One Hundred and Four Horses. Mandy Retzlaff

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      I was eleven years old when Ticky entered my life. I was attending school in Johannesburg, and a new girl was enrolled in my class. Her name was Erica, and she lived on a small farm just outside the city, where her parents kept a whole herd of horses. When I was finally invited to stay with Erica for the weekend, it was a dream come true. We spent long hours brushing her horses’ manes and combing their tails. We would both jump onto her horse and canter bareback for hours around the farm. Every time I returned home from Erica’s, the only words that came out of my mouth had to do with horses.

      On one of my weekends with Erica, we stopped fussing over her mare and watched as her father drove into the farmyard, pulling a horse box behind his truck. With a silent nod, he unloaded a small piebald gelding, perhaps only twelve hands high and with a very slight stature.

      “His name,” Erica’s father told us, “is Ticky.”

      Ticky looked at us balefully, but Erica and I were not deterred. We circled him, trying to get close enough to brush his hair and comb his tail as we had the rest of Erica’s horses, but he just stared at us with a malevolent twinkle in his eyes. Every time we came close, he swished his tail dismissively, shuffled away, and went back to grazing.

      Nevertheless, I was obsessed.

      When my father came to collect me, I squeezed his hand and begged him to ask Erica’s father if Ticky was for sale. Unconvinced, my father suggested I should try and ride Ticky first, before we made any rash decisions. At last, a date was made, and I returned to Erica’s farm, determined that Ticky should fall in love with me the same as I had fallen for him. Beautifully tacked up, Ticky awaited my arrival with that same baleful stare. All the same, I stroked his tangled mane and whispered sweet words to him. In reply, he bared his big yellow teeth, rolling his eyes.

      Confident that as soon as we were riding we would form an unbreakable bond, I hoisted myself into the saddle, grinning at my father as I did so. Yet, before I could even grab the reins, Ticky took off, tearing down the driveway and out onto the open veld. In seconds, I had lost my balance, tumbled from the saddle, and landed flat on my back, all the wind knocked out of me.

      By the time I looked up, Ticky was already headed for home. I trudged back alone. Once again, I hoisted myself into the saddle and, this time, was swift enough to snatch up the reins. I gave Ticky a gentle kick, and off we went.

      Suddenly, Ticky put his head down and executed a buck. Unable to stop him, I soared through the air and landed headfirst on the road.

      By the time the blurriness was fading, my father was standing over me. He looked down, his face swimming in and out of focus, and reached out to help me to my feet.

      “Are you sure you want this horse?” he demanded, face creasing with anxiety. “It looks uncontrollable to me.”

      Dazedly, I nodded. There was no going back, no matter how wicked this little pony really was.

      All these years later, listening to Pat talk about his own childhood horses, I wondered if Ticky might have been the sort of horse he would have liked: strong, willful, but intelligent beyond measure. My parents quickly learned to detest Ticky. I spent my nights protesting, declaring my unwavering love for the nasty little horse who would pin me against his stable wall, lunging for his bucket, but somehow I knew they could not be convinced. No matter how many times he bit, no matter how many times he kicked out, my resolve only hardened: Ticky was the horse for me. He was going to love me like I loved him, or the world would surely end.

      One day, some months into my struggle with Ticky, we entered ourselves into the bending race at a local gymkhana (an equestrian meet). At Erica’s farm, we cornered Ticky, fitted him with his bridle and saddle, and walked—or perhaps dragged—him to the club where the competition was to be held. As we approached, I could hear the cries of a huge crowd of excited children and eager parents and the neighing of all their horses.

      I had already spent long hours brushing Ticky, and his coat gleamed in the morning sunlight. I was convinced: Today was going to be the day that Ticky would prove his true worth. Out there, on the track, we would come from behind to win, triumphant together; Ticky would know what we had achieved, and all of his nastiness would simply evaporate away.

      At last, my name was called, and Ticky and I took our place along with six other riders. A red flag was waved, and Ticky and I were off.

      We were not even halfway to the first bending pole when Ticky took flight. Making a dramatic turn, he charged at the fence, scattering spectators. Though we cleared it, somewhere in the air I lost my balance and toppled to the side, crashing down from Ticky’s back.

      Indignant, Ticky came to a stop, gave a kick of his hooves, and, without a look at where I lay, headed for home.

      On the grass, I lay alone, my riding hat askew.

      “That’s it,” I heard my father cry. “We are selling that damn horse!”

      It was the last time I ever saw Ticky.

      “I have to admit,” I said to Pat, the sounds of the birthday party fading around us, “I haven’t ridden since.”

      “Well, I suppose we’ll have to do something about that.”

      He kissed me for the first time that night—and, one week later, I packed my bags, said good-bye to my little room in the hotel, and moved in with Pat.

      We were married in 1978.

      In Rhodesia, the bush war still raged. The country’s white farmers, isolated and not well protected, were targeted by the so-called freedom fighters. The rebels’ guerrilla tactics of attacking suddenly and then disappearing into the bush kept army patrols busy across the country. All the same, there was only one place in the world that Pat had ever wanted to get married: the town of Enkeldoorn, close to his childhood farm, a place that occupied so many of his memories and thoughts. I had heard so much about the town and the land across which Pat and his beloved Frisky had cantered that I felt as if I knew it already; now, it was time for the formal introduction.

      Pat’s father’s farm was every bit the paradise he had told me about on that very first night. After the ser­vice, the wedding party moved there in convoy, and, not for the first time, I noticed that many members of our party were carrying weapons, their eyes fixed on the horizons and intersecting roads. Rhodesia, I had to tell myself, may have looked perfect, but it was still a country at war.

      At the farmhouse, we were met with a feast fit for a king. I stepped down from the car and felt a little kicking in my belly; our firstborn son was already well on the way. I wondered what he would have made of all this. Tables dressed in white damask cloths groaned under cured hams and other delights. Champagne flowed. The laborers of the farm had decked themselves out to join in the festivities and kept glasses full. My mind whirred, seeing these same men who watched the horizons with such steely eyes throwing back champagne and roaring with laughter. There was something about Rhodesians, I decided, that made them look at joy and disaster with the same eyes. It must have had to do with living under the shadow of war for so long and still preserving all that is good about life. I found it exhilarating, I found it absurd, I found it frightening and life-affirming all at once. In the years to come, I would come to know this feeling by one simple word: Rhodesian. I felt the kicking again and the thought hit me: my son—he was going to be a Rhodesian as well.

      It was time for the speeches. Happy under the effects of the champagne, Pat’s father stood and made his way to the center table.

      “When СКАЧАТЬ