We Move Lightly

THE LAST OF US
We Move Lightly

To say the least, Jaimie Sandler was excited. Around a week ago Descartes had stopped by the jockey room as she had been leaving and had told her that he had a surprise for her. She had pestered the head trainer relentlessly about what it would be, but he had kept a tight lip about it, and when she became too persistent, sharply reminded her to focus on her current mount. His efforts had in no way deterred her, but she had eventually relaxed, and had accepted that everything would only happen when Descartes was good and ready. She loved the old man, she really did, but his pace could be quite slow when it came to big reveals, and so she sat back and kept her head down for a good seven days, playing the obedient jockey he wanted.

He had finally come to her—when she had been at her bursting point— as she had been leaving the Estate after a rather grueling workout with Criss Cross. The turf track had been particularly muddy that day after experiencing a light rain, and she had been dying to get home and shower when the head trainer had appeared, ignoring her disheveled state and more or less ordering her to follow him to the juvenile side of the stables. She had protested at first—she didn’t have a two year old mount, after all—until it had suddenly all clicked together and she had been more or less jumping up and down as Descartes had rolled his eyes and whispered something about “the unstructured youth of today” before he had led her to a stall that had, to Jamie’s knowledge, been empty for a long while. Yet Descartes had stopped and gestured her forwards, snapping his fingers in her direction as she had drifted over to say hi to Snap Daddy, who was begging for attention, and she had paraded over to him pouting, expecting some sort of a lecture, when low and behold: the most incredible creature she had ever seen.
It wasn’t that the filly was simply beautiful, because she was. No, her beauty did not compare to the softness of her eyes, the delicacy of her strong gaze, the gentle dilation of her velvety nostrils as she had taken a deep breath, inhaling the new scent of a stranger. It had paled when juxtaposed to the careful tilt of her head, to the sharp points of her ears and relaxed breaths. Scrutinized along with the gentle fire that Jaimie had seen simply burning beneath her chestnut coat, her beauty was little to nothing.

As she took the creature in, she saw. In the distinct lines of her legs and the length of her neck, and the refined muscles of her chest and the strength of her ankles, in the power of her hind quarters and the length of her withers. This was a racehorse. It was as clear as if it had been painted across her flanks, or braided into her mane. Before her stood a creature crafted by the wind and woven together with the threads of a divine, and her body served as a direct witness. If anyone dared to dispute the undeniable fact, the filly would simple give a twitch of her long leg, a glance of her inquisitive eyes, and all would know that she was the true speed goddess, born to bear wings yet cursed with hooves that would never leave the ground. And so she would run, yearning for the far off sky, for distant stars and worlds, trapped within the constraints of four legs and a fire that could contest even the greatest of the greats, the strongest of the strong.

“Alex,” Her voice had wobbled to a whisper as she had gazed into the eyes of the filly, and the filly had looked back, regarding her carefully, sizing her up. “I know,” Descartes had said simply, his hand reaching out to grab at the bars of the stall, to lean against something that would perhaps offer support within the presence of such incredibility. “Alex what is she?” Jaimie’s voice had in no way withheld any of her awe as she had gaped at the filly, and her exaltation had only grown as the filly had stuck her brilliant head forward to nudge at her hands, curious. Jaimie had accepted the invitation, and had reached with cautious hands to stroke across what she had never imagined could be real. She had paid special attention to the filly’s features, the most notable that of the white moon shaped marking on her forehead, full and vivacious, that had more or less taken her breath away.

“She’s from France,” Descartes had said as he had watched the pair, a knowingness brimming behind his eyes, “She was a… special project that Oliver had been looking into before his, uh, passing,” Descartes had stumbled through the sentence with unpracticed words, and Jaimie had met his gaze with large and sad eyes at the mention of Oliver Myers. He had been the first person willing to take a chance on her—the only person who had ever taken a chance on her—and she had owed him everything. In his absence, and in the abandonment of the Estate, she had wandered the country uselessly, purposeless. Needless to say, She was glad to have found her way back home.

“Aw, Alex,” She had started, turning sharply from him and into the filly, before he had time to see the real sadness that lurked behind her eyes, “You’re both from the same country,” She had more or less cooed in an attempt at distraction, and had found it in the gentle nuzzlings of the chestnut filly. In response Descartes had huffed, unsure with her nonchalance before he had continued on. “I was going to give her to Stanley at first, you know,” He had told her honestly, and had held his hands up in mock surrender as she had glanced pointedly at him, her eyes suddenly sharp, “But then I got thinking about you and Paradise Island last year. She was some mare, and you were some jockey to ride her the way you did. Together, you were practically unstoppable,” He had said, and again she had cast her gaze away from him, unwilling to think back to those simpler times, when her only job had been to try and win. While that same goal still remained, there was so much more to think about now, and to worry for.

