Nightstorm and the Grand Slam
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Avery had never spoken to Issie about the accident – in fact he never spoke to anyone about what happened that day. It must have been so painful for Avery to be here now, reliving the agony of that moment all those years ago when he lost his beloved horse.
“I’m so sorry,” Issie stammered. “I wasn’t thinking…”
Avery’s voice was choked with emotion. “I just don’t want you to make the same mistake I made,” he said.
“I get that, I really do,” Issie said gently. “But you’re trying to change history. Even if I take the safe route on Victory and Storm, it isn’t going to bring him back.”
She looked her trainer in the eyes. “The alternative route is too slow and I will lose if I take it. You have to let me take the risk and jump the Vicarage Ditch.”
Avery sighed, admitting defeat, “When exactly did you become the smart one in our relationship?”
Issie smiled. “Oh, please! If I’m the smart one then we really are in trouble!”
Avery put his arm around her shoulder. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go back to the truck. I think you know exactly what you’re doing. Straight through the big jumps all the way to home.”
They kept the conversation purely on practical matters as they walked back to the truck. This wasn’t difficult since there was still so much to prepare for tomorrow. Francoise was running a last-minute check on their tack and equipment. And Stella was down at the stables with both the horses, bedding them in for the evening.
Victory and Storm had both been allocated stalls in the main Badminton House stable block, a stately stone building constructed around a quadrangle courtyard. The main stables took 45 horses, almost half the contingent who were competing over the period of the three-day event, and the loose boxes were beautiful with high ceilings and elegant flagstone floors. They were also high maintenance and Stella had spent most of the day down there, mucking out and replacing Victory and Storm’s bedding, organising their feeds and water troughs.
She arrived back at the horse truck at the same time as Issie and Tom, her curly red hair scraped back beneath a cheesecutter cap, which looked like it had been stolen out of Avery’s closet. Her jodhpurs were covered in straw and muck, which she made a half-hearted attempt to brush off before she stepped inside the kitchen of the horse truck and collapsed on one of the bench seats.
“Ohmygod!” Stella groaned. “I am exhausted and starving. When is dinner?”
“Dinner,” Avery told her, “will be on the table shortly.” Stella looked pleased until he added, “…just as soon as you cook it.”
In the end, all four of them pitched in to make spaghetti with tomato and tuna sauce and a green salad on the side.
“Carbo loading for tomorrow,” Stella told Issie as she dished up a second helping of pasta onto her plate.
“I don’t need to fuel up,” Issie insisted. “Victory and Storm are the ones who’ll be doing the hard work!”
“They’ve already had their dinner,” Stella said. “I gave them their feeds before I left the stables. Victory bolted his down as usual, but Storm wasn’t really that hungry.”
There was something about this comment that rang alarm bells for Issie. Storm was a greedy sort, known for snuffling his feed down in five minutes flat and nickering for seconds.
“Was he OK?” Issie asked Stella.
“He was a bit tense,” Stella admitted. “You know, after the dressage test, and being somewhere new. He was walking around his stall when I left him, taking little bites of his feed and then wandering away again.”
Issie looked up from her plate. “Maybe I should go check on him?”
Avery shook his head. “Issie, you’re worrying unnecessarily. Storm is fine, finish your dinner.”
It had been the strangest day. Never in her wildest dreams had Issie expected to be in such a strong position after the dressage phase. Her test on Victory had also put her right up there in contention, sitting in eighth place on a score of 39.5.
The real test of courage and ability would come tomorrow. She had put on a brave face in front of Tom and argued that she had to take the Vicarage Ditch head-on. But underneath her bravado, she was worried about her horses too.
She had never lost a horse on the cross-country course, but that didn’t mean she didn’t understand Avery’s pain. She had suffered the same heartbreak – many years ago now – when she had the accident with Mystic.
