bony ridge that runs down from his eyes to deep nostrils snorting smokily in the cold air. Foam from yellow teeth comes off on the white rugby jersey Marika has on. It has the number nine sewn on the back. Some rugby boy must have given it to her. I am jealous. I wonder if she kissed him.
– Climb on, she says.
At her words the front feet of the patchy horse do a skittery dance. Marika whispers into his ear, a sound like the wind murmuring through bluegums.
– Are you sure he’s tame?
– Come on. You’re not scared, are you?
– It’s just that I’ve never ridden bareback.
– As long as you’re not scared. Horses smell fear, you know.
– I know.
I smile at Marika, and at the patchy horse, hoping she will not see, and he will not smell, my fear.
– What’s his name?
– Rogue, says Marika. Come on, before the sun comes up.
I hoist myself up on to Rogue’s back and almost go over the other side, but Marika catches my foot.
– Good. Just hold on.
The muddy horse has wandered away. She whistles for him.
– Hey, River, come boy, she says.
He comes to Marika. She reaches for his mane and swings herself fluidly onto his back.
I focus on sending happy signals to Rogue, so he does not throw me.
– You don’t need to steer. Rogue will come after River.
She clicks her tongue a few times, as if rattling off a string of Xhosa words, and her horse begins to run. Then Rogue, with much sneezing and farting, jerks into a run. I cling to his mane and dig my heels in. I am joggled to and fro on his back, my ass coming down hard on his backbone. This has none of the poetry of the cowboy films. I would be glad to trade for a longboard, or a bicycle. Marika heads for an anthill and hurdles it. I brace myself for the jump, but at the last moment Rogue sidesteps and I am flung forward. I loop my arms around his neck.
– Whoooa whoooa, I call to him.
I am as scared as the time I braved the baboons for the Kodak film. I feel Rogue’s shoulderblades under my hips and I sense how vulnerable I am compared to this animal rippling under me. I feel my hold slip. I know I am going to hit the earth hard. Rogue tosses his head to shake me off and I fall in a blur of tinted sky and pounding hooves and smell of horse. A hard thud and the world cartwheels and all I think is: the hooves, please God not the hooves against my head.
Then the sky is still and I feel nothing.
I hear Marika calling out:
– Douglas Douglas
Her head is upside down in the space of sky above me. The sun paints her skin orange. There is fear in her eyes.
– Douglas. You alright?
She scoops up my head into her lap. My shoulder begins to hurt.
– I’m fine.
– Jesus. I thought you said you could ride.
She kisses my eyebrow and picks grass out of my hair, like a mother monkey searching for ticks on her baby. I realise I do not know the word for a baby monkey. Monkey cub? Monkey kid? Monkey pup? I hear bubbles making a warbling music in Marika’s stomach.
On the kerb, by our gate, Marika stares scared eyes at me as if my eyes might roll up white inside my skull as a doll’s do when you tip it back.
– You sure you alright?
– Ya, I’m sure.
What I am not sure of is whether to kiss her or hug her. After lying with my head on her lap, it is now too casual just to say: so long.
– You should hug me, says Marika.
I hold my arms loosely around her. My face is in her hair and her hair smells of green apples. Thoughts of Marsden and my father begin to filter through strands of apple hair and I bury my head in deeper in the hollow of her neck and squinch my eyes to keep tears from coming.
I see Marsden on the beach, surfboard under his arm, turn to me and his skin is orange in the sun coming up over Hangklip and his teeth white as a cuttlefish or a seagull’s breast. Then my father walks out of the sea mist. He puts his arm around Marsden’s shoulders and says: the thing with you, Douglas, is your mind wanders. How will you ever play
– Climb on, she says.
At her words the front feet of the patchy horse do a skittery dance. Marika whispers into his ear, a sound like the wind murmuring through bluegums.
– Are you sure he’s tame?
– Come on. You’re not scared, are you?
– It’s just that I’ve never ridden bareback.
– As long as you’re not scared. Horses smell fear, you know.
– I know.
I smile at Marika, and at the patchy horse, hoping she will not see, and he will not smell, my fear.
– What’s his name?
– Rogue, says Marika. Come on, before the sun comes up.
I hoist myself up on to Rogue’s back and almost go over the other side, but Marika catches my foot.
– Good. Just hold on.
The muddy horse has wandered away. She whistles for him.
– Hey, River, come boy, she says.
He comes to Marika. She reaches for his mane and swings herself fluidly onto his back.
I focus on sending happy signals to Rogue, so he does not throw me.
– You don’t need to steer. Rogue will come after River.
She clicks her tongue a few times, as if rattling off a string of Xhosa words, and her horse begins to run. Then Rogue, with much sneezing and farting, jerks into a run. I cling to his mane and dig my heels in. I am joggled to and fro on his back, my ass coming down hard on his backbone. This has none of the poetry of the cowboy films. I would be glad to trade for a longboard, or a bicycle. Marika heads for an anthill and hurdles it. I brace myself for the jump, but at the last moment Rogue sidesteps and I am flung forward. I loop my arms around his neck.
– Whoooa whoooa, I call to him.
I am as scared as the time I braved the baboons for the Kodak film. I feel Rogue’s shoulderblades under my hips and I sense how vulnerable I am compared to this animal rippling under me. I feel my hold slip. I know I am going to hit the earth hard. Rogue tosses his head to shake me off and I fall in a blur of tinted sky and pounding hooves and smell of horse. A hard thud and the world cartwheels and all I think is: the hooves, please God not the hooves against my head.
Then the sky is still and I feel nothing.
I hear Marika calling out:
– Douglas Douglas
Her head is upside down in the space of sky above me. The sun paints her skin orange. There is fear in her eyes.
– Douglas. You alright?
She scoops up my head into her lap. My shoulder begins to hurt.
– I’m fine.
– Jesus. I thought you said you could ride.
She kisses my eyebrow and picks grass out of my hair, like a mother monkey searching for ticks on her baby. I realise I do not know the word for a baby monkey. Monkey cub? Monkey kid? Monkey pup? I hear bubbles making a warbling music in Marika’s stomach.
On the kerb, by our gate, Marika stares scared eyes at me as if my eyes might roll up white inside my skull as a doll’s do when you tip it back.
– You sure you alright?
– Ya, I’m sure.
What I am not sure of is whether to kiss her or hug her. After lying with my head on her lap, it is now too casual just to say: so long.
– You should hug me, says Marika.
I hold my arms loosely around her. My face is in her hair and her hair smells of green apples. Thoughts of Marsden and my father begin to filter through strands of apple hair and I bury my head in deeper in the hollow of her neck and squinch my eyes to keep tears from coming.
I see Marsden on the beach, surfboard under his arm, turn to me and his skin is orange in the sun coming up over Hangklip and his teeth white as a cuttlefish or a seagull’s breast. Then my father walks out of the sea mist. He puts his arm around Marsden’s shoulders and says: the thing with you, Douglas, is your mind wanders. How will you ever play
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