John Fischer The Catch

After a brief run, I slowed our party down to a walk. It was not completely dark yet, and there was no telling how much energy we would need for the night ahead. The air was cooler now, and a thin fog settled in on the valley floor. The other valley horses that had come with us were young stallions — three of them. Unlike the mare, no light shone in their eyes. Had they really made their decision yet? Were they following more out of desire … or fear? Perhaps they were trying to escape death in the valley, without ever placing any faith in the White One … at least not yet. The flash in the mare’s eyes, however, cut through the fog and convinced me that she had not only trusted me, but the White One as well.

“Tell me more about your legend of the dark horse,” I asked her as we walked. Her telling of the story had confused me because she was talking about me as if I were a dark horse. Why would she do that when everyone knew I was more white than anything? After all, I was a veteran of the White Horse Ranch, and had spent most of my life trying to appear as white as possible. I even laughed a little inside as I remembered all that silliness in light of what I was experiencing right now.

“There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “It’s been so long since my father died. All I remember is that the hero of the story was a black stallion, and he was a deliverer. I wondered if that might be you, that’s all.”

“But why? I am not a dark horse, but I did follow a dark horse into this valley. Perhaps the prophecy is about him. But how would you know about him? Had you seen him before you saw me?”

Suddenly I realized I was talking to myself. The mare had frozen somewhere during my last comments, and I looked back to see her standing there with a most quizzical look on her face.

“What do you mean, you are not a dark horse?” she said, trotting up next to me. “Do you not know yourself?”

At that I looked down at my white leg, expecting to see it reflect up at me as it always did at night. But all I saw was the faint outline of a leg, hardly visible in the approaching night. I stamped it, thinking it was caked with mud. I tried scratching it with my nose. Suddenly, with a combined sense of amazement, joy, and humility, I realized what had happened. I had been singed by the fire! I was as black as this burned-out valley! I, too, was a dark horse.

And then I laughed. I threw back my head and let out a whinny so loud it startled my new companions and bounced off the nearby canyon wall.

“What?” she exclaimed. “What is it?”

I shook my head. “Someday I will tell you the whole story. I simply am not the horse I used to be. And I am glad of it.”

Such confidence we have through Christ toward God. Not that we are adequate in ourselves to consider anything as coming from ourselves, but our adequacy is from God, who also made us adequate as servants of a new covenant, not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life. (2 Corinthians 3:4-6)

As I related the story of the White One to the valley horses, I noticed — in amazement — my own growing excitement in an old truth. I had known the story of the White One, of course, since I was a colt and had recited it countless times at the White Horse Ranch. But now I was living it. And just that suddenly, I realized why the dark horse had led me into this valley and what I was supposed to do.

“For centuries now the White One has been freeing horses from all kinds of captivity. This valley has been your captive place for generations. Until now, you haven’t minded. It was beautiful, and it provided for your needs. But now you see it for what it is — a charred, boxed-in canyon with hardly enough life to support even one of you. You will all die of starvation before any new vegetation can grow back here.

“Even if there had been no fire, I still would have encouraged you to leave this place. There is so much more to life than you have experienced here. Why, there are are plains to roam … mountains to scale … valleys to discover, and countless other horses to set free. Beyond all that is the adventure of moving with the White One. Once you have his spirit within and his purpose driving you on, you realize you have never lived before.”

I paused, seeking to gather words for a final statement. One part of me was listening to myself in utter wonder. I had never spoken such words before. And the feeling in my heart flowed like a bottomless spring.

“I plead with you … come with me. There is only death left in this place. I know the White one will lead us out, because I know now that’s why he brought me here … to you. I stand before you now as living proof that he is stronger than any Black Magic.”

We stood still for a moment, the smell of smoldering death in our nostrils. It seemed so obvious to me. Even without the White One, I would prefer to die trying to escape this place rather than die a slow death in a burned-out valley.

