#wfhtw

[pencils-and-ponies]

We Forget how to Walk 2018

Since I’m currently in the process of rewriting We Forget how to Walk, I figured I would post the original chapters (that I have, since I never finished the first draft...). 

I’ll try to tag things as needed when they come up, but do be aware this story will eventually have graphic injury description and animal death.

CHAPTER ONE

“You waitin' on the ferry?”

Looking up from the horizon, I saw an older man approaching me. He looked to be in his late seventies, and had a kind face that had been left lined and weathered by decades spend on the ocean. Jerking a thumb over my shoulder into the bed of my truck, loaded down with all my belongings, I nodded.

“Moving to Specter Island today.”

He turned the face the ocean and smiled faintly, a look that conveyed a sense of fondness that could only come from years of living in the same place without ever wanting to leave. For an almost uncomfortable length of time he stared out into the fog that stood like a wall between us and the island. Then he shook his head abruptly, frowning.

“I wouldn't”

Well if that's not a ringing endorsement, I thought wryly to myself. Of course I wasn't going to let one old man sway my decision. Growing up in a small town I'd learned pretty quick that the old timers weren't always as welcoming with newcomers, and would often try to come up with ways to convince people to live elsewhere. This likely wouldn't be any different. “I just got a job with Olsen Performance horses. I figure after 20 years of living in Wisconsin, there's nothing an island can throw at me that I can't handle.”

He gave a short, bark of a laugh and sat down on the tailgate beside me. “I don't mean the weather. I mean the name- Specter island. Ever wonder how it got it?”

“Not particularly, no. I guess the fog, now that I've been here.”

“Nah- you can't see it from the mainland anyway. No, there's something… off about it.”

“You mean like it's haunted?” I had to admit, he'd caught my interest. While horses had been my passion my entire life, taking me on the five year journey that had lead me here, I did have other interests. And ghost stories were right at the top of the list.

The man didn't answer for a bit, instead taking off his cap and scratching at a tuft of air clinging stubbornly to the top of his otherwise bald head. Then putting it back on he sighed and gestured to the ocean before us. “I've been sailing these waters a long time, and I ain't never seen anything like that place. An' I seen a lot, let me tell you.”

“What was it then?”

“Now I've never actually set foot there, an' I never will, but I've been off the coast more than enough times. There's something that appears on the shore. Not all the time, not even that often. But every time I see it, someone returns to the mainland in a wooden box.”

For a moment I was a little concerned. Ghosts were one thing, but death omens were a little bit more than I was hoping for.

“How many times have you seen it?”

“Oh, about three, maybe four times. Of course I don't see it every time someone dies, but if I do, within the month someone comes home for the last time. No one gets buried there.”

He'd just answered my next question. Superstition and coincidences, that was all there was to it.

“I think I'll take my chances then,” I said, nodding in the general direction of the island. Off in the distance, there was a low, almost mournful call from the ferry's foghorn. As if that was his cue to leave, the man got to his feet and held out his hand.

“I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, by the way.”

“Naomi Oxley- although most people call me Nox,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. He had a surprisingly firm grip.

“Well Nox, I wish you the best. Just don't say I didn't warn you.  If you're ever back on the mainland, look me up. I'm curious what that thing looks like up close. Benjamin Alda; most folks know me.”

“If I see it, I'll be sure to report back.”

He smiled again and, without another word, turned and walked off into the fog.

After parking my truck below, I made my way up to the passenger deck, and then out to stand at the bow and watch for my first glimpse of my new home. There weren't many people making the crossing with me, although I hadn't expected a whole lot. April was still considered the off season, and most tourists wouldn't be arriving until the middle of May. The few people who were onboard shot me mildly suspicious glances as I passed, and I assumed they were locals. My only company outside were a couple seagulls, hitching a ride on the railing a few yards away. They ignored me.

