Mrs. Pollifax on the China Station

distraction rather
annoyed her. It seemed pointless and tedious, but of course she and horses had never
enjoyed a warm or comfortable relationship. By the time she joined the group in
the meadow she saw that Mr. Li’s translating, and Iris and Peter’s eagerness,
had produced an effect: Peter was being allowed to mount one of the horses, a
Kazakh holding on to the bridle. Cautiously the horse and Peter were led up and
down the meadow and then with a laugh and a shout the Kazakh released them both
and Peter effortlessly, joyously, cantered back to them on his own.
    They all cheered his performance and the Kazakhs, huddled and watching,
grinned their approval.
    ”Terrific!” shouted Iris. ”Me next?”
    ”How about me?” asked Forbes.
    Peter, still mounted, grinned down at Mrs. Pollifax. ”Somebody give her a horse,” he told them. ”Group leader and all that. C’mon, we’ll all take your
picture, Mrs. Pollifax, what d’ye say? Ask for a horse for her, Mr. Li.”
    Mrs. Pollifax, laughing, shook her head. ”No thanks!”
    ”Try,” said Malcolm, as a horse was led over to her. ”You can show your
grandchildren the picture and—”
    ”Just sit on it,” Peter told her. ”C’mon, be a sport.”
    Mrs. Pollifax winced, recalling certain past incidents with horses and
then decided to swallow her reluctance and opt for the role of Good Sport. Both
Malcolm and Forbes boosted her into the saddle and there she sat, very stiffly,
with Peter on his horse beside her and holding the reins for her.
    ”See? You’ve done it,” he told her. ”Not bad, is it? Take her picture
fast!” he called to Malcolm.
    He leaned over and adjusted something on the saddle of Mrs. Pollifax’s
horse, except that whatever adjustment he made did not appear to please her
horse. It snorted, reared in alarm and took off—there was no other word for it,
her horse took off like a jet plane in ascension—so fast there was neither time
for Mrs. Pollifax to breathe or to scream, the problem of survival being
immediate and consuming as she struggled to stay mounted on this huge creature
gone mad.
    Down the length of the meadow they flew, she and the horse joined
together by only the most fleeting of contact: Mrs. Pollifax hanging on in
desperation, each thundering jolt an assault on her spine, her hands groping
for the elusive reins, for the horse’s mane, then for his neck, for any
accessory available as an anchor to keep her from being tossed into the air and
then to the ground. Behind her she heard shouts, Peter’s voice, and almost at
once the sound of Peter on horseback in pursuit. The words he shouted were
unintelligible, blotted out by the pounding of horse’s hoofs.
    Mrs. Pollifax prayed: that she would not fall off the horse... that she would fall off, but gently... that Peter would reach her quickly and bring her to a
halt. But the horror of it was that the horse had only one direction now in
which to go, and that was straight ahead and up —up the steep and wooded
ridge ahead of them—and—”Oh God,” she prayed as the horse raced in among the
trees and without faltering began to climb, so that instead of crouching near
his neck she was suddenly sliding backward now, her hands clutching his mane,
which— she thought wildly—was scarcely a way to soothe or to appease him. Up
they went at a 90-degree angle, the crazed horse slowing a little but not, felt
Mrs. Pollifax, from any change in his determination to destroy her, and
certainly not from repentance, but due entirely to the steepness of the
hillside.
    Now, she thought as he slowed —now is the time to
jump. To fall off.
    It was at this moment of resolution that she discovered her right foot
was entangled in a stirrup. She shook her foot impatiently but it refused to be
freed; she dared not look down at her foot, it felt irrevocably captured, and
then the moment of possibility had passed, they arrived at the top of the ridge
and Mrs. Pollifax caught a fleeting glimpse of what lay ahead and abandoned all
hope.
    What lay ahead was down... down through forest to miles and miles
of flat desert intercepted only by one deep slice cut out of the earth—a small
canyon, too broad to cross— and inside of her she screamed. Screamed for Cyrus,
for Peter, for some magical hope that was beyond her. She saw her life pass in
front of her, prepared herself to relinquish it, and in one giddy moment
foresaw their end. Down the ridge they plunged at breakneck speed, Mrs.
Pollifax