Shoalie's Crow

By Karen Donley-Hayes

A horrific fatal accident during an equestrian jumping event leads to the reincarnation of a newborn foal who discovers the only being who speaks her non-horsemanlike language is, of all things, a crow. Together, Shoalie and her crow-friend struggle to unravel their intertwined mysteries of past and present lives that are quickly and scarily lea

• Language: English
• Publisher: Family of Light Books
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798988120391

Karen Donley-Hayes

KAREN DONLEY-HAYES, author of the memoir, Falling Off Horses, has appeared in The Journal of the American Medical Association, Bartleby Snopes, Blue Lyra Review, The Quotable, The Healing Muse, Pulse, The Saturday Evening Post online, and others, and has been anthologized in Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Cat's Life; The Heart of All That Is: Reflections on Home; and Blue Lyra Review Anthology. She and her husband, Arnold, live in Garrettsville, Ohio.

Book preview

Chapter ONE

Her only memory from that life was the wreck that killed her. She was riding a brown horse galloping toward the crest of a hill. The horse’s coat was slick and dark with sweat. A spring wind, thick with the promise of rain, rolled across the hills. In this dim snippet of memory, she knew they were at Rolex in Kentucky. Rolex was like the equestrian version of the Masters or Wimbledon. If you’re good enough, you go. And they were good enough. Qualify at Rolex, then on to the Olympic Games.

The rider’s muscles burned with the exertion of the ride, because her horse was keen, pulling toward the fences, insistent on going bigger, faster, better. She heard the rhythmic thuds of the horse’s footfalls, felt them vibrate through them both, heard muted voices of the bystanders they surged past. She saw their umbrellas, saw a dog trotting on its leash, saw a crow gliding parallel with them for a few seconds before it drifted away on slow flaps of its black wings. She smelled sweat and adrenalin cascading in waves from her mount, smelled the earth chewed up by hooves, tasted her own salty sweat.

The pair crested the hill and galloped down a grassy slope. She saw the next jump—a massive pale log suspended in the air—and leading up to the jump a path of stuttering tracks and skid marks left by horses that had gone ahead of them. Her horse’s ears were up, aimed at the jump, and she watched the jump like a target in the crosshairs between those ears as they bore down upon it; she counted the strides, steadied the horse, then they launched into the air. Power and thrust and speed, the hushing rush of the wind, the free-fall feeling of floating over the jump, then the impact as they landed on the other side. Already, she was focused on the next fence, the second element of the in-and-out, thinking ahead beyond that jump too. From there, just a few more efforts, an easy gallop, and they would qualify for the Games.

She counted one stride, two strides to the second element. Beneath her, the horse hurtled like a torpedo; it shook its head, and she sat deep, a strong check, a demand to steady. The horse tugged hard, then acquiesced and eased back, bunching before the jump, gathering for takeoff. She felt the horse compress itself then release the power; she felt the thrust as the horse unleashed itself. She folded above the horse’s shoulders, staying with the momentum, supporting, keeping over the horse’s center of balance, and the horse dug into the sod with its hind feet to drive off the ground and over the obstacle.

The horse uncoiled its hind legs, driving its hooves into the ground to thrust upward, but the chewed up earth gave way, and instead of pushing off, the horse’s driving hooves scooped furrows deep into the ground, sucking away the horse’s upward lifting momentum. The rider felt the horse twist catlike under her, clawing for air and altitude and space. The rider floated above her horse, saw the log unbearably close below them. Then she saw the animal’s knees ram into the log, a shuddering impact, then its muzzle met the log and the horse’s head and neck and legs stopped dead, stayed with the log. The horse grunted and the rider gasped, and the horse’s momentum flipped its hind end up in a flailing cartwheel over the fence. Too fast for any conscious thought, just reflex, she threw her arms out to break her fall, saw the ground rushing up to meet her, felt herself slam into it, and she hadn’t even stopped landing before her horse, writhing and twisting through the air, crashed down on top of her. In an instant all went dark and she was crushed and suffocated. Her bones snapped and drove their way through her flesh, a half ton of horse pile-driving her into the earth and swallowing her life. Then the horse, thrashing still, rolled away, and she saw light again, dim and pallid.

