Page 21 of Saddle and Scent
For a second, I feel almost optimistic.
Then I round the corner and see the true state of the barn.
It’s worse up close:every plank is warped, the paint is so far gone it’s just a rumor, and the doors are hanging by literal threads of rusted hardware.
As I approach, the sweet, thick smell of rot and horse shit punches me in the face.
Inside, shadows press against each other in a silent, reeking standoff. There’s a pile of old tack in the corner—bits and stirrups and lead ropes coiled in a heap, like a snake pit for horses. Some of it might have value if I ever develop the fortitude to reach into the depths.
A sheet of blue tarp flaps, exposing a hay bale so moldy it’s got its own weather system. There’s an army of spiders in residence, stringing cobwebs from rafter to post with single-minded zeal. And on the far side, under the broken window, there’s Pickles.
Pickles the mule is,in theory,a rescue animal.
In reality, he’s a three-legged siege engine with a sense of humor darker than most serial killers. He’s missing a patch of hair over his left eye, which he rolls at me with maximum disdain as he kicks the wall for emphasis. The noise reverberates through the barn and right up my spinal cord.
“Don’t get up,” I mutter, stepping closer. He snorts and bares his yellowed teeth, then immediately sniffs at my hands for treats. When he discovers I’m empty-handed, he attempts to bite my thigh. I dodge—barely—and slam my shin on a splintered post.
My day is off to a blazing start.
At least he’s alive. Unlike the second stall, where the remains of a feed bag leak powdered grain into a mouse nest so elaborate I’m half-convinced the mice have a time-share agreement. There’s evidence of raccoon activity, too, judging by the overturned water bucket and the scattered contents of a bin that used to house mineral blocks.
I make it to the rear of the barn and inspect the fence line. Here’s where the true horror reveals itself: the posts are so rotted they’re standing only by force of habit, and the wires are festooned with tuffs of last year’s fur and enough burrs to knit a sweater. On the horizon, a neighbor’s herd—mostly sheep, some goats—stares over with the blank disinterest of seasoned spectators.
If they’re impressed, they’re not showing it.
I yank at the gate. It doesn’t move, but my shoulder pops in a way that suggests immediate surgery.
I mutter a string of curse words my mother would have been proud of, then start a running tally in my head.
Needed:fencing, new posts, a week’s worth of painkillers, a tetanus booster.
Pickles observes this with the critical eye of a livestock judge. When I bend to check his hoof, he farts directly into my face.
Which, honestly, feels like a benediction at this point.
“What a grand welcome gift, Pickles.”
It’s going to be a long morning…
I do a lap around the paddock, trying to count the places where repair is needed. I run out of numbers before I make it halfway around. By the time I’m back at the barn, my feet are soaked and my mood is circling the drain. The sun has found a gap in the clouds, and the barn’s shadow stretches across the field like a threat.
It’s now that I realize I am not ready for this.
Not in any sense.
The enormity of what I’ve taken on is not some vague, motivational-poster abstraction. It’s literal, physical: the thousands of hours it’ll take to get this place back into working order, the money I don’t have, the lack of experience, the fact that I’ve only ever managed to keep succulents alive through willful neglect.
I drop onto the top rail of the corral, feet swinging in the dirt, and let my head trunk against the post. Above me, a red-tailed hawk circles, probably waiting for my inevitable demise. I flip it off with both hands, then pull my phone from my back pocket.
There’s no service.Of course.
For a while, I just sit.
The breeze picks up, rustling the weeds and sending the tarp into fits. Pickles shuffles in his stall, snorting at the intrusion. There’s a peace to this, in the way that sitting in the aftermath ofa natural disaster is peaceful: everything ruined, nothing left but the certainty of the mess.
It’s about then that the sound of the world’s loudest bray splits the air. Pickles, apparently bored with silent judgment, lets loose a full-throated demand for attention.
The effect is immediate:a murder of crows erupts from the tree by the barn, their wings beating like frantic applause.
