Track Criminals

Hubert stole silently across the stable yard like a stoat, hidden by the Shadowsongs of night. Unseen, he slipped inside of the stable, closing the door behind him with painstaking silence. He paused, listening, watching, waiting. The old man crossed to one of the stalls toward the back of the barn. A set of glittering, brown eyes watched the small form of the man approach, intently. Immediately, Shadowsongsong trumpeted a greeting, rearing and striking at the door of his stall with sharp hooves. Hubert hesitated a moment, then began to mumble and whisper to the agitated stallion. Instantly, Shadowsongsong's pacing and snorting stopped and he stood quietly, flicking one ear as he listened to the words. Recognizing Hubert, he bobbed his head and pushed his nose into the old man's chest when he entered the stall.
Any other trainer who tried handled Shadowsongsong was usually greeted with sharp teeth and kicking heels. Even if they managed to dodge that, they found themselves hard pressed to avoid being smashed up against the side of the stall, pinned by the powerful black horse's great shoulders. But Hubert wasn't just any trainer or animal caretaker. He had a special bond with these gallant, four legged beasts. It was almost as if the old man knew what they felt. He never tried to force the horses into anything. Unlike the other trainers, he regarded these animals as equals, and therefore subject to the same respect. For proclaimed "dumb animals", they certainly possessed a good deal of intelligence when treated civilly.
"Take it easy now, boy. This is just the saddle."
Shadowsong stood, head held high, as Hubert spread a blanket over the stallion's glossy back. After a moment, he carefully set the freshly oiled saddle on top of that. Hubert took a step backward, foot crunching against the straw, watching the steed and waiting for his reaction.
The horse craned his neck around, peering at the object on his back. He blew a bit of air through his nostrils at it, sniffed, and then took a mouthful of hay from the trough in front of him, unconcerned. Hubert smiled, stepping back toward the stallion and after running his hands comfortingly along the horse's side, he cinched the saddle beneath the creature's belly. From there, Hubert guided a bridle over the horse's head, easing the metal bit into his mouth that the thoughtful caretaker had taken time to warm in his hands, first.
The stallion champed at the bit, then calmly followed Hubert out of the stall like a loyal dog. Within moments, Hubert had led Shadowsong out of the barn and through a nearly forgotten path in the woods surrounding the ranch until they reached an old, almost broken down racetrack, overgrown with foliage. Before Brucksworth, the ranch owner, had attained the wealth he had now, this track was what had influenced him to buy the land. From there, he'd bred quarterhorses, like Shadowsongsong, and raced them. It was here that they used to be trained, until he'd built a new track for them. The old racetrack, inspirer of dreams, had been forgotten.
Almost.
One night a week, Hubert brought the now retired racehorse to the track to let him ease his sorrow and restlessness. Hubert was the only one that understood the racing champion's lament. Hubert was the only one who actually bothered to listen.
Shadowsongsong missed the races with all of his heart. The stallion could not understand why there were no more excursions to races across the country, why there were no more crowds cheering around him, why there were no more jockeys to urge him to run even faster and put his opponents to shame. Shadowsongsong had been put out to pasture and he'd gone mad with the bitter resentment of it, allowing no one to touch him, until Hubert had been hired. The other trainers resented the old man, unable to understand or appreciate his gentle, unorthodox methods. Shadowsongsong would attempt to harm any other trainer who tried to touch him, but he was much too valuable to be sold. Mares were brought from miles around to his paddock, and he'd become the sire, grand-sire, and great grand-sire of champion upon champion of quarterhorses.
Seeing the racetrack now, Shadowsongsong began to dance on his slender legs, whinnying. Hubert, steadying him with a word and a touch, mounted the spirited racehorse with ease beyond his sixty years. Taking the reigns in his leathery hands, he urged Shadowsong forward onto the track. Beneath him, Hubert felt his mount's muscles tensed, waiting to spring. Hubert stroked Shadowsong's trembling neck and leaned forward, squeezing with his legs and whispered into his ear.
"Go."
The stallion burst from where he stood, hooves tearing up bits of dirt as he galloped. Hubert, holding tightly to the horse's mane, grinned as they both flew across the moonlit path. He rocked with the horse's steady movements, lifting himself out of the saddle so that his weight was no longer unbalancing to his steed. The wind whistled past their ears, and shades of blue, black, and violet became streaks of madness as they moved faster and faster. Horse and rider were one, and Hubert reveled in the feeling, as if he were the magnificent beast he rode, powerful strides devouring the ground below him. What it must have felt like, to ride this horse in a race with an audience and cheering fans!
Both Hubert and Shadowsong lived for this one night a week. When Hubert sat atop one of the horses he cared for, he no longer felt old. He no longer even felt human. Rather, he became the animal, full of an ageless pride. He listened to them, wishing to be them. And to ride Shadowsong was the final metamorphosis.
Laughing, Hubert patted Shadowsong's neck, eyes squinting against the wind. "If you can go any faster, there are some carrots in it for you when we get back home," he shouted, giddily. Shadowsong, as if understanding the man's intentions, thrust his neck out, powerful hindquarters pushing away at the ground as if it disgusted him. The speed the animal reached was so great, that Hubert became convinced that he was flying. Clutching the horse's mane even more tightly, he let out a whoop and closed his eyes. They were in the sky, now, Hercules and Pegasus, bursting through clouds and frightening birds.
But finally, Shadowsong's strides began to ease and Hubert opened his eyes, immediately attentive. Lowering himself back onto the saddle fully, he took hold of the reins and, ever so gently, began to pull back. The stallion's gallop slowed into a canter, then a trot, until he walked, breathing heavily, great black flanks shimmering with sweat under the moon. Hubert dismounted after a moment, and led the horse around the track , cooling him down.
When both criminals were back in the barn, Shadowsong combed and cooled, Hubert tired and satisfied, the first hints of morning began to show themselves, pink light filtering in through the slats. Hubert stepped out of the stable and waved to a passing coworker who was carrying a bucket of chicken feed and prepared himself for a new day.