She felt the ground beneath her, cold and damp, yet it seemed she didn’t really feel anything at all. She could hear her horse, scrambling, heaving behind her, could hear people running toward them. She tried to reach out toward the sounds, but nothing happened, as if her body were no longer part of her. She thought she should breathe, but it was so much effort, and easier not to. She tasted her own blood. Felt it rushing from its vessels. The scent of the earth was in her head, thick as dirt. She vaguely saw the forms of people as they hovered above her, but then her vision darkened, and her hearing faded, like she was sucked away from them into some deep hole, and those senses faded into murmuring echoes. For a heartbeat, she could still smell a hot horse and the tangy odor of bruised grass and earth, and then all that was left was the smell of mud and thunder. And then that was gone too.

* * *

There was a dark space ungoverned by time or dimension, a weigh-station in limbo where she floated slack and free, and she didn’t know how long she was in that limbo before she came back. But she did come back, and it was like being squeezed out of one existence and deposited unceremoniously and without apology into another. The first thing she was aware of was the earth damp and cool under her face. Then some of the fog cleared, just a slight drawing of a curtain, and she remembered the free-float feeling of falling. Then she remembered the horse and then the jump, then the horse’s body as its momentum flipped it, towering upright, hooves clawing at the air, her own hands clutching at the horse’s mane, then full of hair and air, then the horse cartwheeling above her. And she saw its brown legs lashing at the sky as they fell, down and away, and even as they fell, even as they crashed down through the mist, even before they drove into the ground, she knew that she was dead.

And yet . . . And yet, how was she now smelling the earth, and feeling it cool beneath her cheek? She shivered, chill and damp wrapping around her. She grabbed hiccupping gasps of air, and smells bright as light rolled in. A hot horse. Damp ground. Dawn mist wending its way through thick air, the hum of spring peepers, the slow steady thrum of spring breathing through the night.

Awareness returned slowly. No sounds of spectators or traffic or emergency vehicles or even voices of bystanders come to ogle or whisper or lend a helping hand. All she heard was the quiet undertone of late night—a pre-dawn state she could smell and sense–and the first early, waking calls of birdsong.

None of it made sense; she wondered how badly she was injured. She felt the earth, then had the sudden jolt of terror that she was paralyzed. Her heart slammed harder with that adrenalin kick, and she worked up the courage to try and move her arms and legs, bracing against a shock of pain, or worse, nothing at all. But she felt her legs and arms move, even though they seemed distant and heavy and alien, but there was no pain, no paralysis, just an oddity.

She lay a while longer before opening her eyes and gazing upward toward the dark gray sky, her vision also warped and blurred and almost fishbowl— not what she expected, but then, she hadn’t expected to wake up alive; how was she not dead?

A rolling tinkle of laughter came to her, and she tried to blink the blur from her vision to see the people, but her head was oddly heavy, and her blurry fishbowl vision dimmed before it brought her any enlightenment. She lay on her side, shivering and staring up to a flat raftered roof, and that made no sense. She inhaled deeply, more olfactory information cascading into her brain with each breath–straw and wood and creosote and urine and manure and blood but it did not smell like fear, it smelled like home, and that made no sense either.

She tried to brush her hand over her face to clear her vision. She saw a blurry shadow as her arm flapped through the air and smacked her nose. She struggled a little more to try and make her arms and legs do what she wanted. She was determined to sit up or roll over or at least make some kind of purposeful movement. So, she thrashed and jerked and flopped. She couldn’t tell if she was making any progress, but her efforts did seem to have an effect on the horse. She heard the horse make a rumbling whispering whicker and hoist herself to her feet. Almost instantly she could feel her muzzle on her. Again, she tried to sit up, and again flopped and flailed, although she felt a little stronger. She felt such an intense urgency to get up, to stand. The impulse seemed to come from deep inside her, like it was the life of her, insistent and demanding.

