Night

by Lori Hershberger

“The day is yours, and yours also the night;” Psalms 74:16

At three a.m., the world is crystalized in silence. Even the coyotes are silent, their keening cry absent from the windless prairie. What little sounds there are echo with a clarity that only the stillness of night can conjure.Each sound cuts a shape from the air, drawing its essence from the darkness. The gentle sigh of a cow heaving her body onto straw floats into the air like fog; in the distance, the faint drone of a lone semi five miles away on Highway 50 draws a long, thin line far away into the night. The girl’s shoes crunch against the gravel as she walks to the corral, the moonless sky a starry dome over the arid, treeless plains of western Kansas. Her body is slow with interrupted sleep, but her mind is strangely alert, each sense probing the cool May darkness, responding to its mood.

She checks the Quarter Horse mare in the front pen first. This mare is the one closest to foaling, the one her father said she should watch the most. Try to check them every two hours, he had said. They’re most likely to go during the night. 

The girl hears her father’s voice in her mind, as if he were standing beside her instead of miles away in the hospital room where he watches over her mother sleeping beneath the pulse of the white machines. Her mother sleeps a strange sleep, and a stab of fear pierces the girl’s heart for a moment as she remembers. 

The horse comes to the gate to greet the girl, her body rounded and gentle with eleven months of unborn life, the dust puffing into tiny clouds at each step of her hooves under the harsh glare of the yardlight. The chain latch clinks on the gate as the girl lifts it and slips into the pen. The mare whickers, and the girl runs her hand over her soft velvet nose. She moves to the back of the mare, checking for signs she might be starting labor. 

Acting restless, her father had said. Swollen udder, wax on the teats. Lying flat on her side. 

The mare is relaxed and sleepy, heavy with waiting. The girl gives her a final pat and slips from the pen, making sure to latch the gate.  She checks the Shetland pony mare next. The mare dozes by her feeder, content and warm, no sign of a foal coming soon. 

The girl crosses the yard next to the pens furthest away from the house. The light from the farmhouse window slants across the yard. The girl fleetingly wonders what keeps the light from escaping into the darkness, fleeing the shape of the window. What keeps light from melting into darkness? 

She comes to the corral. The two Thoroughbreds probably wouldn’t foal for another two weeks, her father had said. But check them anyway, just to be sure.

  At first, the girl sees nothing. Here the light from the yardlight does not penetrate the darkness. She turns on the flashlight on her phone and calls softly into the darkness. Her voice feels foreign, an invader of the silence. The sound of it hangs in the air, then drops into the dust. She hears the faint thud of hooves and a shadow appears from the darkness. The horse nickers, glad for company. The girl checks her briefly, then turns to search for the other horse. She sees another shadow in the distance and moves toward it. The mare is walking with her nose to the ground, but as the girl comes closer, the horse turns and walks the other way. The girl stiffens. A dark mass hangs from the mare’s vulva. The horse stops, drops down on her knees and then lies down, letting out her breath in a long huff. 

The girl hears her father say, Don’t bother them if it looks like they’re foaling. Just keep an eye on them from a distance to make sure nothing’s off.

She waits in the silence, moving back to the metal fence and leaning against it, curling her arms behind her around the bars. She thinks of her younger brother sleeping in the attic of the old farmhouse. This foal is to be his, a present for his tenth birthday. Should she wake him up? He will be fiercely disappointed not to be the first one to discover the foal. She remembers five years ago, before her tenth birthday, her excitement when her foal was born. She should wake him. As she moves to go back to the house, the mare stands up again. A twinge of worry pricks the girl’s stomach, but she cannot tell why. She moves closer to the mare, who is now walking away again, her head still low to the ground. The girl shines her light on the mass hanging from the mare’s rear. She can make out the shape of a foal’s entire head sticking from the horse’s vulva. Something does not feel right. Then she remembers. 

The head does not come out first. The front feet do. 

She does not think about waking her brother now. She does not want to worry him, to thrum the emotions that stretch taut like harp strings in him. His sleep is brittle enough these days. 

The girl turns off the flashlight on the phone and dials the number she knows by heart. The keypad beeps tinnily as she dials, blips that float up from the screen to be swallowed by the night. The bright phone screen hurts her eyes in the darkness. 

Her father answers, his voice ragged from sleep. The girl closes her eyes as she hears his voice, picturing him beside the bed where her mother sleeps. She does not want to think about the hospital bed.

“One of the mares in the back corral,” she says. “Something’s wrong. The head is out but the feet aren’t.” Her voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. 

“I’ll call the vet. Get her into a stall.”

“Ok.”

“Move the pinto colt from the first stall into the third one, and put her there. It has a light. 

“Ok.”

“Keep me updated. And be careful while you move the colt.”

