half-Arabian Grey’s saddle than in the saddle of any other horse. When Frisky was still with us, she would nose around Princess, Grey, and a little foal named Fleur as if they were her very own offspring. So, as the Retzlaffs and Geldenhuyses became such strong friends, so too did our horses.

Frisky had been gentle and patient in teaching Kate to ride, and Princess was just as gentle and patient in teaching Charl and Tertia’s daughter, Resje. Princess had developed into a beautiful horse, with the temperament of her Arabian sire and the stature of her dam, Chiquita. Now, when Pat and I took the children out on rides, we could see Charl and Resje following the same trails. Sometimes they were just small silhouettes on a distant contour, a fleeting glimpse between the fields of crops, Charl on another Arabian stallion named Outlaw or the silvery shimmer that was Grey, Resje trotting on Princess in his wake. Sometimes our rides converged, and we cantered with them alongside the herds of tsessebe.

There is one particular day that will forever stick in my mind. We had been riding down by the dam, and as the afternoon light waned we turned to follow the tracks up, out of the bush, and toward Crofton. We saw Charl long before he saw us, riding a trail deep between fields of tall wheat. Behind him, Resje sat proudly in Princess’s saddle. As we got near, I could see her hands loose around the reins. Princess, so gentle and patient with her riders, simply followed Grey and Charl, seemingly pleased to be out in the fresh African air.

We called out to Charl, but we were too far away for him to hear us. In her saddle, Kate started waving her arms, as if to catch Resje’s attention. Resje must have seen Kate, for she lifted one hand to wave back. Then she took hold of her reins and carried on riding. Soon the tracks would snake together, and we would meet Charl and Resje in a clearing of red dirt between the fields.

Suddenly, something changed. Princess, normally so sedate and calm, reared up. In the still afternoon air, we could hear her whinnying, even at this distance. She brought her two rear hooves up from the ground, scrabbled at the air, kicked and then bucked. In the saddle, Resje clung to the reins. The buck tore them from her hands. I saw her little hands grappling out to catch them again, but the reins flew free. She was about to fly out of the saddle when something caught her. She snapped, taut, in the air, and seemed to be snatched around Princess. Too late, I understood what had happened: one of her feet was held in the stirrups; she could not be thrown free.

In panic, Princess crashed down and began to hurtle forward. Up ahead, Charl turned Grey to see the commotion—but it was too late. Princess cantered past, with Resje dangling beside her, one foot still in its stirrup, the whole of her body being dragged across the ground.

I looked at Pat. Pat looked at me. In that same second, he dug his heels into Frisky’s flank and drove her on. Princess was cantering in our direction. Perhaps he could head her off before Charl.

Moments later, we took off too, cantering in Frisky’s wake. Though Pat and Frisky surged ahead, we tried to keep up. For a moment, they disappeared over a ridge in the track, obscured by the undulating wheat. When we caught them again, they had reined down. Frisky was standing contentedly by, while Pat knelt at her side. When I got close, I could see Princess standing at a distance, seemingly calmed down. Pat was cradling Resje in his arms. She was battered, bruised, shaken beyond measure, but mercifully she did not appear to be seriously hurt.

Soon, Charl appeared through the maize. He brought Grey to a sudden halt and leaped out of the saddle.

“She’s okay, Charl,” Pat said, gently lifting Resje toward him. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t her fault. Something came out of the bush, a duiker or a … I don’t know. But it spooked Princess.”

“We saw her buck.”

Charl nodded, running a finger along Resje’s brow.

“Thank God nothing’s broken.”

Princess, startled at whatever had hurtled out of the bush, had panicked, shying away. In the saddle, the reins had whipped from Resje’s hands. Though she grappled out to take them again, it was too late. She flew up and out of the saddle, and would have crashed into the ground at Princess’s flank had her foot not caught in the stirrup.

We accompanied Charl and Resje back to Two Tree farmhouse. I watched Resje, finally able to breathe again, following Tertia into the farmhouse and remembered vividly my weekends trying to climb into Ticky’s saddle and stay there, my father’s face swimming in and out of focus that afternoon at the gymkhana when Ticky had thrown me off and wandered, dispassionately, away.

That, I remembered now, was the last time I rode until Pat walked into my life, in his undersize suit and battered cowboy boots. A fright like the one Resje had had today was enough to drive somebody away from the riding life forever.

While Tertia tended to Resje, Charl led Princess back into her paddock, along with Grey and all the other horses of Two Tree. In the garden at the back of the house, Lady was aware that something had happened and turned in little circles, as if demanding attention.

That was the very last day that Resje ever rode. She loved horses and would always love horses, but the thought of being thrown from the saddle and snaring her foot in the stirrup would live with her forever.

At last, it was decided that Princess could not remain on Two Tree. The memory was too fresh, and though Resje would always love Lady, Grey, Fleur, and the other Two Tree horses, the thought of Princess spooked her. Like Frisky long ago, Princess would have to be sent to a new home, to find a new family to love her, without the shadow of that one terrible moment in her past.

Charl did not have to look far to find a new home for Princess. Les De Jager’s son farmed at Ormeston, in the district of Lion’s Den, and agreed to take Princess on board. As well as being a strong working mare, Princess had her Arabian ancestry, and with careful management might add a little of her Arabian strength and endurance to the bloodline in Lion’s Den.

I will always remember the day that Princess walked up the ramp into Charl’s truck and left Two Tree Hill Farm. We thought we would not see her again—but the world has a strange way of subverting your expectations. Princess had left Two Tree, but she had not left our lives for long. When she returned, it was to be under the most terrible circumstances. More change was about to come to our beloved Zimbabwe, and devastation as well to the new world we had tried to create at Crofton and Two Tree.

Everything was about to change—for our families and our horses.

In the early evening dark, Pat sat outside Crofton, working through the books in which we inscribed the farm’s history: its seasons and yields, our cropping loans, the details of the workers who had stayed with us through the years. His head was buried in the books when he heard footsteps, a soft knocking at the door. He looked up to see Charles, one of our drivers, approach.

“Boss?”

“Charles …”

“It’s about tomorrow, boss.”

Pat shuffled back. “What’s tomorrow?”

“I was hoping we can use the tractor tomorrow. To take everybody to the voting.”

“Voting?”

Charles nodded, and as Pat questioned him further, things began to stir in the back of his mind, half-forgotten conversations and fragments of news items. Only a few months before, in November 1999, Mugabe’s government had published the draft of a new constitution, which would be ratified in an upcoming referendum. The draft constitution effectively rewrote the constitution first created when Zimbabwe achieved independence, through the Lancaster House Agreement of 1979. It would, it dawned on Pat as Charles continued to speak, give Mugabe the right to serve an unlimited time in office, and even the right to appoint his own successor. What hit even closer to home, however, was the idea that, under the rules of the new constitution, the government would be able to forcibly acquire lands, even those that the government itself had sold since independence, without the owners having any legal right to be compensated for their loss. There was still inequality in the way in which land was held in Zimbabwe, even these twenty years after the coming of independence and the end of old Rhodesia, and we had always known something had to change. Yet, we had bought our farm in good faith; its sale had been sanctioned by the very same government whose efforts now seemed to threaten to take it away. I had the horrible feeling that the land reform program, which was not being handled properly by the government, would now be used by Mugabe for his own political gains.