The Prophet of Paradise

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

THE PENTAGRAM AND circle tattoo on Nardell Raithby’s left breast declared her recent allegiance to Wicca. She was certain she’d finally found a belief system suited to her unique talents and perspectives. Over the fifty-four years of her life she’d been Born Again (then unborn again, if that’s possible), tried Landmark (the price of admission exceeded her humble means), flirted with Scientology (too intense even for her), wanted to convert to Judaism (turned out to be harder than Fiddler on the Roof made it look, and she didn’t really feel chosen to be among the Chosen People), considered Mormonism (felt even less comfortable around the squeaky clean LDS folks), and lived briefly with a Hindu but when he abandoned her so did her interest in Eastern religions (she never could get her arms around Hinduism anyway).

Nardell’s jill-of-all-trades employment pattern paralleled her smorgasbord approach to religion. She’d been a riding instructor, saddle fitter, nutritional supplement sales rep, photographer, store clerk, pet sitter, writer, and a washerepairer of horse blankets.

The owner of the print shop in Warrenton was always happy to see her at the counter because it meant another batch of business cards and promotional flyers. The latest ones described her services in equine massage, aroma and crystal therapy, and interpreting the past lives of horses.

On this Friday morning she was at Cecelia Broadhurst’s estate, Kimber Farm, in the company of barn manager and groom Dorcas Stanhope.

Dorcas had no patience for what she considered Nardell’s voodoo nonsense. She had her doubts about Nardell’s massage skills as well, given how recently this new career had been launched and the absence of any professional credentials. All Nardell had to do was produce a stack of business cards declaring herself an equine massage therapist and anyone willing to hire her did so at their own risk, and that of their horses.

The horse people in the local community knew Nardell and her spotty background. Yet many felt a compassionate urge to support her in whatever endeavor she attempted, a civic duty if not outright charity. Cecelia Broadhurst was in the vanguard of that magnanimous crowd. Dorcas, having only arrived from Florida two years earlier and not exactly flush with cash herself, did not share her boss’s indulgent attitude toward Nardell’s erratic career path. But as the great lady’s employee, she had no choice but to do as instructed.

Cecelia maintained fifteen horses on her estate, enough to keep Dorcas busy seven days a week. Her charges ranged from young animals just starting their training for the foxhunting field to aged retirees who had done their duty and now enjoyed a life of ease in the pastures of Kimber Farm. Most, though, were seasoned hunters of prime age. It was the responsibility of Dorcas Stanhope to keep those horses fit and ready for the highly polished toe of Cecelia’s boot to slip into the stirrup and be off for a perfect ride.

Dorcas had one other duty. It had been the deciding factor in her landing the job. Cecelia was the benefactress of the local junior riding program, her own private undertaking for children who wanted to ride cross country and learn about foxhunting. The matron of the manor had little direct involvement in the workings of the program herself. She provided the facilities and mounts for those who needed them and left the actual schooling and organizing to her barn manager.

When the previous manager opted to get married and leave Virginia, Cecelia found no shortage of willing applicants. What distinguished Dorcas Stanhope’s resume from the others was her service to a hunt in Florida known for its strong juniors program. The recommendation from the club’s master had been an exercise in guarded wording, complimentary but not glowing with praise. Cecelia chose to disregard that and hired Dorcas anyway.

After two years, she’d found no cause for complaint. Dorcas was conscientious, and the children responded to her well.

Dorcas reclined against a stall door and watched as Nardell leaned toward one of Cecelia’s hunters and worked her strong fingers into the animal’s muscles. As much as Dorcas wanted to find fault, her knowledge of equine physiology told her that Nardell knew what she was doing.

Other than an age difference of fourteen years, with Dorcas on the younger end, both women showed the results of a lifetime spent working on and around horses. Their skin, more cured than tanned, was stretched a bit too tightly over hard, sinewy muscles and steely bones that supported 115 pounds on a 5’6” frame. Nardell wore her chestnut brown hair in a long French braid while Dorcas preferred a short crop for her sandy blonde curls. Both moved with the swagger of a bantam-weight boxer, a confidence bred by decades of working with beasts ten times their size. Their everyday wardrobes consisted of breeches, polo shirts, and paddock boots, all well-worn but functional for daily duties. They owned make-up and at least a few dresses, but cosmetics served no purpose in their working life and only the rare special occasion called for ladylike attire. Their finest and most expensive clothing was reserved for formal hunting days.

“There we go,” Nardell said as the horse hung his head down and moved his mouth in a soft chewing motion. “All that tension’s easing away.”

Dorcas could not disagree that the horse was responding positively. “He does seem to be enjoying the rubdown.”

“What I do is more than just a rubdown,” Nardell replied with a spark of indignation in her deep brown eyes, the shade of well-used saddle leather soaked in whiskey. “It’s about releasing the energy and getting the horse in touch with his aura, where he can be in harmony with his past…” Ryman’s ringtone sounded from her cell phone. “I’d better take this. Hello? Oh, oh dear! Are you okay? Of course, I’ll meet you there. I’m at Cecelia’s. I’ll leave now. Okay. Love you. Bye.”

She looked at Dorcas, her eyes wide and moist. “I have to leave.”

“Oh, my God. What is it?”

“It’s Ryman’s father. Ryman says it looks like a heart attack, a big one. He thinks…he thinks… I have to go, meet him at the hospital…sorry, I can’t finish…have to reschedule…” She gathered up her crystals and incense, hustled out to her mud-splattered, dinged-up, faded green Subaru Outback, and took off, leaving Dorcas in the barn aisle, watching Nardell’s tires fling stones from Kimber Farm’s neatly pebbled driveway.

Dorcas led the horse back out to pasture. She held her composure, enough to prevent the perceptive animal from sensing her swelling distress. Her steps faltered as she returned to the barn. Knees became rubber by the time she reached the office door. Once inside, she stumbled across the room, collapsed into the desk chair, and let the tears flow where no one, not even the horses, could see or hear.