“What’s your point, old man?” She had asked him then, her voice filled with soft humor and affection, and he had allowed her a brief chuckle, “Are you trying to pawn her off as the next Sonja?” Her tone had sharpened at the end, as if she dared to hear him call any other horse ever an equal to what she considered to be one of the greatest horses of all time. Instead, she had watched him shake his head, a wry smile falling upon his lips. “Oh no, I wouldn’t dare. She’s quite a ways away from that. But Jaimie, you see these things just as well as I do,” He had said, and in doing so had reached out to stroke his hand across the width of the filly’s nose, “There’s something alive inside this filly, something dying to come out,” His words had been strong, his tone direct. “And I believe you are the person who can help tap into that.” At the trainer’s words she had taken in the beauty of the horse, the grace and intelligence and other worldliness, and she could see it. The starting gate, the quivering of tensed muscles, the heavy breaths of release as they surged through a pack of horses, as they soared across the finish line. She saw all the awards, all the prizes and trophies that the filly could win, and the legacy she could leave behind, and Jaimie’s heart warmed.

“The farm we bought her from, Fleur De Cheval, they didn’t have an official name for her yet. They just called her Gracie,” Descartes had said, and the name had been smooth on her tongue as she had tried it out, and the filly had stood to attention, her ears turning towards her, alert and aware. “Oliver had a name for her though,” Descartes had said as she had continued to observe the filly, “He called her The Last Of Us.” The name had sent shivers racing up and down Jaimie’s spine, had turned the excitement in her stomach into sheer will and determination. The Last Of Us, the name was bittersweet in her mind, but perfection in it’s flow. She had laid her hand flat against Gracie’s forehead, had given her a wide smile. The Last Of Us indeed.

“Well?” Descartes had asked her after a moment, and she had turned to him expectantly, her eyebrows raised in question, “Are you going to stand there all night or do you want to see what she can do?” He had asked her, and she had smiled so wide it had physically hurt.

As they had led the filly onto the dirt track, the night had settled in firmly, and the track lights had been turned on to combat the darkness. Still, a far away collection of stars had lit the sky high above them, and the moon had paved a path of pallor, and the air had been crisp and clean and brisk, exactly as an early summer night should. The world had buzzed quietly with a kind of magical element, one that promised good things and impossibilities and hope—especially hope. Jaimie kept her eyes fixed on Gracie as they approached the track, and noted the open curiosity and innocence, and the wild, untamed spirit that lived deep within. Descartes had been right about her, about everything. Gracie had been raw fire, and secret starlight, and the calm and consistent flickering of distant fireflies that lazily lit the northern pastures. Almost instantaneously, and beneath the bathed light of the moon, Jaimie had fallen deeply in love with her.

She had slid into the saddle and it had felt natural, like kicking your feet up on the coffee table after a long day, and turning on the TV to binge watch television with yesterday’s leftover Chinese. Gracie had shifted accordingly beneath her weight, adjusting to the pressure before breaking into a trot upon the slightest pressure of Jaimie’s leg. Immediately Jaimie had felt her out in her entirety. She had noted her elongated strides, her confident pace, her brilliant form as she had kept her head level and firm and involved, her neck arching as she threw her entire body into a gorgeous lope. When Descartes gave her the okay, she rose to the occasion, and urged her on with a gentle tightening of the reins. Immediately she felt the filly pick up, and the dark world around them had blurred to nothing in the wake of their brilliance.

They had shot along, a single flame against the dark of the night, resilient and everlasting as long as they were moving. Her gait was smooth, her breaths even, and she moved just as much with Jaimie as Jaimie had with her. It had been undeniable excellence, once that existed on impossible levels. In the depths of the night, seated on the chestnut’s back, Jaimie had never felt more free, or more safe. It had been an instant high, an adrenaline rush as they had soared back around, charging by Descartes all too soon, and he had waved them in with a smile. Jaimie, in a moment of pure euphoria, had almost refused to rein the filly in. She had surrendered to the trainer’s demands however, and had pulled Gracie up, the brilliant girl responding immediately as she had dropped back into a lope, and then a trot, and finally a walk as Jaimie had turned her back towards Descartes, only a light sheen of sweat to show for their efforts.

“How’d it go?’ Descartes had asked her, a ridiculous smile on his face that she had been unable to help returning. “I can see it, Alex,” She had told him, her hand moving to rest against the filly’s brilliant chestnut neck. “And she can see it too.” As they had returned to the stable, Jaimie had felt for the first time in a while a sublime and indisputable feeling of happiness. Things, perhaps, would be changing for the better, and it would all start from the back of The Last Of Us.