anyn16

It was a relief to pull into the familiar driveway of her boarding stable. Yet even as eager as she was to get the saddle out, show it to everyone, and try it on Cissy, when she began opening her car door, Ingrid noticed for the first time in a long while how wonderful the sounds, sights, and even smells of the horse stable all were. Good things, she suddenly realized, she’d forgotten to notice of in her all frustrations with riding Cissy. Ingrid smiled as she began pulling the saddle out of the trunk and headed toward the boarder’s tack room.

“Hey, Ingrid, what’s under that towel,” asked first one fellow boarder, and then a second, “Is that a saddle?”, followed by someone whooping, “You finally got another saddle. Show us, show us!” By the time she’d walked into the tack room, a small audience of fellow horse owners were eagerly watching as Ingrid placed the black saddle on a saddle rack and grandly lifted off the towel.

A few seconds of quiet ogling by everyone and then, “Wow, I can’t believe it is real”, but “yes, it looks real”, wow, never in seen one outside of a catalog”. So many comments that Ingrid lost track. Suddenly there was a hush as her riding instructor walked in. Ingrid knew so much depended on this brusque horseman’s knowledgeable opinion of the saddle, and his decision was going to be the gold standard of the suitability of her purchase.

Without a word, he slowly and carefully looked over the saddle. Then, after picking it up, “It has a serial number and the saddle maker’s stamp. The leather and stitching are extremely good quality … .” Then silence again as his muscled arms performed the common tests of pulling on the pommel and cantle checking for a broken saddletree, which would have signaled the saddle un-usable, worthless. Ingrid barely caught herself from illogically blurting out, “Not so rough, it’s such a special saddle”. It was a vast relief when the tree proved sound, and no other obvious flaws came to light. The trainer frowned, and stated, “Hmm, of course you know it could be stolen, especially coming off Craigslist.” Pointing with his thumb, “This is a custom-made saddle, see the maker’s serial number. You should contact them with the serial number to check if it’s been reported stolen by the original owner/purchaser.”

Ingrid nodded dutifully, although silently wondering if she could give the excuse she didn’t speak German and avoid this task, afraid of what she might find out the saddle.

“It certainly is a mystery, but in the meantime Ingrid, go and get Cissy. Heaven knows we all want to see this on your horse.” “Yes, yes,” the tack room audience chorused.

Quickly walking outside to Cissy’s pipe corral, lit only by dim overhead arc lights, Ingrid was happy to note that Cissy was only moderately dirty. The cost of a barn stall was beyond her budget; instead an economical metal pipe corral had been Cissy’s home since becoming Ingrid’s horse with Cissy perversely managing to get her lovely chestnut coat as dirty as possible between Ingrid’s daily visits. As Ingrid reached for Cissy’s nylon halter and lead rope, she also caught a fleeting glimpse of her horse, almost as if she was seeing Cissy for the first time. Dusty or not, the dainty-headed thoroughbred mare really was quite beautiful. It had been awhile, with all her riding difficulties, since Ingrid had paid much attention to how pretty Cissy actually was.

Ingrid quickly slipped the halter on Cissy, no time to dawdle. “Come on girl, there’s a whole crowd of folks waiting for us to try out the most wonderful saddle. And it could be a life changer in our relationship silly mare”, she added more softly, looking meaningfully in the direction of the darkened trails. Ingrid had not yet to be able to ride out and enjoy.

It was a fit! Well, I must to say you’re one of the fortunate saddle buyers I’ve ever met, said the trainer. “It fits your mare remarkably well; practically could have been made for her”. “Yeah, like fairy tale,” one of the watchers added. Ingrid couldn’t miss the woman’s slight note of envy as everyone stood around Cissy standing in the cross-ties, the saddle on her back held on by Ingrid’s old worn brown girth, an incongruous contrast to the new beautiful black saddle.