* * *

The mare began licking and nuzzling her, whispering to her the whole time. Baby, baby, she seemed to say in some voiceless language, but she could smell, too, love—it wafted off her like a language, soaked into her brain, and she wanted to be next to the mare, to press herself against her, to shelter in her warmth and protection. She lay there, blinking and twitching, and a tremulous thought suggested, Strange things happen after a head injury, and she latched onto that. Nearly a relief, empowering, that thought. Again, she tried to sit up, and again flopped and flailed.

This time she heard the laugh behind her clearly, and when a voice spoke, she heard distinctly what it said.

There ya go, baby. Now you’re figuring it out.

And for the first time, she found her voice, and with it the edges of anger. Help me, damn it, she said. But all she heard as her voice left her body was a thin, high-pitched whinny. Stunned, she popped her eyes open wide, and her panoramic fuzzy vision cleared just a shade, and she stared at her arms, which she could now see much more clearly on the straw in front of her. Except they were not arms. They were legs. The long, wet, knobby-kneed dark legs of a newborn foal, legs that moved when she moved her arms. When she barked out a startled laugh of disbelief, she heard herself snort—a pure, nostril-flapping, equine-to-the-core snort.

It had to be a dream. After a fall such as she recalled, it seemed plausible that her mind would play some tricks on her for a while. How she knew that was beyond her; this reason and knowledge was such an integral part her mind that it did not even occur to her to question this intellect, this state of knowing. And with that knowing was also the knowing that this state she was trapped in, this dream quasi-reincarnation, was so real she couldn’t deny it. It also felt so wrong that she clung to her head-injury-as-causative reasoning.

She concentrated on breathing deeply, trying to calm herself; sooner or later, everything would shake out, her brain would get back on an even keel, and all would be well. She would wake up and this surreal dream would be over and done with. She would remember who she was, would remember her life before the wreck, and the world would make sense again. Until then, she was stuck in a dream. Roll with the punches. Strength grew in her, and her arms and legs—or just legs, if she was going to go along with this dream—became less wayward, began to move when and how and where she directed, so that eventually, she hefted with her back legs, braced her front legs, and suddenly she was standing—very precariously, granted, but standing nevertheless. The mare loomed over her like a mother ship, all delicate strength and fierce love, and the horse’s presence and smell triggered in her baby horse body and mind insistent, demanding urges. Stand. Move. Eat. Eat? Eat what?

She turned and tottered over to the other side of the big mare. She was hungry, but she hesitated. Even in a dream, could she make herself latch on to an equine nipple? But where her mind balked, her body had a life of its own, her physical self on the move even as her psychic self waffled. She was so hungry. She sucked the air. She sucked the wall. She sucked the big mare’s side, getting a mouthful of hair. She kept sucking. The big mare swung her head around and bumped her on the butt with her nose, shoving her closer to her hind end. She stopped and blinked. Then, strong and sweet, she smelled it—milk—and the scent seemed to take her by the nose and lead her. Resistance was futile, and she stuck her nose under the big mare’s flank, found a full, warm nipple, and instantly was rewarded with sweet, thin milk. She sucked and gulped, listening to the squeaking, slobbering noises, shocked at herself, but feeling the food hit her stomach like life itself, and she leaned into the big mare’s side and gave herself up to eating. She would just eat her fill, live this short little chimera filly dream, maybe take a nap, and then, when she woke up again, the world would have returned to order.

Shoot, said one of the voices. Born to eat! Ain’t gonna be a problem keeping this one on her feed!

Mmm-hmmm. Seems pretty on the ball, another voice said evenly.

Eventually, she was full. She peeked around the mare’s tail.

