Fury

The last thing I remember before fading into unconsciousness, was the warm hand of my handler stroking me and his gruff voice tenderly coaxing me to breathe. I had always associated his warm hand and the word “breathe” with Life so I knew exactly what my handler trying to do – he was trying to get me to survive. Not that I was almost dying, but I was somewhat perilously close to Death, and neither of us was eager for me to crossover to that dark abyss. And also because I was such a good-natured individual who always followed orders, even at my worst, I did exactly as my handler told me and breathed. It was painful breathing, but it was breathing all the same, and I could sense a smile of approval radiating from John the moment I obeyed.

Once I had ascertained that I had pleased him, I proceeded to faint.

I was born in a quaint, old farm in South Virginia in the spring of 1906 – to a feisty mother and a devil of a father. Everyone who had ever met me always declared that I got my colouring and build from my father, and my eyes from my mother – but they could never guess how such a gentle being such as I (for I was extremely gentle), could’ve been the scion of such riotous origins. I never got to meet my father, which was okay with me, and I was raised by my mother alone. Though technically speaking, from a very young age, I had always been surrounded by family and friends. So I never truly felt alone. I had aunts and cousins, and later on – sisters. But I was the only male in the family.

I was acutely conscious of this fact, and also of the other fact that it was my duty to take over the role and the responsibilities that came with being the only male in the family. I always struggled to live up to everyone’s expectations including my own, until I finally realized – as I turned that bend people call Adolescence – that I did not really have to live up to anything. I just had to be. I was born into and for this role, so all I really had to do was be it. Which was a kind of relief to me the moment I had that epiphany. It was a rather sore awakening, truth be told. But I was glad to have had it.

A few years later, just when I was getting the hang of being me – you know, the whole “dominant male” thing – a strange man came to our farm in South Virginia and took me away to New York. It was the last time I would ever see my family ever again – and I never got the chance to say goodbye. Strangely enough though, I never once missed them.

My arrival in New York was filled with danger and excitement. I was overwhelmed by all the things I saw and experienced for the first time. It gradually became apparent to me, that for the people of New York, meeting me was also a kind of overwhelming experience. I would overhear them murmuring amongst themselves, saying things like “Have you seen him?” or “Isn’t he rather large?” or the more common, “I am positively terrified!” in conspiratorial whispers that I could perceive just fine. I wasn’t offended, only confused, and the fact that I intimidated them made me feel rather pleased about myself. Not that I was preening about my size, I just felt that they sounded more like compliments rather than the veiled insults that they were probably meant to be.

It was there in New York that I first met John, who was to be my handler and who would someday be my greatest friend (although at the time, he seemed like my greatest enemy). I was sold into his estate as a prize horse and he was to be my rider as well. John was a big man of enormous proportions made mostly out of muscle and – I secretly suspected – steel. He had a rough face and a gruff voice, which gave you the impression of someone carved out stone, and massive hands. The first glimpse I had of John’s hands – as he reached up to pat me – scared the living daylights out of me, though I tried to make light of it. But nothing escaped John, with his sharp eyes and his sharp wit – and he noticed immediately that he unsettled me. He laughed.

It was a loud, raucous, booming, thunder of a laughter that scared me even more than John’s gigantic hands. I immediately hated him for it. By nature, I was a very placid sort of creature, but the indescribable noise that John made was something neither here nor there, and I reckoned it was boisterous enough to rouse cherubic, sleeping angels from the clouds. So I announced my own wild excitement in a high-pitched whiny and ran away.

John caught up with me easily enough though, and that was the last time he ever let me get away.

Over the next two years, I trained to be an excellent racer under John’s tutelage. I was large, but I was fast, and this apparently made a good combination for racing. I was, I later learned, the Thoroughbred fellow of an Arabian steed and an American Quarter Horse. John was proud of me, and I could feel it. I was proud of him, too. The years I had spent with John had been extremely gratifying in a way I could never have known. It felt as if, by teaching me how to fly over a racetrack, John had given me wings. I had never before felt so free.

But John was working up to a deadline and we both knew it. He had purchased me from my farm because there was something he needed to do and needed to win. John was a hard and demanding master, albeit a fair one. And he genuinely cared for me. He was stubborn, resolute, and mule-headed in his own way (no pun intended). He was everything I was not, but we were more than fairly matched. On the last day of our training, a week before the grand New York Racing Competition, John worked me hard all day.

It was the most gruelling day of my life, and by the end of it, I was ready to just fall down and die. And so was John, as far as I could see. I wasn’t the only one he worked to the bone. When John and I finished the last lap of our training, we both took a break and settled in the barn for a quiet rest. We lay down beside each other and revelled in the cool, evening breeze that drafted in from the open barn windows.

“You know something horse?” John said to me suddenly, “I want to name you.”