It had been the day of the Chevalier Point Pony Club Gymkhana, Issie’s first-ever competition. Mystic, her beloved pony, had been a total star all day long. The little swaybacked dapple-grey was getting on in years, but he was still a keen jumper and they had just taken out a ribbon in the showjumping class when it happened.
Chevalier Point’s resident brat, Natasha Tucker, furious that she’d failed to take first place, had thrown a tantrum and used her whip to take a swipe at her poor pony, Goldrush.
Issie had looked on in horror as the terrified Goldrush backed away from Natasha to escape and barged into Stella’s horse Coco and Kate’s gelding Toby, who were tied to a nearby horse truck. The next thing Issie knew, the ponies had pulled loose in fright and bolted, along with Goldrush, heading for the pony-club gates.
As people began to run after the horses, trying to divert them before they reached the main road, Issie realised they’d never catch them in time on foot. But maybe she could stop them on Mystic.
By the time she caught up the ponies were on the main road. Issie had taken one look at the cars whizzing past and then made the fateful decision to follow them. Every moment that the ponies were on that road their lives were in danger, but if she could ride around and herd them back, she might be able to drive them on to the gravel road back to the pony-club grounds.
Her plan worked. She had managed to get the ponies to safety and she was just about to get off the road too when she heard the deep low boom of the truck horn.
As Mystic turned to confront the truck, rising up on his hindquarters, he threw Issie off his back. The last thing she remembered was the sickening screech of the truck tyres and the horrific sound of her pony’s terrified whinny. Then her helmet hit the tarmac and everything went black.
In the hospital she woke up with her mother beside her bed, and it was only then that she discovered what had happened. The grey gelding had thrown her clear but it had cost him his life. Mystic was dead.
In the weeks that followed Issie became consumed by grief. Her loss overwhelmed her and she never thought she would be capable of loving another pony ever again.
And then Avery had brought her Blaze. He was working for Horse Welfare and the chestnut mare was a rescue pony that had been placed in his care. When Issie caught sight of the emaciated, terrified mare at the River Paddock she didn’t have the heart to turn her away.
Slowly, the broken-spirited mare and the broken-hearted girl began to heal each other and Issie fell in love with Blaze. But she never forgot Mystic. In her heart, she never let him go and the bond between her and the grey pony proved to be more special than Issie had ever imagined.
When Mystic first turned up to help her – alive and real, a flesh-and-blood pony and not some ghostly apparition – Issie should have been astonished, but instead she accepted his presence straight away. She had wished so hard for him to still be there with her, that when he actually came back she never questioned it. They were meant to be together.
In the years that followed, whenever Issie or her horses were in trouble, Mystic would come to her. He was her guardian, her protector and her secret.
While the horses had luxury accommodation at Badminton, Issie and her team weren’t quite so well off. Their horse truck was comfortable enough to live in for a few days, but it was a little cramped with four people in it. Avery and his wife Francoise had the double bed in the cavity above the driver’s cab, Stella had created a makeshift bed on the banquette seat next to the kitchen table, and Issie was out at the back in the part of the horse truck where the horses themselves usually travelled, on a camping cot bed. It wasn’t exactly the Plaza Hotel, but it suited Issie just fine. She loved the sweet smell of horses and the quiet chirp of crickets right outside as she lay there, trying to get to sleep.
With the cross-country starting at seven-thirty in the morning, an early night was crucial. As Issie had two horses to compete, the organisers had split up her two rides at either end of the day. Her early start was on Storm. The big bay was due in the ten-minute box a little before eight a.m. Victory was her second ride, with a late allocated start time of one-thirty p.m.
Although Nightstorm wasn’t due in the box until nearly eight, their day would start much earlier. Stella would be up and grooming him before sunrise and Issie would be down at the stables not long after that. After the exhausting day she’d just had, Issie desperately needed a good night’s sleep. Of course, just when you need it most, that’s when sleep refuses to do the business. For almost an hour she lay in her cot bed, thinking about the day’s events. She was finally beginning to relax, could feel drowsiness overwhelming her, when she heard hoofbeats.