Two men leaned against the stall wall; arms crossed over their chests. She tried to decide if she liked or disliked them. She blinked at them noncommittally. One man—a bow-legged, barrel-chested, giddy man—was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, a worn, off-kilter ball cap, and a perpetual grin. She observed he laughed and chuckled as easily as he breathed, and his eyes sparkled and glinted; he smelled happy, held himself like he was happy. The little chimera filly decided she liked him. The low-key man—taller, leaner, maybe younger—wore a jumpsuit of sorts, all pockets and flaps. He exuded the serious, appraising air of one who considers the facts first then develops an opinion. He looked at the horses as if he were hungry, and he didn’t smell happy; all she smelled from him was chemical. She bobbed her head, trying to get a better look at him with her peculiar surround-sound vision.

OK, Doc, the man in jeans said, shifting off the wall and crooning his way to the big mare. She ducked her head toward him, blowing at him with her nostrils, smelling and welcoming, content with the chimera filly safe on her other side. He hooked a lead shank on the mare’s halter and reached up to straighten and smooth her forelock.

Doc walked calmly up to the mare and patted her neck. She sniffed at him, then swung her head to her, rolling her eye to keep the baby in her line of sight. Doc walked toward the mare’s hind end, toward where the chimera filly was looking around, sliding his hand softly and easily along the big mare’s back, her hip, her butt; she followed him with her ears but stood still. He looked at the filly as he started to shake a thermometer down, then paused and a shadow of a grin cracked his serious features—it was a digital thermometer. He gave a little cough that may have been a laugh, pulled the mare’s tail gently aside, and slid the thermometer in. The mare did not move. While he took her temperature, Doc tenderly prodded around the mare’s hind end, gently rolling open her vulvar lips, pursing his own lips, assessing, shifting his glasses up with a scrunch of his nose. He looked from the mare’s posterior to the baby but didn’t make any move to touch her. The chimera filly looked back at him, and they considered each other for a moment.

Hmmmm. Something, aren’t you? he said, with the edge of a smile on his voice.

The thermometer beeped, and he looked away from the baby, turning his attention back to the big mare. He continued his exam, every so often passing comments back and forth with the attendant. Otherwise, it was quiet except for the sound of Doc’s feet in the straw as he shifted and moved around the mare. Somewhere outside, mingled with the white noise of night, the pseudo filly heard the contented rattling of a horse sighing, clearing its nostrils as it grazed in the dark. Finally, Doc looked at the big mare, stood up a little taller, and proclaimed the mare the picture of maternal health.

Next up, he said and took a step toward the chimera filly. The big mare, with an anxious rumble, swung her butt around, pivoting 180 degrees so that she had the baby tucked under her impressive chestnut chin. That was fine, except that with her gyration, the mare brought with her the guy at her head, and before the filly knew it, in one smooth movement, he had one arm around her chest, and the other around her butt—instant bear hug.

Got her, Sam? Doc asked. Sam laughed confirmation.

As this was a dream, it occurred to chimera filly that maybe she could fly out of there. She tried to take off, to sail around the stall. But she remained quite earthbound, still in the clutches of the attendant. He proved much stronger than she had anticipated, and here came Doc with his stethoscope and God knew what else. So, she bucked. She plunged. She stomped. And still the attendant had a firm hold on her. She pinned her little ears in anger and stomped as hard as she could on his foot. He wheezed out a simpering chuckle but didn’t loosen his hold on her. Soon, after listening, poking, prodding, looking in the baby’s mouth, feeling her joints and groping her umbilicus (which she thought was totally unnecessary, and made that clear by leaping onto the attendant’s feet), Doc proclaimed that she was the picture of neonatal health; the duo released the horses.

Later, we’ll draw blood to check the IgG levels, Doc said as they left the stall.

Not my blood, you won’t, the chimera filly said as she watched them retreat. They ignored her. But it would be a moot point, because she was going to wake up soon, and these figments of her imagination would just have to wander around in limbo-eternity looking for some baby horse to stick a needle in. It wouldn’t be her, because she wouldn’t be there anymore; her psychic equilibrium would have been fully restored, albeit probably with a major headache, and memory of a dream for the ages.