While it wasn't the friendliest of welcomes, I did not feel discouraged. There was something alive about this move in a way I hadn't found before. It was something I could feel, the same way I felt the spray from the ocean on my face, and tasted the salt in the air. I'd felt it the same thing the moment I'd started my interview with Keith on the phone.

My previous experiences with starting new jobs had been less than ideal. While I'd known going into this path that a career with horses took a lot of time, tears, and plain old hard work, I'd never imagined that the people would be the worst part. The barn that I'd grown up riding in had been like a fimily to me, and I figured that finding another place like it would be a piece of cake. However, my first job had been at a lesson farm that was starving their horses to death; the second had me living in her basement, which doubled as a bathroom for her dogs; the third was run by a woman who would be from praising you to hurling curses in your direction multiple times per day.  It had been an eye opener, to say the least.

This time would be different. It had to be. I'd done a lot of research on Keith, and on OPH, before taking the position. There was no record of him being accused of abuse, no one showing off the truth that he kept hidden behind closed doors. He was open and honest about his business and what was expected of me, and he even gave me a live tour of the place during our video interview. It was all so simple and yet so rare to find in the horse world.

That, and he just happened to be running one of the best ICTHA training facilities in the country. How could I turn that down.

The International Competitive Trail Horse Association hosted the most popular equine sports in the world, extreme competitive trail. A three day event that tested a horses stamina, bravery, and trust in it's rider, there was nothing else out there that could really showcase what horses are truly capable of. The first day was an endurance ride of varying lengths, although 30 miles was the standard. The following day was an arena course with some of the toughest obstacles imaginable, including rings of fire and the giant inflatable tubes typically seen outside of car dealerships. The final day returned to the outdoors for a much shorter race with obstacles along the way. The horse with the best overall time, performance, and vet scores took first place.

There were no shortcuts in extreme trail. You couldn't focus all your energy on one thing and expect to win, and you couldn't use drugs to mask lameness or pain for the sake of winning a trophy. It took years to train a winner at the top level. And Keith had managed to have one of his horses place in at least the top three ten years running. If he lost, it was to one that he had sold. That kind of success didn't come from training with force or starving your horses, that was for sure.

The call of the foghorn, deafeningly loud now that it was directly behind me, startled me out of my thoughts. And then I heard the reply, surprisingly close but still just out of sight

The island emerged from the fog a couple minutes later like a ghost ship, a solid beam of light swinging around from a lighthouse on the coast to welcome us in. There were other lights in the distance as well, houses and other buildings in town, the docks. I tried to imagine it on a clear day, with tourists and vacationers at every corner.

Someday, I would see it that way for real.

[weekendwarriorartlife]

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[pencils-and-ponies]

Naomi Oxley (Nox) aesthetic board

We Forget how to Walk

[pencils-and-ponies]

Ellis Ackley asthetic board.

We Forget how to Walk

[pencils-and-ponies]

We Forget how to Walk- WIP #1

(Synopsis from NaNoWriMo 2018)

When you think of horse stories, they almost always have happy or even impossible endings. The racehorse that broke a leg comes back to win the race; A city girl with no riding experience becomes a pro barrel racer overnight and saves the farm; a sick horse with no hope of recovery somehow survives thanks to the magic healing powers of love. The list is endless. While these stories are often fun read and watch, they are a poor reflection of the often heartbreaking reality that is working with horses, and sometimes a frustrating reminder that real life is not fair, no matter how hard you work or how badly you want something.

Naomi Oxley, aka Nox, is no stranger to heartbreak. At the age of 18 she left her hometown in the hopes of chasing her passion of making horses a career. Her five year journey takes her takes her through some of the worst the horse world has to offer, with abuse, betrayal, and neglect at every turn. Just as Nox is about to give up on everything she's worked for, she gives it one last shot on Specter Island.