As Ingrid began to bridle Cissy she noticed her fingers trembling slightly. Must be must be all the excitement. But the odd feeling continued as she led Cissy to the riding ring. Cissy however, led normally and did her usual slight pause at the in-gate, stating she really’d prefer not to go in and work, although with the trainer standing there she knew it would be fruitless to put up a real fight. [It was when Ingrid was alone with the mare that Cissy really showed her stubborn side. ]

Stepping up on the mounting block Ingrid now felt downright shaky. Was she going to be the first person to ride in this saddle? Or had someone else, even for a very brief time, sat in it before her? She didn’t know why the question seemed to matter, only that it did. But then, spurred by the memory of the mysterious words of the woman who’d given her the saddle, “It is important to ride in it right away”; Ingrid put her foot in the stirrup and mounted.

Nothing happened. Cissy obediently stood still, waiting for Ingrid to cue her forward. The saddle felt inviting, far more stable and solid than her old saddle. Cautiously she gave Cissy the cue for a walk. All seemed well. It took Ingrid several seconds to realize that she had been holding her breath. As she let it out in a great whoosh, she finally began to smile. Yes this was her very own, once-in-a-lifetime, “fairy-tale” saddle. Wait - not all the fairy tales had happy endings! But no time to think of it then, for her instructor yelled, “trot” from the center of the ring. Ingrid cued Cissy into a trot. It was amazing how comfortable the saddle was, even seemingly making Cissy’s bouncy trot a tad smoother. Ingrid trotted several times around the ring with the instructor giving only a few terse comments on her position as they moved up into a canter and eventually even jumped a few small cross rails for the first time. Ingrid could tell her instructor was really pleased with how well she was riding, ending the lesson ending with the comment, “See how the right tack can really make a difference - never ever ridden this well before”, speaking both to Ingrid and the small gathering of watchers clustered around the ring. Ingrid thought she caught a few more envious looks from her barn mates, and jealousy was not something she was used to experiencing where everyone else seemed to be a better rider than she.

As she dismounted slowly and carefully taking care great not to scuff the saddle, Ingrid decided to take the saddle home instead of putting it in the dusty tack room locker, at least until she could get a real saddle cover instead of just the towel. This saddle deserved better; it was too precious. She laughed to herself that it was almost as if she didn’t want to lose sight of it, in case it’d magically vanish. No, she shook her head, the whole deal with the saddle felt dreamlike, but the buttery-smooth leather under her palm certainly was real enough.

The short drive home was uneventful, and soon Ingrid was protectively cradling the saddle to her chest while walking up the stairs to her small apartment. Just inside the front door, her cat Smokey was waiting to greet her as usual. But Ingrid was puzzled as he suddenly stiffened, and stared apprehensively at the saddle in her arms. “Hi Smokey, how are you buddy?” But Smokey stayed crouched, wary eyes focused on the saddle. Odd. He usually loved to investigate new things. His reaction was closer to his behavior when a stranger came inside the apartment. Well, shrugged Ingrid, it was peculiar, but maybe good since she wouldn’t have to worry about him accidently scratching the saddle. Looking around she decided to set the saddle down on a place of honor - the back of the one good chair in the entire apartment.

Tired, but too keyed up to go to bed, Ingrid turned on her computer to order a saddle nameplate. Perhaps if she saw her own name on the saddle, it would seem more like hers. As she clicked the bookmark link for her favorite online tack store, she joyfully realized she’d no longer needed to linger wishfully over pages of saddles for sale. She had her new saddle, an even better saddle than any of those listed. Already in her mind’s eye she saw the brass nameplate on the back of the saddle, with “Ingrid Crane” written in black script.

