Game of Cages

I stepped out of hiding. All four of the stable doors were open. Was that normal on a chilly winter night? I had no idea.

Catherine followed me into the yard as the mist thickened into a light drizzle. The stable beside us was dark and quiet. Then we heard steps from the stable across the yard. A horse slowly stepped out of the darkness.

I grabbed Catherine’s arm. “It has a white mark on its face.”

“Lots of horses have that.”

This mark was completely off center, starting on the left side of its nose and passing under its left eye. “But can they be all crooked like that?”

“Maybe it’s a paint,” she said, which I didn’t understand.

It stared at us. God, it was big. I heard Catherine back away. I was about to ask if we should just walk by it when she said: “Is it bleeding?”

I looked again; its ear was ragged and its mouth was bloody. It also had open wounds on its shoulder.

It lowered its head.

Catherine’s voice was a low whisper in my ear. “Is that mud on its hoof?”

The horse stamped its foot. Something coated the hoof, but it looked too red to be mud. I raised my hands to clap. “Horses run from danger, right?”

Then it charged at us.

Catherine cursed and fled into the open stable behind us. I backpedaled after her, keeping the protected part of my chest toward the horse.

Christ, it was fast. Catherine yelped in pain and fear, but I couldn’t turn to see why because the animal was already next to me.

It tried to bite me but missed. Even its mouth seemed huge. I ducked to the side, raising my arms to protect my face. My heel struck something and I nearly fell; in that same moment, the horse reared and kicked.

It caught me full in the chest. Already off balance, I tumbled back, feet flying over my head. I landed on my shoulder in the corner, my legs hitting the wall above me. The shin I’d bashed against the water trough flared with pain again. I fell with dirty straw in my face and long-handled wooden tools clattering around me.

I was exposed. A kick would cave in my skull, and—

Catherine screamed.

I rolled to my knees, shrugging off whatever had fallen on me. The stench of horse shit filled my nose, but I’d worry about that later. My hand fell on a thick wooden handle, and I grabbed at it like a lifeline.

The horse snorted and stamped. I jumped to my feet and raised my hands. I was holding a push broom.

That wasn’t going to do me any good. Catherine cried out again, a sound more of fright than pain. I threw the broom underhand, hard, like I was throwing a shovel into the back of a truck. It struck the horse’s hind legs, startling it. The horse jumped and kicked a little, turning its huge body toward me.

I reached back down into the straw, unwilling to look away from the animal. My hand fell on something thin and metal, and I dragged it out of the straw. It was a pitchfork.

The horse moved toward me. I backed toward the corner. There was a narrow pen in front of me to the right, and a second at my right elbow. Close on my left was the wall, and there was no back door. I was trapped.

I held the pitchfork high so the light would fall on it. Could the horse see what I was holding? I could. Would it understand and back away?

Apparently not, because it kept coming toward me, stamping its feet and snorting angrily. I yelled “Yah!” at it, just like a movie cowboy. It didn’t have any effect. I pretended to jab at it, shouting “Hah!” each time.

I really, truly did not want to stab this animal. The thought of this dirty metal entering its flesh made me nauseous.

But it wouldn’t back away. It was coming more slowly, more cautiously, but it wouldn’t stop coming and I was running out of space. Soon it would have me pinned against the wall, the pitchfork would be useless, and it could kick my skull in.

“Yah!” I shouted again, half hoping that, even if the horse wouldn’t back off, someone who worked here would suddenly show up and take control of the animal. There wasn’t time for that, though. The horse reared back and kicked with its right hoof. I tried to pull the sharp tines away, but it struck the side of the fork and I nearly dropped it.

My nausea knotted into naked fear. To hell with this. I wasn’t going to be killed just because I wasn’t willing to defend myself. I jabbed with the pitchfork, just barely striking the horse’s shoulder as I yelled “Back!” It wasn’t enough to do real damage, I hoped, but it would break the skin and sting a little. Whether the horse could see well in the dark or not, it knew what I was holding now.

It suddenly made a high, hair-raising shriek and lunged at me, kicking with both front hooves. I jumped back and felt the pitchfork wrench upward, shivering, as a hoof nearly knocked it out of my hands. God, the sound the horse was making …

I tossed the pitchfork high, making the animal flinch and step back. I lunged to the right, into the pen. Running away from a horse was a lunatic idea, but if I stood my ground, I was going to have to kill it.

The horse followed—I could hear and feel it just behind me. I leaped up, grabbing the top of the wall between the enclosures. Adrenaline gave me the strength and speed I needed to practically throw myself into the next pen. I felt something snag my pants cuff—was the horse trying to bite me again?—but my momentum pulled it free.

The room suddenly darkened—not completely, but something big moved to block the light from across the yard.

I got my feet under me just in time, then jumped for the wall of this second pen. I didn’t have the same