The mare spoke, breaking the stillness. “I remember a legend my father used to tell about a dark horse that freed us from a great calamity. Perhaps … perhaps it wasn’t a legend at all, but a prophecy of this very moment.”

“Dark horse … white horse … legend … prophecy…” said the lead stallion, restlessly stamping his hooves. “These mean nothing to me. We must take counsel among ourselves on this matter. We will meet you here tomorrow at midday.”

“No,” I said. “I leave at moonrise. Whoever would come with me has until sunset to decide.”

“You travel at night?” said the stallion. “Now I know you are mad.”

“I know it is hard for you to understand,” I said, trying to brush aside his insult, “but the light the White One gives us is truer than the light of day. I will leave you to your discussions and return at sunset for any who wish to come with me.” At that I turned, dashing across the stream and galloping toward the end of the canyon that I had not yet seen.

I was exhilarated. Never before had I been so sure of what to do and so confident that I would have the power to do it. There were a few patches of grass I passed along the way, and though I should have been hungry, I wasn’t interested. Doing the will of the White One was my food, and I felt satisfied.

The only question that remained was the route of escape. For in instant my horse sense said, “Back from where you came.” That voice, however, was quickly drowned out by the remembered voice of the dark horse.

“The White One never leads us back — only forward. He will provide a way.”

As I investigated the upper end of the valley, two things became apparent. One was a place along the canyon wall where there appears to be a path set in the rock that leads to the top. One short trot and you are out of here. This must be what the mare had referred to as the Death Walk, and a pile of bones at the foot of the canyon wall proved it.

The other thing I found at the far upper end of the canyon where the streams begin with a waterfall, was a calm pool of water under the waterfall, unaffected by it. That suggested it might be fed by an underground spring. Perhaps that spring has formed a cavern that might be a tunnel out. Though I didn’t have time to take it all the way, the part I did try was large enough for a horse. I felt right about this; we would investigate later.

I returned to find the other horses where I had left them. The stallion stood straight and proud, watching my approach.

“Are you coming with me?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, “I am not. But I will not prevent any who wish to do so. This is my home, this is what I have always known, and this is where I will stay.”

I stood there looking at him, feeling helpless. There was nothing more I could do, nothing more I could say. I turned to the others. With a confidence that surprised me, I cried out, “If you would follow the White One, follow me!” Spinning around, I took off at full gallop towards the upper canyon.

Even though it was twilight, I could see the landscape with greater clarity than ever before. I hadn’t looked back yet, but it sounded like the group behind me was small. A horse right on my tail, maybe two or three more further back. It wasn’t until we were well out of range of the others that glanced back. The mare was running hard off my right side, steadily gaining ground. Her splendid head stretched forward, and a strong, steady light burned in her eyes. And when our eyes meet, they seemed to burn brighter still.

We have been following the adventures of a horse that longed to be white – how he escaped the White Horse Ranch where everyone was falsely trying to appear white, ran for two nights across the plains, descended a deep gorge into a beautiful valley, and how all of this came on the heels of a dark horse who taught that “White is not what you look like; it’s what you do when you follow the will of the White One.”

We rejoin our story where our horse had managed to escape a dangerous fire that burned across the entire valley floor, making it necessary for him to run into and through the fire and seek safety in a pool of water fed by a stream. Tired and sore, he threw himself on a small patch of grass that somehow managed to survive the fire, and after an exhausted sleep, awakens to find he is not alone.

I felt her presence before I even opened my eyes. She was vigorously cropping the grass near where I lay.

Quickly checking the position of the sun, I shut my eyes and tried to remember what had happened to me. It was midmorning. So I must have been asleep all night. Then it came back to me. The fire. The stream. My escape.

I had made it, then. The White One had led me through the fire on the heels of the dark horse. But what about the other horses? Had they survived too? And then there was this strange mare. Why hadn’t she fled the fire?