She looked over at the big mare, still trying to get used to this new vision that gave her images of nearly everything around her instead of just that in front of her. The matron of the stall was a big mare, chestnut with a blaze and an intelligent face—large soft eyes that said more than the horse herself did. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all. She followed the filly around the stall as she practiced walking and trotting. She rumbled from the depths of her chestnut core, poured her maternal adoration over the baby like warm sauce, basting her in it. While in her mind the chimera filly considered the mare—her color, her size—something deeper in her tugged her toward the mare with an attraction that seemed a hunger in itself. The baby wanted to be with the mare, to glue itself to her side, nurse her warm milk and rest in the security of her cloak. She considered all this with her human sensibilities, but she could not deny the strength of her baby-horse-self’s feelings. The fact that they felt truer and more genuine than most of what she’d experienced in this dream state stymied her. Her feelings defied logic. It put a twist of anxiety and uncertainty between her ribs, and she tried to focus on something solid and tangible to quell her fear.

She looked down at her legs and considered them. They were dry now, and had taken on a light dusky color, but she was sure that they were brown—dark brown. She turned her head and looked at her body. Yes, dark brown. She couldn’t tell if she had any markings; it didn’t look like it on her front legs, and any time she tried to look around at her hind legs, she lost her balance. Eventually, her explorations led to fatigue; her legs felt sluggish and heavy—she couldn’t move them as fast or easily as she wanted. It was time to sleep, and that fatigue hit her like some outside force. Her eyelids drooped. She looked down at the straw so far away and wondered how she could lower herself down; she stretched her muzzle down, tried bending her knees, which quivered and shook, and she repeatedly lost her nerve. But eventually, gravity simply took over, her attempt to straighten her wobbly legs failed, and she collapsed in an untidy heap, rolled over onto her side and even as she sighed, relieved that her fall hadn’t hurt, sleep overcame her. Her last vision as she drifted off was of the big chestnut mare standing quietly over her, eating bits of hay, and the sound of her chewing, the smell of the straw and the mare’s proximity, her own belly full of a warm meal, lulled her into quietude. She thought this was a nice last memory to have of her short happy life as a horse before she woke up to her real life, and with that, she fell asleep.

* * *

Almost as soon as she was aware that she was waking, she knew she had no expansion to the snippet of memory or dream she’d had when she fell asleep. That unwelcome knowledge was immediately usurped by the realization that she was lying exactly where she had been when she dozed off. She heard horses in adjoining stalls chewing and breathing near her, smelled the pungent straw, smelled the sun warming the earth outside, and even as she came awake, she knew that she was still a horse. The dream was supposed to be over now, and with a sizzling bolt of fear, she tried to sit up, to throw the covers aside, and leap out of her sick bed, but her panic sufficed only to send her in a flailing tumble across the stall, clattering against the wooden wall. It stung, and that pain, along with the wave of nickering concern emanating from her neighbor in the next stall, slapped her reality squarely into her vision, and she had no idea what to do.

How could she possibly have the physical form or a horse, and yet have human intellect? With some deep-rooted foundation of equestrian knowledge and familiarity? She felt it coursing through her, beyond her ability to intentionally tap into it. How could these two dichotomous realities exist simultaneously within her? It felt like some kind of ethereal taunt. Or maybe punishment for something she could not remember.

Or maybe she was simply a mistake, an interrupted reincarnation that slipped through without Anyone knowing.

If she wasn’t dead, then she seemed suspended between equally untenable states of dream or vision or reality, and nothing seemed real. No one could hear anything she said. Whatever she remembered from the fall at the jump seemed not to be the current her as much as did this body, equine in flesh and bone and blood; this equine form seemed to be her reality, at least at the moment, regardless of how vividly real her human memory or dream felt. She felt certain that full memory pulsed thick and true, shimmering just below the surface, not quite within reach, and that it would all come rushing back if she could simply coax some tiny nugget through the fog in her brain.

But not if she was a mistake, forgotten and abandoned.

Her impotence terrified and enraged her. She pinned her ears in frustration and anger. It didn’t change a thing. So, she stood blinking and anxious as the day slid by and nothing changed.

