Mishka
Chapter Eight: Equine Diplomacy

MacGyver found his dinner in the company of his team, grouped in one corner of the hotel restaurant. Everyone in the room exuded an air of excitement and energy, none more so than the Hollanders. Tomorrow was the beginning of the Olympic Trials, and they were exuberantly confident.

Coach Maarten permitted his delinquent American transplant to eat his dinner before he corralled him to fill him in on the things he’d missed at the team meeting; in spite of the coach’s clandestine knowledge of MacGyver’s true purpose in being in Helsinki, the man was still the Coach and he wanted his team to win. The Equestrian Trial was one of MacGyver’s strengths, and he wanted as much of the man’s commitment as he could get to help the team score an early lead in overall points.

MacGyver gave him all of his attention. He happily endured the joking and jostling of his teammates for missing the flight and arriving so late. When the coach lifted his watch and gave them all a stern look, they knew it was time to disperse. MacGyver plucked a pair of apples from the dessert cart before retreating to his room, his schedule tucked under his arm.

The hall on MacGyver’s floor was deserted, except for a bellboy who was trying to steer an overloaded luggage cart down the hallway. Mac stood aside and let him inch past, munching on one of his apples; the other he slipped into a pocket as he fished out his key.

As he let himself into his room, he worried that he would be too excited to sleep; the light outside the window beckoned to him—but the hour was deceptively late. He pulled the heavy drapes closed and set his alarm clock carefully before preparing for bed.

He was soundly asleep moments after his head hit the pillow, and he didn’t move for six hours.

xoxox

Morning called MacGyver to wakefulness before the travel alarm could try. He surged out of bed with anticipation, and quickly showered and dressed, eager to get down to the place where his team would be warming up for the days’ events. Before he left the room, he dug his Swiss Army knife out and made one last preparation—his secret weapon! He cleaned the knife and put it on the nightstand, and then he was out of his room and jogging down the corridor.

He passed athletes from other teams in the corridors, on their way toward different places but with the same purposes in mind. Everyone wore the same expressions; almost painfully enthusiastic smiles—some more like a grimace than a good humor—but mostly just tremendously excited. There was also laughter and tears, nervousness and fear.

The room was locked, but MacGyver only had to wait for about ten minutes for Coach Maarten to appear, a few other early risers trailing in his wake. Shortly the room was busy with men and women in vigorous exercise, warming up and preparing for their events. Maarten watched everyone closely, warning them not to over-do it, to save their best effort for the Trials.

“Watch your positioning! Carry those follow-throughs! Breathe!” He let them work for nearly an hour, and then he called a halt and brought them into a huddle in the center of the room.

Everyone was expecting another high-voltage pep talk, or even one of the coach’s famous patriotic harangues. Maarten merely looked at them all, and then clasped the hands of the two athletes beside him. They grasped the hands of the teammates standing next to them, and so on, until the whole group was joined. MacGyver’s left hand was taken by Agnes, the delicate Dutch artist of the parallel bars, while his right was nearly crushed by Hudsk, their boxing champion.

They stood together in silence for a time, one long spiraling unbroken circle. Maartin spoke only two words to prepare them, but into those two words he poured all his confidence and pride.

“You’re ready.”

xoxox

I don’t know if I ever mentioned this before… but I had an uncle who knew horses-- knew as in “with a capital K” knew. I think they call them horse whisperers—animal psychologists would be the scientific term, I guess—but that didn’t really apply to Uncle Dan. He didn’t go to school to learn how to do it, and he never actually whispered to the horses; although he did speak to them in a calm, firm voice. Mostly he just looked at the horse, and the horse just looked at him, and after a while the horse would settle down and obey him. It’s like they could read each other's minds.

It seemed like magic to me when I was a boy. Later I learned more about animals and how they are trained, and how could sense things about people. There wasn’t much of a trick to it—the horse knows what it’s supposed to do, if it's trained properly. My uncle just had a way of letting the horse know that he knew, too, and then he'd let the horse do what it was supposed to do.