I opened my eyes again and this time she jumped back a few steps. She had seen me twitch and knew I was waking.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I think so … but I won’t know for sure until I stand up.”

She was beautiful. Her coat was an amber that appeared more red than brown in the sunlight. She had a white streak between her eyes and white on her forelegs up to the knees. And she seemed spirited. Not like the shy mares I’d known at the White Horse Ranch. I immediately liked the way she held her head high when she spoke. She presented herself like a stallion, but her features and movements were more graceful than any mare I had ever seen.

“Well,” she said, “why don’t you try getting up?”

“I will if you’ll give me half a chance. Hmm. Thanks, by the way, for leaving me some grass to eat.” I struggled into an upright position, trying hard to retain some dignity.

“I left you the grass where you were lying.”

Gee thanks I thought, wondering if she would have moved me if I had slept any longer. Actually, I was more thirsty than hungry. I turned to look for a drinking spot in the stream. It wasn’t easy to find. The current was still choked with ash and charred debris from the fire.

I returned from my drink to find her finishing up the grass that I matted in my sleep.

“Sorry,” she said, “but we haven’t eaten for two days.”

“There are more of you?”

“Oh yes. There are at least twelve of us who survived the fire.”

“How did you get in here?”

“I should be asking you that,” she said. “I’ve been here all my life, and the herd has been here for generations. Where did you come from and how did you get through the fire?”

“I’ll answer that another time,” I said, putting her off. “First you must take me to the others.”

I marveled at my own confidence. Something had happened to me when I followed the dark horse into the fire. There was a new sense of purpose and direction inside me. Of course I wondered about the dark horse and the other horses I had been traveling with. I had this strange feeling that I might not see them again. But at the same time, I felt like it didn’t matter – that I would know what to do next, just like I knew to head for the stream as I ran through the fire. It was like an inner compass directing me. And as I walked with this mare and heard her tell me how this valley was the only world that existed for her little herd – how there was some Black Magic that kept them from finding their way out – and how this once-lush landscape had been reduced to a smoldering ash bowl that would not support life again for some time, I began to wonder. Could I be here to lead them out of this place just like the dark horse lead us out of the White Horse Ranch? Just the thought gave me a shudder of excitement.

“You believe this Black Magic, don’t you,” I said as we walked.

“Yes, I do.”

“But what does my being here say about that magic?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. You must be either part of the magic or … stronger.”

“What do you think?” It suddenly seemed important to know how she perceived me.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “But … there’s something about your eyes that makes me feel safe.”

My heart pranced at her words. And it was just then that we came upon the other horses, gathered at the foot of the canyon wall across the stream at the opposite end of the valley. As we splashed through the stream, the others looked up and realized I was a new horse. I could see them freeze in position – ears pricked straight up. The first one to move was the stallion I took to be the leader. Driven by ancient instincts, he arched his neck and began a ritual of threat-display common to all lead stallions when challenged by an intruder – especially in the presence of mares. I complied with the ceremony, but the crisis situation we were already in made it all seem so foolish. When he was finally convinced I had no intention of challenging his leadership, we were able to talk. The other horses, who had remained aloof during our sparring, came closer. Sniffing my breath, their faces full of curiosity.

“How did you come into the valley?” asked the leader.

“Through the gorge at the bottom end of the canyon,” I said. Some of the horses took a step back.

“How did you survive the fire?”

“Through the water. I found refuge in a deep pool in the stream.”

He nodded thoughtfully, obviously impressed. For a moment I struggled with the desire to keep him impressed, but then I knew I would never be comfortable taking credit where it wasn’t due.

“I was led there by the White One.”

“Who?”

“The White One.”

“Where is the ‘White One’ and why is he not with you?”

“He is with me. He is within me.”

I watched the puzzled look on his face and realized how little sense this all must make to him. A horse breaks the Black Magic and enters their valley, talking about being led by some white horse inside of him.