Hmm, according to the store website the nameplates came in two sizes so she grabbed a ruler, and walked over to the chair with the saddle - the guest chair actually - and it almost appeared as if she did have a guest with Smokey still eyeing the chair warily from the far side of the room. She shook her head and turned the saddle around to measure its cantle. “Oh”, she exclaimed out loud. There were two tiny nail holes in the back of the cantle, precisely in the spot for a nameplate. Carefully holding the saddle to the light and checking very closely, she even spied the faintest rectangular indention in the leather. There had already been a nameplate on the saddle, even though it must have been taken off almost immediately! Why? Who would put a nameplate on, yet never use the saddle? She thought of the speech from the mysterious saddle giver, “No this is not normal, but oh yes, it is real... Now remember you’ve made a solemn promise.” Well, at least she had ridden in the saddle this very night, even though it was only for a short spell in the riding ring. That still counted, right?

That night’s sleep was fretful. Bits of dreams swirled around in her head, none of which could be remembered upon awaking to the morning’s alarm. Ingrid glanced at the saddle as she walked into the living room and thought it was quite the elegant presence in the early morning light. Sometime during the night Smokey had taken his usual spot on the foot of her bed, and Ingrid noticed how he swiftly trotted to the kitchen for breakfast only along the far side of the room from saddle. It was Friday, a workday so the saddle was carefully placed in the car trunk where it would have to stay while she was at work. As soon as she was inside the building, Ingrid made a beeline for Tui’s cubicle.

Tui smiled, “Well, you’re back in one piece, so things must not have gone too badly last night answering that saddle ad.”

“No actually it went extraordinarily, fantastically, even unbelievably well. I got the saddle. It was really weird - but the saddle is so wonderful - and the most odd and most wonderful thing is, that the woman actually gave it me!”

“Just gave it you? That sounds too good to be true. Abnormal even. Are you sure it’s not stolen, or broken, or - or something? I don’t know what, but something’s not right” Tui shook her head while rapping her fingers on the desk top.

“Don’t frown like that Tui, “I’ll tell you the details at lunch, but the saddle is perfect, just like a gift from the gods”.

“Tui, if you don’t believe me, come out to the car to see the saddle yourself when we get off work.”

“Ha, Ingrid you know I don’t know anything about saddles. I wouldn’t gain anything by looking at the saddle. My forte is looking things up. And I will look up what I can about the saddle. For my curiosity, and maybe even your safety.”

Ingrid opened her mouth to tell Tui not to bother, what could Tui, a non-horsey person possibly discover? And partially, even if Ingrid didn’t want admit it, some things about the saddle were a little unsettling, and perhaps better left alone. But in the end, Ingrid just said

Since she’d had her weekly lesson the night before, Ingrid was left to ride around the ring at her free will. Fewer horse owners than normal had shown up to the barn as a Santa Ana wind was beginning to brew, giving the more faint-hearted riders an excuse to skip the barn that evening. Ingrid however, was undaunted. She just had to ride in her new saddle. And once she mounted, she also felt an unusual drive to go out and really ride. Not like her usual quiet, puttering around the ring. She chalked it up to her trainer’s words, “see how the right tack can really make a difference”. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. But there was also an odd urgency; a vibrancy in the ride that both confused and bothered her. Perhaps even the bratty Cissy seemed to feel it as she didn’t pull her usual hi-jinks.

As she dismounted Ingrid frowned at this oddly unsettled feeling after what was unarguably one of her best rides ever on Cissy. But it was almost as if she were cheating, impersonating a far better rider. Ingrid shook her head, this was so illogical. Pulling the reins over Cissy’s head she began leading the mare out of the ring when Ingrid’s eye caught sight of the night-shadowed fence that marked the entrance to the trails. Trails she frustratingly had never been able to enjoy as Cissy had successfully refused all attempts to cross the dry creek bed at the beginning of the trails. Just at that moment a wind gust caused Cissy to snort and skitter a half-circle around her in mock fright, and Ingrid suddenly remembered that the Santa Ana’s were nicknamed the Devil Winds. The opinionated Cissy was certainly acting as if the devil himself was out there on the dark hilly trails.

Santa Ana winds or not, tomorrow was Saturday, and for Ingrid Saturday mornings were dedicated to riding, especially with a wonderful new saddle. Which left the only real question; would she, should she, try the trails again?