It came as a genuine surprise to me that John suddenly wanted to name me. For many years, since I was born I had been known only as It or That Large Thing to a lot of people; to the family in South Virginia that I did not miss, I was just Him. And to John, I was mostly just Horse. On bad days, he would resort to calling me “You” or “Dang” or some other equally foul word, depending on how bad his mood was, but I had never had a name. Not really. The prospect of suddenly owning one, both excited me and scared me. I sincerely hoped John was creative with names, because I suddenly did not want to get stuck with a useless title.

John sat up and faced me. He took my head in between his hands and looked deeply into my eyes. I had never before truly noticed the colour of John’s eyes, now I realized that they were a light grey. I could see myself being reflected in them, seeing what John was seeing for the first time. It felt like another epiphany. Looking into John's eyes was like standing on the precipice of something unknown; like standing on the threshold of a glorious reckoning. Must be the color gray.

“You,” John continued, “– are made of steel. I have seen that. Despite your gentle nature – which by the way, is really annoying – you have an indomitable will. You were raised in captivity, yet I have seen you embrace freedom like a wild stallion. You have spirit. You are unbroken. You are like me, deep inside, if we take away all that is unnecessary.”

I snorted at this speech which made John chuckle, and he continued, “Should I just name you ‘John’ after myself? That would be supremely egotistic, wouldn’t it?”

I whinnied my agreement and John laughed. By now, I had gotten used to John’s loudness, which was so contrary to my quiet and gentle ways, and I only whinnied again wholeheartedly.

“No.” John murmured, after a while. “You have the indomitability of a raging fire, and the will of a ferocious storm, only tempered by your naturally gentle nature. But your eyes blaze whenever you run, I know – like you were born for it. And for that, I shall name you Fury.”

It was done. I had a name. It felt like the passing of a great moment and I was glad for it.

Fury. I tasted the word on my tongue and turned it over in my mind. I liked it. It felt right to me. By way of thank you, I gently bit John’s hand and whinnied softly. Smiling, John patted my head for a moment, stood up and went home. And I was left all alone in the barn with my new name.

~oOo~

The morning of the New York Grand Competition came in a buzz of excitement that John and I were caught up in. We went to the racetracks in great spirits; John humming a bawdy tune all the way while I cantered energetically. We arrived with a half-hour to spare, so John busied himself with warming us both up for the race.

We were both newbies at this kind of thing, but John had always wanted to win, so he coaxed me by giving a nonsensical speech about how winning was everything in Life – which I ignored, because I could sense John was only too nervous to stop talking. When he noticed my lack of attention, John stopped babbling and went back to his former, abrasive self. He grinned at me suddenly and mounted with a leaping energy.

We were called to the starting line. We waited while the announcers finished his introduction. We waited. And waited. And waited. And when the pistol was shot, John and I flew.

We flew. We ran so hard, I almost believed we were flying. John was urging me to run faster; I was pushing myself much harder. No matter what, I wanted to win.

Because John wanted to win, and because we had worked so hard for this.

But I could see the other horses and their riders passing us without so much as a desultory effort, and I knew I could not bear to lose. I felt like I was flying at the speed that I was going, but I truly wanted to fly.

I ran faster.

And faster.

Much faster.

So much faster that I felt like my lungs were bursting from the effort. My chest was heaving, and I knew my breath was laboured. But I pushed harder and ran much, much faster. I could see us passing the lead horses and could hear John silently cheering me. But it was not enough for me. We had to win absolutely. There was no place for second place, only for the champion. And that was my goal.

I started to feel lightheaded from my exertions and felt my muscles gradually getting heavier. But we weren’t at the finish line yet, so I knew I could not stop. I was determined not to stop until we had passed that white ribbon signifying our victory.

I was losing breath.

I thought back to the times I had spent at our old farm in South Virginia; how I had acutely felt the weight of my responsibilities pressing down on me, and how I had left all of it, just like that – just because a man who wanted to win a competition purchased me for his own needs. I thought now of how hard I was working to run faster because I believed in that man’s goal and wanted him to reach it.

I realized that I wasn’t doing this to win, not really. I was doing this because I wanted to do it for someone I considered a friend. Just like I had wanted to make sure I assumed the role of the dominant male in my herd, because they were my family.

I ran much faster than I ever did. And for a moment, I felt like I had truly flown.

I finally lost breath.

When I came out of unconsciousness, John was sitting on the racetracks cradling my head on his lap. He smiled down at me and pointed to a golden ribbon pinned to the lapel of his jacket.

“We won Fury! We did it!” He pointed to my chest, presumably to another golden ribbon that rested there. But because of the constraints placed by nature on our species, my long, horse head prevented me from peering down at the evidence of our victory.

But what John said was more than enough for me.

We'd won.