Convinced that the sounds were nothing more than echoes from the stables on the other side of the competitors’ park, she ignored them and tried once more to sleep. But in a moment of clarity she sat up, suddenly wide awake. The hoofbeats were too close. They couldn’t be coming from the stables.
And then she heard another sound, quite distinct. It was the soft nicker of a horse and it was right outside!
Padding over to the back of the truck in pyjamas and bare feet, Issie pushed open the canvas flap at the rear by the ramp and peered out. It was dark, but there were a few lights on in the competitors’ park, providing enough illumination for her to see. There was a horse standing just a few metres away.
Eventing horses tended to be solidly built and at least sixteen hands high. By comparison, the swaybacked grey pony in front of her was tiny, no more than fourteen hands. He stared at her with coal-black eyes, standing so still that he looked like a marble statue. Then he shook his long mane and the statue was suddenly alive and impatient. The gelding gave a snort as if to say, ‘Come on! What’s keeping you? Let’s go already!’ Issie couldn’t believe it.
It was Mystic.
Chapter 3
Mystic stamped a hoof impatiently against the gravel and looked up at Issie, his dark eyes making his intent quite clear. They needed to leave now.
“OK, wait!” Issie ducked back inside the canvas flap and hunted frantically for a pair of boots. Her heart was racing and she couldn’t think straight – the fact that Mystic was here now meant that one or both of her horses must be in real trouble. She began to panic. They needed to go now!
There was a sound of hooves and Issie looked back to see Mystic pushing his muzzle through the canvas flap to look for her. She could see his nostrils flare as he sniffed for her. “I’m coming!” she insisted. She unearthed the boots from beneath a pile of coats and pulled them on and pushed her way back out through the canvas flap. Mystic was standing close to the ramp so that Issie could use it as a mounting block. She vaulted on expertly, not worrying that the pony had no saddle or bridle. She had always ridden Mystic like this. She remembered the very first time when they had taken a midnight ride to the pony club from her house. It had been terrifying at first, trying to bounce along bareback at the trot without anything to cling to. But Issie was a far more accomplished rider now. Her natural balance was so honed she relied on her seat alone. Not that it was far to fall anyway if she had come off. Compared to being on big, sixteen-two hand horses like Nightstorm and Victory, the grey pony felt very low to the ground. It had been a long time since Issie last rode Mystic and she was suddenly aware of how much she had grown. She was far too big for him – but Mystic didn’t seem to mind. As soon as he felt her weight settled on his back he set off at a brisk trot, weaving between the horse trucks. Issie wrapped her hands in the pony’s coarse mane as Mystic trotted his way through the twisting maze of vehicles, heading towards the Badminton House stable block.
It usually took about ten minutes to walk from her truck to the stables, but in a matter of a few minutes the grey pony was pulling up to a halt in the shadows outside the stately stone buildings.
“Good boy!” Issie gave him a slappy pat on the neck and then slid silently to the ground. The grey pony knew he could only take her this far. There was a watchman at night on the gates so she’d need to go alone from this point.
As she ran towards the stable block, Issie cast a glance back over her shoulder at Mystic. She had hoped to catch one last glimpse of his snowy face in the darkness but she should have known better by now. The grey pony was already gone.
As she ran through the entrance gates the security guard dropped the magazine he’d been reading and shone his torch on her.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” He put out an arm to stop her as she tried to race past.
“I need to get to my horses,” Issie said. She was trying to stay calm, but it wasn’t easy. Her mind was flashing back to that night in Chevalier Point all those years ago when Storm was stolen. He had been just a colt at the time and the ordeal had been terrifying. Now, Issie was worried that it was happening once more. Had someone come to take her horse? She couldn’t stand to go through it again.
“ID tag?” the guard said.
Issie lost her cool. “I’m wearing pyjamas! Does it look like I have my tags on me?”
The guard looked closely at her. “So what’s the big hurry about?”
“I need to get to my horses.”