The answer to their confusion, I realized, was to tell them the story of the White One. As I spoke, I noticed the faces of my listeners. Most of them had the same curious look. The lead stallion was stoic, but the mare was the most enthusiastic. I couldn’t be sure, but for a moment it seemed like I caught a slight glint of light flickering in her eyes.

I awoke to a diminishing sun and the real sense that everything was backwards. I was supposed to be turning in now, not getting up and out. Everyone else in our little party was readying themselves for travel while I was just trying to get myself painfully up on my sore legs. All those untried muscles were shooting back warning messages to me. I would have to ignore them if I chose to go on with this group. In reality, I didn’t have much choice. I was one full night of hard galloping away from anything familiar, and a keen sense of adventure gripped me as soon as I was up. I’ve come this far; I’m not turning back now.

The first few hours of travel were relatively easy. I was pleasantly surprised at being able to keep up with the others. It was definitely painful, but it was a good pain; I was already becoming stronger. And the night was so glorious that even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have focused on my pain for more than a moment. The air was crisp and cool, the ground was just hard enough to make a horse feel like flying, and the moon was so clear that it appeared to be resting on the crest of each new hill. Once I glimpsed the dark horse silhouetted in the center of that moon, as if one grand leap would send him flying into it, tearing it away from its moorings in the sky.

Which … way … do we go now?” someone panted.

“Down,” said the dark horse.

We were standing, our backs steaming, at the edge of a deep, narrow canyon. Strong gusts of warm wind blew up over the lip where we stood, throwing hair back and forth across my eyes. There was a faint roar of rushing water below. The moon now at our backs threw its silvery light halfway down the opposite canyon wall. The descent before us, however, would be cloaked in moon shadow. I could see my hooves, the rim of the plateau where we stood, and then total blackness.

“We’re going down there?”

“That’s what the horse said.”

It was the longest night I have ever spent. We descended single file behind the dark horse, our noses pressed against the tail of the horse in front of us. Loose shale would force our little party to slide into each other, sending a cascade of rock into the river far below. In this manner, by taking two steps and slip-sliding three, we picked our way down the canyon wall.

The mounting rumble of the water below was as gradual as the approaching dawn. By the time I could make out the silhouette of the rump in front of me, we had reached the river, and the roar was so loud we couldn’t hear each other speak.

Dawn revealed the dramatic landforms that had turned our moonlight canter into a groping crawl. We had descended a virtual crack in the ground — a thin gorge that was only wide enough at its floor to channel the rushing river that had created it.

The dark horse first attempted to lead us downstream, but that soon proved futile. Not far downstream, the river made a flying leap into still another, deeper gorge. We had no choice but to reverse our direction and head upstream. Reversing our direction also reversed our order, putting me in the lead — a most inadequate, fearful leader, I thought.

When we reached the spot where we had first turned downstream, I stopped and looked longingly up at the steep canyon wall we had descended during the night. I figured it would be impossible to climb back up the loose shale, but somehow going back seemed preferable to contending with a screaming river that clawed with frothy talons at the rocks and canyon walls.

The dark horse would have none of that. Splashing through the dangerous, shallow white water at the river’s edge, he overtook the lead, to my relief, and struck out upstream.

It must have been mid-morning by then, but who could tell in that deep canyon, where even the sun could not go. Two colors dominated everything — black and gray. And those colors were close to the feelings in my heart as we staggered along the water’s edge — sometimes at river level, sometimes higher on impossible rocky shelves when the water challenged both sides of the gorge. One was a claustrophobic feeling of being pinched by the towering walls. It was as if we had fallen into some yawning chasm in the earth’s surface that at any moment might decide to close up and swallow us whole. The other was a feeling of foreboding. The river was rushing headlong to the precipice downstream, preferring its own death rather than face what it had seen farther up. My horse sense tugged at me with invisible reins to join the river in its flight — to flee the unknown terrors upstream. But as that ribbon of light began to widen, letting the vibrant colors of the outside in, we lost all sense of caution. Racing down the embankment and splashing through the rough stones on the river’s edge, the five of us exploded into the dazzling sunlight at a full gallop.

