The smell of the barn was like that of wey straw, old leather, and my grandpa’s damp wool coat. Outside, three in the morning came with a biting March wind that shook the metal roof, but inside, the air stayed warm and heavy with heat radiating from the mare.
My grandpa didn’t even look up when I shot the wooden door, it was as if he didn’t notice. He was kneeling in the straw behind Red, he had his sleeves rolled past his elbows. His hands were filled with amniotic fluid and muck.
“Grab me that bucket,” he said in a low voice. “Run it under the spigot until it is hot, but don’t let it to bubble. Then come along with towels.”
Three days earlier, my mother dropped me off at the farm to spend the holidays with my dad with a suitcase filled with a bunch of clothes I didn’t to wear, but she tucked them in anyway. I was sixteen and I was furious about being laughed by my friends, and convinced that my parents sent me here to get out of the way while they walked through their divorce. They had concluded on making that decision, telling each other that was the best thing for everyone. Looking at the farm, it seemed to be dying. For-sale signs sat at the end of the gravel driveway, the white paint was peeling off already.
I kept my bucket on the ground while the iron-heavy well water rushed out of the pipe into it. As soon as it got full I carried it straight back to the stall.
When I returned I met Red groaning and her chest rattling. Her flanks heaved and were slick of sweat, while her front hooves kicked weakly into the bedding.
“She’s tired,” my grandpa said, wiping tears from his forehead with his left shoulder. “Foal’s turned wrong. One of the leg’s hooked back.”
He reached inside her again. Red strained, she had this pale look on her face as her eyes rolled back. I braced against the wooden wall behind me, it was really hard to watch. Yeah, I have seen calves born at a distance over a fence rail, but it felt kind of different witnessing it at this close range.
“Help me hold here,” he said, gesturing to a length of cotton rope looped around the exposed front roof. “Alright, I need you to be at alert. When she pushes, pull straight towards your knees. Do you understand, Miracle?”
My hands were shaking as I grabbed the cord.
“Now,” he grunted.
Red shuddered and heaved. I leaned back with my full weight, heels digging into the straw. The rope bit into my palms. My grandpa worked his bare hands around the foal’s shoulder, guiding with an effort that made his veins pop out along his neck.
For thirty seconds, nobody breathed. The single bulb that hung from the ceiling swung on its cord, casting long shadows across the stall.
With a wet, heavy slide, the colt landed on the straw.
Red collapsed on her side out of exhaustion, and began to blow hard through her nostrils. The foal lay in a steaming heap, wrapped in a translucent sack. It didn’t move.
My grandpa dropped to his knees, cleared the sack from its face, and aggressively rubbed the colt’s rib with a dry burlap sack. “Come on,” he growled. “Breathe.”
A few seconds passed. The barn went completely quiet.
Then the colt sneezed and gasped, I noticed its chest gradually expanding.
My grandpa let out a long breath through his nose. Then tension drained from his shoulders, making him look smaller. He got back on his knees, both hands were covered with blood and film.
The colt was dark chestnut, child mastered and slick. Within ten minutes, it lifted its head and twitched its ears towards its mother’s breathing. Then it brought out its legs that were looking thin as sticks, failing in every direction.
It got its knees locked, wobbled for two seconds, and collapsed back into the straw.
I reached out to help but my grandpa put a hand on my forearm. “No,” he said softly. “He has to figure out where his feet is on its own.”
It tried two more times but still didn’t succeed. On the fourth try, the colt planted all four hooves. His legs shook violently, but he held. He managed to wobble forward by two inches, bumped his head against Red’s flank, and dropped his head to nurse.
Red turned and began licking the newborn’s back with long strokes.
My grandpa leaned against the wooden partition, pulled a rag from his pockets, and cleaned his hands. He looked at the foal, then around the barn at the weather pine posts and rusted iron hinges.
The auction was set for May. The land was being split into three residential plots. This was the last colt that would ever be born here.
“He’s a fighter,” I said.
My grandpa folded the rag and shoved it back into his pocket. He looked at me for the first time since I arrived three days ago.
“They always are at the start,” he said smiling. “You just have to give them room to stand up.”
His joints made popping sounds as he stood, then he reached fire the water bucket. I picked it up before he could lift it. We walked out of the stall together, leaving the mare and her colt in the quiet barn.
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