After she hangs up, her phone vibrates again in her pocket. She reads the text from her dad, the bright screen searing her eyes. Is the foal still alive? Get the sac off the nose so it can breathe if it’s not dead yet. 

The girl hesitates, then moves to the back of the horse. The strangeness is offsetting, the grossness of the placenta disturbs her. The foal’s head is still sticking out, wrapped in the slime of the placenta. The girl cannot see its eyes and she is glad. Slowly, she reaches a finger toward the foal’s nose, but the horse moves just as she is about to touch it. Drawing a deep breath, again, she reaches out a finger. The placenta is lukewarm to the touch and slightly tough. She scrapes her finger against it, clearing a passageway for the foal’s nostrils. Tentatively, she places her finger on the tongue of the foal’s open mouth. There is no movement. She wiggles her finger. Still no movement. She shudders. 

She texts her dad, I think it’s dead, but I can’t tell for sure.

The girl runs to the barn, although there is no hurry. It will take the vet at least thirty minutes to make the drive from town. She pulls down a lead-rope from pegs on the wall and opens the door to the first stall. Here dim light glows from a naked bulb in the rafters. The pinto yearling paws the ground and flares his nostrils, tossing his head. The girl closes the door behind her and approaches the colt. She almost touches his halter when he rushes past her, knocking her to the floor. She cries out in alarm. The pinto kicks, hitting the stall door with a bang. The girl stands up. She stares the colt in the eye and approaches him again, her hands shaking.

“Whoa,” she says softly, reaching out. “Whoa.” This time she manages to grab hold of his halter. He rears away from her. Her fingers hurt from the rough halter slipping through them, and the colt runs past her again. 

She leans against the side of the stall, shaking with fear. The pinto is wild and bigger, stronger than her. She thinks of her dad miles away in the hospital. She knows he didn’t want this to happen. She knows he didn’t want to leave them alone, but the surgery had to happen. It might be Mom’s only chance, her dad had said before he left. You’ll be fine here. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. 

I’m not big enough, she had told him. What if something happens? What if we need help? 

You’ll be fine, he had said again. I trust you’ve got guts enough. 

That trust weighs heavily on her now.  She thinks of her father and the hospital bed, and an anger of injustice blossoms in her. She lets the anger spill out until it is bigger than her fear. 

The next time she keeps her hold on the halter, and clips the lead rope to it. The colt quivers with life, its black and white spots blending in the shadowy barn light. It whistles through its nostrils. 

“Whoa,” the girl says again. She keeps both hands tight on the rope. The pinto tosses his head, pulling the rope taut. He snorts, quivering, but after a few moments, drops his head. The girl gives the rope a firm pull, giving it slack when the pinto moves in her direction. 

“Come,” the girl says firmly before backing out of the stall into the dark corridor. The pinto follows, his pink eyes rolling in his ugly white face. A cat jumps out of the shadows, streaking past them out the door into the night. The movement startles the colt, and he jerks to the side, his haunches slamming into a stall door. The girl feels the rope sliding through her hands again, rubbing her hands raw, stopping only at the knot. 

“Stupid, stupid horse,” she mutters through clenched teeth. She pulls the rope until they reach the third stall. She leads him in, releasing him before running out and locking the door. 

The mare is still pacing back and forth with her head low to the ground when the girl reaches her again. She leads her through the shadows and under the yardlight into the stall. She turns from closing the stall door when she sees him— her little brother standing at the door of the stable, his face pulled in a frown, his hair tousled from sleep. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is thin.

The girl knows she cannot hide the truth. The night stretches long before her. 

“There’s a mare foaling, and she’s having problems. Dad called the vet.”

“Is it… is it mine?” The boy’s eyes are dark. 

The girl nods. 

“What’s wrong?” the boy asks. 

The girl bites her lip. “The head is out. The feet are supposed to come out first.”

The boy nods. He knows how it is. 

“Come,” says the girl. “Help me lay this straw.” 

They spread the straw in the stall. The mare stands fidgeting in the corner, restless with pain. The girl avoids looking at her. She closes the stall door and draws her brother to the front of the barn. They sit on a straw bale, looking out at the night. The light from the barn thrusts at the night, drawing distinct lines where the darkness starts. A cat plays at the edge of the light, chasing a string from a used feed bag. The cat attacks the string, rolling into the darkness and then leaps back into the light, lashing its tail. 

A text lights up her phone. Is the vet there yet? It’s been over forty-five minutes already. No, the girl replies. She shivers in the cool, late May air. She feels the weight of her fifteen years piling up on her, weighing heavily on her heart. The boy leans against her, quiet and tense. She can taste his fear, like the fear she feels when she wakes up in the dark and thinks about her mother. Right now death is a giant shadow, creeping up around them, threatening the tiny light of the barn. A barn is a place of life, but the girl knows it is also a place of death. Death sits in the corners of the barn and swoops down at the most unexpected times. It cuts the unsuspecting kitten napping under the blades of the giant cooling fans. It crunches the baby chick under the hoof of the plodding horse. It sucks the calcium from the bones of the fresh cow licking her newborn calf.