One by one we made our grand entry into that arena of light, furiously twisting and turning, leaning our bodies first this way and then that, and tossing our heads up and down as if to cast off a hated rider.

Have you ever watched birds soar and wondered if they do it just for fun? Have you ever heard a coyote howl and wondered if he does it just to feel the lonely night shudder at his ghostly shrill? Have you ever caught a glimpse of horses with their ears laid back in full gallop and wondered if they do it just to hear their hooves beat the ground and echo back off canyon walls like a thousand pounding drums?

We do it just for that. And I had just found out.

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We galloped all night until a fringe of orange-red light began to outline the mountains, still far in the distance. There were five of us now — four plus the dark horse. Two of the horses were from the White Horse Ranch, but the other was unfamiliar to me. He had a stronger odor than the horses I was used to, and his coat was thickly matted. It was obvious he had spent his whole life on the plains.

“Where are we going?” he said.

“We are going toward the enemy camp,” the dark horse replied, having just returned from a drink at a nearby stream.

“How far is the enemy camp?” asked one of the schooled horses.

“As far as it will always be if we keep moving.”

We were quiet for a few moments, acting like we understood when we didn’t. The plains horse finally spoke up.

“I don’t understand.”

“As long as you run toward the enemy camp,” said the dark horse, “you will never reach it.”

Now what kind of donkey-talk was that? I had run all night pursuing a target I didn’t want to reach? Suddenly I found myself thinking about the White Horse Ranch — my hay-carpeted stall, hot mash for breakfast, the attention, the routine, the grooming. Then the thought hit me — a cold jolt in my tired bones. There was no going back. I had left the White Horse Ranch for good. This wasn’t just a lark — a trot down the road that would be over tomorrow. I was standing tired and muddy in a strange land following a strange horse who spoke strange words and pursued a strange destination we didn’t want to reach! I felt very alone.

Then the plains horse broke in on my thoughts, already the one to say what we were all thinking.

“I don’t understand.”

“The enemy dwells in darkness,” said the dark horse. “He thrives in it. He can only do his work in the dark. If we run toward him, he must flee from us — we have the light of the White One in our eyes, and he can’t bear it. But if we stay in one place, we begin to doubt whether there is an enemy at all. Then as we take our ease and enjoy our comforts, he moves his camp closer and closer to ours until he is able to influence us without our even knowing it.”

I immediately thought of the jealousy and strife that went on at the White Horse Ranch. Could that have been caused by the “influence” the dark horse was talking about? Then  there was the deception of always trying to appear white. Dishonesty. Even then I was beginning to recognize it as one of the enemy’s favorite weapons. It kept us from knowing the power of the White One himself.

“So we just keep moving?” asked the plains horse.

“No. There is a season for everything. But even when we rest, someone must stand guard. It is in times of ease that we are most susceptible to the enemy’s devices.”

“How do you know the way?” asked one of the ranch horses. “There is no path.”

The dark horse was patient with our questions. He seemed eager to answer.

“There is a path,” he said, “but it is known only to the White One. He reveals it as we go. You cannot see where it leads — only where to take the next step.”

Sleep mounted my shoulders like an impatient rider, eager to gallop into sweet oblivion. I barely heard the dark horse’s answer to the last question before, warmed by the sun, I fell into a deep sleep.

“We travel at night because this is the age of darkness. Darkness is the reality … daylight is the lie. Run in the daylight and you’ll be fooled by a lesser light or a well-worn path. The White One would lead us along new paths … paths to be found at night, for then we see only what he reveals to us. A morning comes when his light will ride the plains of the sky — the beginning of eternal day. But until that morning we run at night, because it is truly night in the world.”

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