Not that there weren’t tricks involved. There were—and Uncle Dan had shared those secrets with me.

I was entered in the Pentathlon, a contest modeled after the skills that a 19th Century soldier was supposed to have: marksmanship with a pistol, swordsmanship, swimming, running cross-country, and – as you’ve probably guessed by now – riding a horse through a difficult course. To make things interesting, the riders and the horses were absolute strangers to one another—lots were drawn 20 minutes before the event to see who got to buck who off into the nearest briar patch.

As I stood there in the beautiful soft morning light, looking at the horse that I’d drawn—a tall, black beast with the gleam of hellfire in his eyes and hooves that looked sharp enough for surgical procedures—I whispered a silent ‘Thank You’ to good ol’ Uncle Dan.

I had a feeling I was gonna need all the tricks he’d taught me— just to survive my meeting with this horse!

xoxox

The day started out in ceremony, a show for the spectators who had gathered to support and observe the athletes as they strove to qualify for the official Games. There was a good crowd in the arena where the equestrian venue. Hardly a seat was empty, and many people stood on the risers where they could see, binoculars winking in the sunlight. Others sat along the green verge on blankets. Many had brought picnic lunches, planning to stay all day for the sports. Hawkers and concession vendors paced through the crowd, selling food, beverages, and souvenirs. There were children everywhere, running dizzy with the excitement of the day, putting their parents’ patience to trial.

As the first event was being prepared and the horses led out to meet their riders, the noise of the crowed subsided slightly as the people took interest in the beautiful animals.

The riders waited for the horses were paraded past. Lots had been drawn, and though they were informed which horse they would ride, the riders were not allowed to actually touch their mounts before the event began. After all, the point of the equestrian event was to see how a rider could handle an unfamiliar horse over rough terrain.

The athletes watched the horses, concentrating on the beast that they were expected to dominate, persuade, and cajole. The horses, for the most part, ignored the riders. The movement and noise of the crowd made some of the animals skittish; others paced behind their leads and appeared more interested in the grass than the spectacle.

But while the horses were being led in the circuit, a curious change came over each them. Ears swiveled, nostrils flaring questioningly each time an animal went by one particular figure standing among the waiting athletes, a tall man who was indistinguishable from the other athletes, except for the attention of the horses. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching the animals but making no other movements, mirroring the other potential riders.

The horses were fascinated by him. They tugged at their leads, trying to go closer. Their handlers quickly corrected them, keeping them in line and moving.

MacGyver watched the horses. The proud black was almost dancing, hooves tearing at the turf, his nervous handler clinging to the end of his lead. The beast kept swinging its head toward the riders, toward him, as if it somehow knew that MacGyver was his, and he was eager to run for him.

When it was time for his turn at the obstacle course, MacGyver confidently approached his black demon-horse, his hands low and outstretched. One hand reached unerringly for a spot on the horse’s neck, under the flowing mane; he scratched the spot gently. His other hand was cupped, and the horse instantly put his nose in his hand, making the bits of apple in his palm disappear.

MacGyver pulled himself smoothly onto the horse’s back, pleased to feel the warmth and energy of the animal radiating up through his legs and making his heart beat faster.

“Come on, boy,” MacGyver said to the horse as they waited for the signal to begin, “there’s more where that came from—and it’s all yours as soon as we put this course behind us.”

The horse swung his ears toward the sound of Mac’s voice, then back to the fore, ready to begin. When the signal was given, they moved together as a single creature, streaking across the turf with grace and speed, over, around and through the obstacles as if they were mere scenery.

The flag fell, the crowd roared with approval. The judges posted their scores.

MacGyver patted the horse’s neck as the beast tried to turn its head back to chew on his pocket. He grinned as his mount disposed of the evidence of Mac’s trick.

Thanks, Uncle Dan!

~~~tbc

oh, wonderful read.

Horses are pretty, but I'm terrible afraid of them. But I love to watch them, just not too close

I love horses! Scene reminded me of Taz, my horse back home. Loved this chapter!