It seems that Olson Performance Horses is finally the place Nox has been looking for. The owner, Keith, treats both humans and horses fairly and runs his facility with a dedication that is seldom seen anywhere else. Even the head trainer Ellis, who is aloof at best and seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, handles each horse as if he speaks their language. She even is reunited with an old friend that she never thought she would see again. For the first time in half a decade, Naomi feels at home.

However, Specter Island is as wild as it is welcoming, and things can change in an instant. When a mysterious white horse appears on the beach as if washed up by the tide, it seems to bring a wave of death and despair in its wake. Over the years Nox learned all too well that with horses you can do everything right and still have things go wrong, but something about this feels different, somehow.

[pencils-and-ponies]

We Forget How To Walk

Ghost Stories and Ferry Rides

“You waitin' on the ferry?”

Completely lost in my own thoughts, I had no idea how long the man had been standing in front of me, or how long I'd been staring though him at the ocean. Collecting myself, I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the cab of my truck, loaded down with all of my belongings.

“Yep. Moving to the island today.

The man smiled, turning to look out at the foggy sea with a fondness that could only come from a lifetime of living somewhere. I wasn't exactly sure how old he was, but he definitely wasn't young. With the weathered look of someone who'd spent years on the ocean, he could have been anywhere between 40 and 90, but something about his mannerisms had me leaning closer to 90. Not to mention his clothes, which looked like they'd come straight out of the 40s. There was an almost uncomfortably long silence before he finally said, gravely, “I wouldn't.”

Well that's not ominous at all, I thought to myself, shaking my head a little. 

One old man wouldn't be enough to change my mind about Specter Island, especially with the opportunity I'd been offered, but the negativity caught my interest. Growing up in a small, tourist trap town, I'd seen how locals would sometimes try and scare off newcomers. I'd also seen friendly and welcoming places turn into judgmental rumor mills the longer you stuck around, enough that I preferred the initial distance.

“Why not?”

He shrugged, and pulled off his cap to scratch absentmindedly at a tuft of white hair clinging stubbornly to the top of his otherwise bald head. “Well, I've never been there myself, but people talk. Somethin's not right there. Ever wondered where the name came from?”

“Not particularly. The fog, maybe, now that I'm here.”

He let out a short bark of laughter and leaned against the hood of my truck, gesturing at the horizon. “Nah, can't see her from the mainland anyway. But I've been sailin' these waters for almost three-quarter a century, an' I ain't ever seen anything like what I've seen on her shores.”

“You mean it's haunted?”

“Somethin' like that.”

Now he really had my attention. Ghost stories were common no matter what part of the country you were in, and I'd done my fair share of casual ghost hunting over the years, but I'd never really found anything. The difference here, however, was how the subject came up unprompted. Usually I needed to start asking my own questions to get the conversation started. And while it still could be some sort of scare tactic, I needed to know more.

“What have you seen?”

He gave me a knowing look, and cracked a small smile. “Now, if I tell you, it'll ruin the fun of finding it yourself, won't it.”

“...I guess.”

There was a faint call from the ferry's foghorn, followed by a much louder answer from the mainland lighthouse, and we both looked up to see the ferry fade out of the fog like it too was a ghost. When, I looked back, the man was holding out a hand. His grip was surprisingly firm for his age.

“I should let you go. But if you ever find yourself back on the mainland and want to know more, look me up. Name's Alda- most folks know me.”

“I'll do that. And my name's Nox, by the way.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Nox.”

With that, he turned and headed back toward town, the mist swallowing him up as he went.

Talk about strange.

Once I'd parked my turn and the ferry got underway, I grabbed a heavy coat and headed up to the passenger deck, passing through the interior seating before heading out to the bow. While it was a bit cold for November by Oregon standards, it was nothing compared to the Wisconsin winters I'd grown up with. I wanted to get my first glance at the island the second it came into view. My only company on the bow was a couple of seagulls hitching a ride on the portside railing, but I preferred their impassive stares to the suspicious ones of the few other passengers I'd passed inside. November was firmly in Specter Islands 'off' season, and I had a feeling that they didn't see many unfamiliar faces at this time of the year.

