Although the moon had set, they could see Maldita’s ghostly white body slumped in the corner like a cast-off shroud.
‘Poor little bitch.’ Luke was shaking with rage. But as he put his hand beneath her nearside elbow, he felt the faintest heartbeat and, to his joy, the mare struck feebly out at him with her off-fore and gave a half-whicker of recognition which turned into a groan. Her white coat was drenched with sweat, her belly horribly distended.
‘Put some rugs on her,’ he ordered Perdita, as he raced back into the house. Under his bed he had a complete medicine chest, full of stuff given him by a veterinary friend in Palm Beach. There was one thing that might save the mare, and that was only a 10,000 to 1 chance.
Back in the paddock he was greeted by a stream of expletives. Even in her hopelessly weakened condition, Maldita had lashed out when Perdita tried to put a rug on her.
‘What are you giving her?’ asked Perdita as Luke plunged the needle into the mare’s neck.
‘Neostymine. Push her into internal contractions. It’ll either kill her or make her pass the sand.’ The mare writhed and groaned as another spasm of pain shook her body.
‘She’s in such agony,’ stormed Perdita, ‘why don’t we just put her out of her misery?’
‘We’re giving her a chance,’ said Luke curtly. ‘Now help me get her to her feet.’
They both jumped as a black shadow fell across the mare’s contorted body. It was little Tero, turned out in the same paddock, offering silent sympathy.
Round and round they staggered like the end of some ghastly marathon, Luke dragging Maldita upright and along by her headcollar, supporting her with his body, Perdita propping up her other side. Tero followed them at a distance, watching her new friend with sorrowful anxious eyes. Luke could have done with more help, but Umberto had barricaded himself into the tack room with another bottle.
After twenty minutes Luke felt his titanic strength was supporting both Maldita and a buckling Perdita, and ordered the latter to bed. When she refused, flopping with exhaustion by the gate, he threw a spare rug over her.
The huge expanse of sky was lightening now, the stars growing pale, a far cry from Lorenzo’s ‘patines of bright gold’. Occasionally a farm dog barked, a frog croaked by the water trough gleaming in the half-light, a rabbit caught by some predator shrieked in terror, a distant pounding of pop music indicated that the wedding of the vet’s daughter was still being celebrated.
Twice Maldita collapsed. It was hard to tell now if it was Luke’s sweat or hers that drenched her rug. Occasionally she groaned and made half-hearted kicks at her agonizingly swollen belly.
Walking her round, Luke was reminded of his school-friend Spike, who’d been caught in the locker room with another boy. Terrified that the publicity could ruin his father, who was a senator running for president, Spike had OD’d on barbiturates. By talking to him all night and keeping him on his feet, Luke had saved Spike’s life, only to have him try again successfully a week later when the story finally hit the press. Somehow Luke felt he owed it to Spike’s memory to save the mare.
‘Come on, baby,’ he urged her. ‘You gotta pull through. Just try and crap, then you’ll feel better.’
To keep them both awake, he reeled off endless poetry; Shakespeare, Hiawatha, then because Maldita might prefer her own language, he started on
Afterwards he couldn’t tell if he had dreamed it, but he was sure little Tero drew close to Maldita several times, trying to prop her up, and twice he felt Tero’s timid nudge of encouragement in his back when he was buckling with exhaustion.
By the time the stars had faded, Maldita’s heart had rallied, beating almost as fast as her pounding little hooves had on the pampas. Her belly gave a massive rumble.
‘Come on, honey,’ mumbled Luke. ‘If you pull through, I swear I’ll take you to Palm Beach, Windsor, Cowdray and Deauville. You’ll have a life without winters, playing the best polo in the world.’
But the mare was arching her back and groaning in such agony now that Luke only just managed to keep her on her feet. It was as though Vesuvius had erupted inside her. He could see a faint pink glow in the East. From the tack room Umberto’s snores rent the air. In a distant field a mare whinnied, and a stallion whinnied back. Luke staggered. His strength was giving out.
‘Come on, Spike baby,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t die, you’ve gotta see another sunrise.’
Waking very cold and aching, Perdita saw little red flames flickering across the great blue arch of sky and thought for a terrified second that she was in the middle of a forest fire. Then she became conscious of a vast blood-red sun warming the pampas. The trunks of the gum trees soared bright pink, the tack room windows flared crimson and all the birds in the world seemed to be singing for joy. Sitting up stiffly, Perdita gave a gasp, for in the corner beside Tero, a beautiful rose-red mare, her coat mackerelled with dried sweat, was quietly grazing. Fast asleep against the fence slumped Luke, his face as rumpled as an unmade bed, his shirt, as Perdita shook it, drenched with dew.
‘Maldita,’ whispered Perdita incredulously, ‘she’s OK?’
Luke opened a bloodshot eye and grinned triumphantly.
‘She passed the sand. What a mare! If she can fight off that medication, she’ll take on the whole world.’
Hearing Luke’s voice, Maldita glanced up, gave a whicker of joy and, a little unsteadily walked towards him, pressed her nose against his shoulder and breathed lovingly down his neck.
‘She knows you saved her life,’ said Perdita in awe.
But, as she stretched out a hand to stroke the mare, Maldita moved even closer to Luke, flattening her ears and lashing out at Perdita protectively with a hind leg.
Umberto, snoring in the tack room, barricaded against ghoul and hobgoblin by one of the feedbins, was woken to a punishing hangover by the increasingly irritated din of muzzled horses kicking their water buckets. Peering through the cobwebs at the stable clock, Umberto realized he should have been up an hour ago. Any minute Alejandro would be back from the wedding breathing fire and brandy fumes. Alejandro didn’t like dead mares around; it looked bad if potential buyers dropped in. He’d better get that she-devil shifted.
Clutching his head, Umberto set out to rouse the other grooms. The sun had now lost its rosy tinge and shone extremely painfully into his eyes. Next moment, he nearly died of fright. For, ghostly in the pale light, glaring through the fence at him, was a dazzling white Maldita.
‘
‘What’s up with him?’ asked Perdita in amazement.
Luke shook with laughter. ‘He left her for dead. He figures she’s a ghost.’
‘Figured she didn’t have a ghost of a chance,’ giggled Perdita. ‘Why don’t you call her Fantasma? It’s a much prettier name than Maldita.’
And so Maldita the malevolent became Fantasma the fantastic. Within a few days she had recovered enough to play practice chukkas, going straight into fast polo as though she’d played it all her life. She adored the game so much, Luke only had to shift his weight or touch her mouth to get her to do what he wanted, and she was so competitive she would bump anyone, at first even riding off ponies on her own side. She was still bitchy. If Luke were grooming her, she lashed out if he brushed her belly or round her ears, and went for anyone else who came near her. But she could sense when he was getting her ready for a match and stood like a statue, even dropping her head for him to clip her mane.
The only other being Fantasma adored was Tero. The two mares had become inseparable and cried bitterly if they were parted, Fantasma even bashing down fences to get at her friend. Alejandro was so staggered by Fantasma’s progress that he decided to waive his prejudice against greys; not so much that he was prepared to get on her back, but he spent a considerable time wondering how he could flog Fantasma to a rich patron without them finding out how vicious and unmanageable the mare could be when she was away from Luke.
27