The girl draws a shaky breath. 

“Did you find the new kittens yet?” she asks. 

“Yes, “ says the boy. “They’re in the small shed.” They do not speak again, but somehow the darkness feels thinner. 

They hear the truck coming on the highway from a mile away. They hear it slow at the intersection and then turn east. Finally, the bright headlights beam into the farm lane, and they can hear the gravel crunching as the truck pulls in. 

The vet slams the door. In the darkness, the girl can barely see his shape as he rummages in the back of his truck for equipment. He comes to the door of the barn, bringing a bucket and blue plastic sleeves. His eyes sweep over the pair of children huddled on the bale. 

“Where is she?” he asks. His voice is harsh, firm, his movements sure.

The girl leads him to the  stall. He steps inside and then holds out the bucket to the girl. “Fill this with water. Half-full.” She runs. 

When she returns with water, the vet motions to her. 

“Stand by her rear end and keep her from swiveling around. You,” he speaks to the boy. “Hold her by her head. We can’t tie her in case she goes down.” 

The girl places her right hand on the horse’s stomach and her left hand on her hindquarters. The boy stands by the mare’s head. The vet pulls out the long blue gloves. He blows into them to force the plastic apart, then slips his hand inside. He pushes the foal’s head back inside the mare only to have it slip back out in a rush of wetness. He pushes it back again and reaches long into the mare to find the legs. The horse pushes against him, and he groans. He grunts as he wrestles with the foal and pushes against the mare. The foal’s head pops out again. The vet pushes it in again. He sweats in the cool night air, his face red under the harsh barnlight, pushing the foal in again and again. 

The girl splays her fingers against the mare’s side, pushing against her movements. It hurts her to see such a strong animal weak and helpless. Horses are for running wild in pastures, for tossing their manes in the wind, for kicking their heels in the face of those who want to tame them. Horses are not for this, this helpless agony, this wracking pain. Please, she prays silently. Please. Her brother stands rigidly, his face pale, his breath rapid. Please, let it be over soon. 

The vet stops. He is panting, blowing. He turns without a word and walks out to his truck. The girl can hear him moving around, searching for something. He comes back, carrying a knife. 

This time the girl closes her eyes as the vet works. She hears him pulling at something. She feels the mare brace her legs as he pulls. She feels the groan of the mare beneath her fingers. The mare moves against her, trying to alleviate the pain. Whoa. Whoa, girl. Hold still, hold still. It’s gonna be alright. She talks to the mare in her mind. The only sound she hears is the vet cutting, sawing, pulling and the grunts of the mare. She tries to force her mind away from the sound,  but instead the image of a hospital bed rises in her mind. She remembers what her dad said about her mother. Brain cancer, he had said. The only chance right now is surgery. Soon. 

What is cancer? Her brother had asked. 

Cells that grow in the wrong kind of way, her dad had explained. 

She hears the light thump on the straw, and then the faint sound of the knife falling into the bucket of water. She does not want to, but she looks. The foal’s head is beside the bucket, covered with placenta, straw stuck to it. She is glad again she cannot see the eyes. It has long ceased to be something joyfully awaited. Instead it has become a monster, tearing apart its mother, refusing to come out unless it itself is torn apart.

She feels her brother’s grief before she looks at him. He stands with his face turned to the side, but she can see his jaw clenching and his shoulders shivering. She wants to talk to him, to tell him that it will be ok, but she cannot. She has no words to scrape from the darkness around them to offer him comfort. 

She wants to run away, back to the comfort of her bedroom, back to the lightness of her sleep. But this night has brought her to this, and her brother is beside her. If she runs, he is alone in the darkness. There is no way out, only forward. She feels this, and she feels the night pushing her to be strong. 

The vet lets out a long sigh. He reaches into the mare again, working, pulling. The mare groans loudly. The vet turns to the bucket and pulls out a long, coarse wire. Again, his hand disappears into the mare, taking the wire with him.

The girl rocks on her heels, waiting. She does not know if she has stood there for minutes or hours. She wonders if her mother is awake yet, she wonders if morning has come yet, she wonders if the shadows have moved outside. She wonders if they will stand here holding the pain-racked horse for years and years, waiting for the beast inside to come out. What will happen if the beast does not come out? How long will it take for the mare to die, slowly eaten up by the death inside of her? The girl can feel the tension inside of her rising, pressing against her shoulders, her neck, her head. When, when will it be finished? Will it only end with death?