The guard looked unimpressed by this vague explanation. “I’m sorry but without tags… hey!”
Before he could say anything more, Issie had ducked under his outstretched arm and was running through the courtyard towards the stable block.
She entered the corridor of the stable block and ran down the row of stalls. Victory was there! She could see him through the bars on the top of the door to his stall. He seemed to be totally fine.
“Hey, you!” Issie could hear the guard running up the corridor behind her but she ignored him and continued on to the next stall.
“Storm?”
Her breath was coming in gasps as her throat constricted with nerves. Her heart was racing. When she reached the door to his loose box she half-expected to find his stall empty, her best horse taken from her once again. But Storm was still there too!
Relieved to see him, Issie collapsed against the loose box door and put her face up to the bars.
“Hey, boy!” Issie smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re OK. I was worried about…”
The smile disappeared from her face. Storm usually came to the door to greet her, but he was acting like he wasn’t even aware that Issie was there. He seemed preoccupied. He kept turning his head around to look at his flank and then lifting his hind leg to kick at his belly.
Issie was confused. She had seen Blaze behave like this once when the mare was about to have a foal. But Storm was a stallion. He wasn’t about to give birth, so why was he behaving like…
Suddenly, the big bay dropped to his knees in the loose box and began to roll. At that moment, Issie knew what was wrong. She was about to slide the bolt to his stall when she felt a hand clasp her roughly on the arm.
“You’re in serious trouble!”
It was the security guard. His face was flushed from sprinting and he was clearly furious.
“No!” Issie turned to him, “You don’t understand. I’ve got to get in there! Look at him!”
Storm was lying down on the straw bedding of his stall, and rolling frantically from side to side, grunting in pain.
“He’s got colic!” Issie said. “If we let him roll he’ll end up killing himself! He’ll twist his bowel and then he’ll die!”
The guard let go of her arm. He was an officious sort, but he had also been hired because he was a skilled horseman and he knew immediately that Issie’s assessment of the bay stallion was probably right. Colic was like a very painful stomach ache – and the horse would keep rolling to try and relieve the pain. But the rolling would actually make matters much worse. The situation could very quickly turn deadly if they didn’t act fast.
“Let’s get him up!” the guard said, reaching out to pull back the sliding doors of the box.
Issie was already way ahead of him. She reached for the halter and lead rope that were hanging by the stall door and slipped the halter over Storm’s head. The stallion was still lying down and even as Issie tried to buckle the halter up, he was attempting to roll again.
“Hey, no, Storm,” Issie said, trying her best to subdue her own panic and speak gently to the horse. “Easy, boy, don’t roll. I’m here now. We’re going to get you up on your feet…”
But Storm wasn’t listening. As Issie tried to secure the buckle on the halter he flung his head up, narrowly missing her face. She reeled backwards and before she could grasp the halter again Storm had flung himself to the ground, legs flailing over his head. Issie was forced to flatten herself against the stable wall to avoid the flying hooves.
“Storm! Stop it!” There was a wild look in the stallion’s eyes. He was in so much pain that he wasn’t listening at all. A wall had gone up between them and she couldn’t get through.
Issie looked at her beautiful horse, writhing in agony. She had to pull herself together and act now if she wanted to save him.
Avoiding the thrashing hooves, Issie stepped closer to Storm’s head and shouted out to the security guard. “I’m going to need your help! Can you get to the side of him and prepare to push?”
The guard immediately grasped her plan and backed his way around the loose box, avoiding Storm’s legs which were still waving violently in the air, until he’d managed to get himself into position near the stallion’s flank.
“Stay back from him until I tell you to move!” Issie told him.
The guard nodded. He wasn’t arguing. Those hooves were deadly weapons.
Storm stopped thrashing for a moment, and Issie immediately seized the chance and lunged forward to grab the lead rope. “Do it now!” she yelled at the guard. With an almighty heave, she gave a yank on the rope while the guard put his shoulder to the stallion’s side and shoved against the horse as hard as he could.