Chapter TWO

Maybe worse than dying in the crash she remembered was hovering in this nebulous suspension between dream memory and her equine reality. It wasn’t supposed to work this way. If she was a horse, then shouldn’t she be just a horse, no less, no more? She should not have human intellect and knowledge—with only a shrapnel bit of memory from that human life. Shouldn’t a new life be a clean slate? She felt like a mistake. You forgot me! Don’t leave me! I’m here, I’m here! she cried out, to no one except perhaps the universe itself. But her world still consisted only of the cold wooden walls and the big mare’s warm and pliant sides, and her own braying sounded futile even to her.

What has happened to me? she asked the big mare. The mare flicked an ear at her baby and shifted her hay around with her muzzle, searching out the choicest morsels but said nothing in return.

Where am I? she asked. Where is this place? The big chestnut mare chewed her hay and did not answer. The chimera filly poked the mare’s shoulder insistently with her nose. Talk to me. She pawed at the hay the mare was eating, then bit her big brown ear with toothless gums, but the mare didn’t talk to her or answer her questions. She lifted her head, pulling her ear out of the baby’s mouth as she craned her neck around the filly, pulling the baby close with her maternal power. The baby worked her jaws, trying to spit the hair out of her mouth. You can’t talk to me, can you? She didn’t believe the big mare really heard or understood her questions. How could she feel so drawn to this huge mare, so attached to her, and yet not be able to communicate with her? She did not understand and stamped her feet in frustration; she knew this wasn’t a physical issue. This was a spiritual issue. She just had no idea why, or how she had gotten ensnared in it.

* * *

She was fuming about her unfortunate life when Doc and the attendant stopped at the stall and gazed in at the mare and foal.

OK, Momma, ready to go stretch your legs? Show your girl the world? Sam, the attendant, grinning from ear to ear, asked the big mare.

Doc slid the stall door open, and Sam slipped in, chuckling and cooing singsong as he sidled toward the big mare and her. The filly scampered away from him, in no small part because she was pissed that he so blithely set about his tasks with no apparent appreciation for his whole and unadulterated human life. But the mare lifted her head from her hay and turned to him, ears up and eyes soft. Awww, you’re such a good girl, ain’t ya? Sam said. A grin creased his face, crinkling his eyes, but they sparkled nonetheless. Look at the beautiful baby you made! What a good girl! and he rubbed her forehead with a hand weathered and leathery. Doc slid the door all the way open, and Sam led the big mare through the opening into the aisle beyond. The filly trotted after her, virtually glued to her massive side, Doc coming right with her. He still smelled of antiseptic and reserve, and she scurried away from him, but just bounced off the big chestnut mare’s looming sides, like a dinghy against the hull of the mother ship.

The aisle, its cement floor tidy and well-swept, ran between stall walls toward a bright opening, and a warm breeze met her face. The filly pranced next to the big mare, listening to the whispering clips of her tiny feet, the steady clops of the mare’s, and the shuffling of the people’s feet. She glanced at the stalls on either side of them, awash with ambient light. Curious equine faces watched them from some, nostrils pressing through grills to get a whiff, but most of the stalls seemed empty. She was gawking at the stalls and bouncing along against the big mare’s side when they crossed the threshold and passed into the sun. She stopped dead, the dazzling light gleaming all around her, blinding her for a moment. When her eyes adjusted, all she could see, in every direction, were pastures and fields surrounded by dark-stained four board wood fencing; manicured fields held grazing horses, mares and foals, and mares clearly soon to foal. A breeze ruffled the grass and the leaves in the trees, and bugs buzzed, sluggish in the sun. It was extraordinary, and for a moment, she was stunned.

She knew this place. She stood blinking and waited for a breathless instant for memory to flood back. She was sure at any instant familiarity would morph to full recollection, an epiphany.

Hold up, said Doc, coming up behind her and scooping her into his arms to steer her in the right direction, but the big mare had already stopped. The big mare turned her head and made a deep rumbling nicker, dragging guffawing Sam as she twirled around back to