She hears nothing, but out of the corner of her eyes, she can see the vet’s hands moving back and forth in a quick rhythm. The girl can feel the mare’s trembling strength seeping out of her. Out of the corner of her eye, the girl sees the boy rubbing his hand against the mare’s neck. The vet’s hands stop moving. He reaches into the mare, and the girl hears a slight thump on the straw again. The bottom part of a foreleg lies on the straw, cut off just below the knee. 

Again the vet reaches into the mare, and again the quick movements of his hands. Again, the faint thud on the straw. The girl feels hope rising in her throat. The monster is coming out, slowly. Perhaps now. Perhaps now. 

The vet reaches into his bucket and pulls out a length of chain. He reaches into the mare again. The girl closes her eyes. 

“Hold her steady.” The vet’s voice surprises her. She sees him bracing himself, getting ready to pull. The mare braces herself too, fighting to stay on her feet. She groans loudly, the sound cutting at the girl’s stomach. The upper forelegs of the foal appear from the mare’s vulva, attached to chains just above the knee. Next the shoulders of the headless foal appear, and its body. As the hind legs come out, the mare groans again. Her hindquarters give away and she goes down, heaving a great sigh and collapsing into the straw, flat on her side. She lies very still. 

The girl turns to her brother. “Go back to bed now,” she says. She needs him, but she does not want him to stare at the headless foal. She does not want him to be here if the mare dies too. She no longer thinks of herself, only him. 

The boy shakes his head fiercely. His face is peaked, his eyes large in his tired face, but he is sure. “No,” he says. 

The girl knows she cannot argue. She turns to the vet.

“Will she be okay?” 

The vet shakes his head. “Too early to know, but I think we got everything out. I’ll give her a shot or two to help her with the shock and fight against infection.” He kicks at the dead foal on the floor. “Look at that.” He points.

The foal’s two hind feet curl up grotesquely. The hooves are split. “It was deformed. That’s why it didn’t come out right. All tangled up inside there.” The vet has lost his brusqueness. He is relieved, talkative, almost happy. He pulls the dead foal from the floor of the pen into the corridor. 

“Can you talk to my dad?” the girl asks. She dials the number for the vet. She knows her dad will want details, and she has no heart to give them. She feels the exhaustion of the night sweeping down on her and sits down beside her brother on the barn floor. 

The vet talks with her father, far away in the hospital. When he leaves, it is almost morning and the mare is standing again. 

The girl’s phone rings. It is her father. 

“You’ll need to get rid of the dead foal so it doesn’t attract coyotes,” her father says. His voice sounds tired. “Can you lift it into the dumpster?” 

“Yes,” says the girl. She does not think about whether she can actually do it or not. She is floating now, her mind soggy with tiredness and grief. 

The dead foal is heavy, even without its front legs and head. It is too heavy to carry the two hundred feet to the dumpster. The boy finds baler twine and ties an end to each of the deformed hind legs. Together, they drag the foal over the gravel and grass to the dumpster, the twine cutting lines into their hands. They stop halfway to rest, panting. A faint pink glow rises in the east, and the girl hears the call of a barred owl in the grove of trees north of the house. Who cooks for you? the owl asks. Who cooks for you…alll?

Finally they reach the dumpster, the metal sides as tall as the boy’s shoulders. The girl grasps the top of the foal’s front legs, just above where the vet cut the forelegs. The boy grabs hold of the hind legs. They lift the foal, pushing it against the metal side of the dumpster for balance, and shove it up, almost to the lip of the container. The girl loses her grip, and the foal comes sliding down again. Tears well wildly into her eyes, and she feels them streaming down her cheeks. She hisses through her teeth, in desperation and anger. Taking hold of the legs again, the two heave the foal up and push it in. The girl leans against the side of the dumpster for a moment, gasping for breath, and then slams the cover down. She wipes her tears on her sleeve.

The boy walks away and then stops, staring out at first gleams of light coming over the prairie. His shoulders are rigid and hunched. He says something. 

“What?” the girl asks.

The boy turns around. “I was going to call it Diamond. Diamond for a boy, and Jewel for a girl.”

His face crumples, and a tear rolls down his cheek. The girl goes to him. She wraps her arms around him and nestles her face into his hair. She feels her own hot, wet tears touching the hair. The night is years long, dark and aging, but it is behind them. To the east, the sun splits the darkness at the rim of the earth, chasing the shadows away from the prairie, and infusing the world with light. 

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Lori Hershberger lives in Mae Hong Son Province, Thailand, where she teaches EFL and dreams of traveling across the Salawin River into Burma. You can find her book, Dustbeams, on Amazon.

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Artwork: Julian Onderdonk 1882-1922 Golden Evening, Southwest Texas