With a grunt of effort, the stallion heaved himself up to his feet, and immediately repaid the guard’s efforts by lashing out at him with a hind leg.
“Are you OK?” Issie asked.
The guard nodded. “He missed me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Issie said. “He’s just in so much pain…”
The guard looked pale with shock. “Well, let’s get him outside into the courtyard. You need to keep him moving.”
Issie had never looked after a horse with colic before, but like most riders she knew the drill. Keep them walking, keep them calm and, no matter what, don’t let them roll.
But keeping Storm moving wasn’t an easy matter. The stallion was in terrible pain and all he wanted to do was lie down again. He tried once more to drop to his knees and Issie had to bellow at him and yank sharply on the lead rope to make him step forward and leave the stall.
Even when they were out in the stony courtyard, Storm was still reluctant to walk. It was taking all of Issie’s strength and patience just to keep him moving.
“Will you be OK while I go and call the vet?” the guard asked her, looking worried.
Issie nodded. “It’s OK, I can handle him. Go make the call.”
The guard must have only been gone for ten minutes but it felt like a lifetime as Issie walked Storm around the yard alone. She could feel her own stomach tying in knots. Her horse had colic, but everything depended on what happened next. If she could stop Storm from injuring himself further, and if the vet arrived in time, then the stallion still had a chance of survival.
She thought back to Stella’s comment that the stallion had been off his feed. Why hadn’t she followed through and come down to the stables to check on him? Had Storm been in this state for long or had the colic set in quickly? Issie put out a hand to reassure the horse and realised that his whole body was drenched with sweat.
“It’s going to be OK, boy, they’ll be back soon…” she reassured the stallion. But inside she was panicking. Where was the guard? He’d been gone for far too long!
Suddenly there were voices in the darkness. The guard was back – and he had the vet with him.
“I’m Maurice Cross,” the vet introduced himself with a brisk handshake. He dropped his medical case to the ground, dug out a stethoscope and began to examine Storm straight away.
“So he’s showing signs of colic?”
“He’s been getting to the ground and trying to roll,” Issie confirmed. She ran through the rest of Storm’s symptoms while the vet examined his heart rate and breathing.
“His pulse is very high,” the vet looked concerned. “He’s at over 100 beats per minute at the moment.”
“Is that bad?” Issie asked. “Is he going to be OK?”
The vet shook his head. “I can’t tell you that yet. There are different types of colic. If it’s just a nervous muscle spasm then he’ll recover overnight. But if it’s something more serious, like a twist in his bowel or an impaction, then he’ll deteriorate in the next few hours…”
The vet stopped talking and began to hunt about in his bag. He pulled out a hypodermic needle and loaded the syringe with clear fluid.
“We’ll give him a muscle relaxant and see what happens,” the vet said. “With any luck, he’s having spasmodic contractions and the relaxant will help to ease them.”
The vet took the hypodermic needle and thrust it firmly into the muscle of Storm’s neck. The stallion didn’t flinch as the needle went in all the way to the hilt.
“It should take effect in a few minutes,” the vet said. “The main thing now is to keep walking him. It’s vital that you don’t let him roll.”
The vet gestured towards the security gates at the front of the yard. “They have my number on speed dial,” he told her. “I’ll come back and check on you in the morning. But don’t be afraid to call me before then if there’s any change.”
Issie watched the vet leave and hoped that a phone call wouldn’t be necessary.
“Is there anything I can do?” The night guard was clearly feeling awful that he had tried to turf her out earlier. “Do you want me to lead him for you for a while?”
Issie shook her head. She couldn’t bring herself to leave Storm’s side, not even for a moment.
“Can you do me a favour?” she asked. “I need you to make a phone call for me.”
By the time Avery, Francoise and Stella arrived at the yard the vet’s injection had begun to work and Storm’s pains seemed to be easing, but the stallion was still distressed and Issie still needed to keep him moving.