If this job worked out, I wouldn't be an outsider for very long.

There was something alive about this move that I hadn't felt in any of my previous ones. It was something I could actually feel, the same way I could feel the spray from the ocean on my cheeks, or taste the salt on my tongue. Ever since talking to Keith for the first time I'd felt real hope for the first time in years. A faith that this would finally be the one.

I was no stranger to being wrong about that feeling. After the barn I'd grown up riding at my whole childhood had closed, I started looking for a new place to call home the second I could. Although I'd been young, I knew all too well that a career with horses took a lot of time, tears, and plain old hard work, and I'd thrown myself into the first place that would hire me, expecting to find the same standard of treatment to both horses and humans alike at my first job. In reality, I ended up working for a woman who starved her horses and manipulated her students until they no longer questioned why horses kept dying. After leaving there I worked for another woman would could switch from praise to insults so fast it would make your head spin. And my most recent position was at a farm where if the horses themselves didn't kill you, the other staff would.

It was Keith who'd contacted me, this time around, just as I was planning out the logistics of another move and preparing to put in my two week notice. We spent a week just going back and fourth over the details, figuring out in very clear terms what each others expectations were. It was only after several of these impromptu interviews that he actually hired me, which was a complete 180 from my other jobs were I'd been hired on the spot. And while there was a chance that the difference didn't mean anything, it was a chance I was willing to take.

The job was almost too perfect. Primarily I'd be in charge of herd management- making sure all of the horse were healthy and sound, and caring for them on a daily basis. But in the spring, I'd be doing third shift foal watch, delivering around 15 foals every season. Foaling had been my passion ever since witnessing my first birth almost 13 years ago. Plus, unlike the thoroughbred farm I'd just been working at, there was riding involved as well. Honestly, it would be hard to work at a place like Keith's without sitting on a horse at least once a day.

Specter Island had been build around horses, and was the home to a herd that had been there since the colonial times. Keith's farm, Olsen Performance Horses, had been in his family for generations, watching over the horses and turning into the competition powerhouses that they were today. Horses bred on the island could be found in almost every discipline in the world that wasn't breed specific, but their real calling was ICTHA.

Formed back in the 50s, the International Competitive Trail Horse Association was the ultimate measure of a horses abilities. Taking place over four days, there were three phases of competition- a 30 mile endurance race over the first two days, then an arena course with obstacles such as rings of fire and giant teeter totters, and finally returning to the outdoors with a much shorter trail with both natural and man made obstacles. To really excel a horse needed just the right mix of stamina, agility, and trust in their rider, but trust was the real issue. Even the fastest horse in the would wouldn't walk through fire without the right guidance.

That was where Keith, and his current head trainer, Ellis, were the best. And on the rare years when they weren't named the ICTHA world champions, it was a horse that had once known their hands that did. A Specter Island bred horse or their direct descendants held every title going back to the 70s. It was quite the legacy to uphold.

I just hoped I could live up to their standards.

The call of the foghorn, deafeningly loud now that it was directly behind me, startled me out of my thoughts. The seagulls, however, remained unphased. I listened closely for the answer, and a few seconds later I heard it, closer than expected but with the island still out of sight.

A couple minutes later a beam of light cut through the mist, swinging around to guide us in as the island emerged, dark against the gray horizon. As the ferry slowed its approach to prepare for docking more lights glowed brighter, giving me a vague idea of where town was in relation to the docks. I could imagine the same view on a clear day, with tourists and summer residents everywhere, fishing boats at the docks and people standing on the beaches to watch the ferry come in.

Someday I would see it for real.

[pencils-and-ponies]

Now that I’ve written a couple chapters on the second draft of WFHTW, I’m going to start posting them weekly until I catch up, and maybe bi-weekly after that. Stay tuned!