May/June 2004

The Flying Angel

“Why am I so dumb, Hobo?” I asked the short, jetblack gelding. I knew he couldn’t answer me, but I knew he could understand. Just two days ago, I had failed my first seventh-grade math test spectacularly, lost patience entirely at an annoying girl who I thought was my friend, and I continued to struggle with the facts of growing up. Now, staring into the eyes of someone I knew I could trust, I spilled it all out. And through everything, the glossy black eyes of my one true friend took everything in. When I ended my period of ranting, my wet eyes met his, and he looked back like always, and winked. I threw my arms around his neck, and breathed in the smell of the horse. It was a smell that you learned to appreciate in my house, whether it was lingering in the car, collecting on my welcome mat, or biding its time on the bristles of one of the many brushes that scattered my floor. If you knew me personally, you’d know (and hopefully not be offended) that I’d switch a moment with you any time, for the presence of a horse. Right now, it was one of those times, a dewy Sunday morning, where the first signs of bitter fall were creeping in. You saw a lot of it inside the barn alone, the first burgundy stable blankets were being dusted off, the first-time riders all went out to buy expensive thermal jodhs, only to find out later that unless you were constantly visiting the barn during Snow Days and the likes (like me) you wouldn’t have any use for them. And the biggest preparation, the long-listed variety of shows, hunter paces, and fund-raisers that shared the season. But all of these things didn’t faze me at all; they were just minor details that added to the daily barn atmosphere. All I really cared about were the horses, and how I would spend time with them. To almost all but me, fall was an entirely different season. Me, I didn’t even know when the season began, and had no idea when it would disappear. He was running for me, and no one could ever stop us My train of thought slowly faded away, as I realized that my one thousand pounds of heaping affection was nosing around my coat pockets, looking for a tasty treat. “Oh, sorry, handsome, I forgot the carrots today!” I clapped a hand to my head in exasperation and reached over to stroke the gelding’s long, dark forehead. He nickered softly and closed his eyes, begging for more. All of my past was forgotten, as the love of my horse took over me like a second skin. Hobo snorted and shook his head, relieving himself of an itch. “Silly boy!” I laughed as he tried to nip my jacket. I glanced at my watch, it was still pretty early, and so I decided to take my horse out for a ride. “I know you’re not The Biscuit, old boy,” I told him briskly, throwing a saddle on his back. I knew it sounded like one of those corny lines from a Saddle Club movie, but it gave me a tingly sense of satisfaction. I knew my horse could run, I just didn’t know how to get him there. After checking that everything was on correctly, I placed a hand on the gelding’s sleek, black neck. “Let’s go,” I said, my voice barely holding back my excitement. I had waited all week to get on him and just run. I knew that through a week of hard exercise, dealing with refusals of rails, and helping out with beginner lessons, all I needed was to feel the sensation of a flat-out gallop. I slowly led Hobo out into the world; he followed obediently behind me, as if he had never done anything wrong in his entire life. I mounted up with ease, slipping my leather-clad feet into my stirrups, and gripping the reins tightly with both hands. I could see the faces of some of my friends, as they watched me with amusement. They too had their own horses to groom; and little girls to help. But not me; at this moment, it was me, Hobo, and a blank uncharted road in front of me. I suddenly thought about the pain I had suffered through this past week, the hellish realities of a horseless, thirteen-year-old girl’s life. A life that just didn’t sit well for me. So I made a decision, it was a rash one; I would almost call it an impulse. My decision was that I would leave it all behind. In a second all the harsh realities would look a lot smaller than they were now. In an instant, I urged Hobo forward with my legs, and like an orchestra, the symphony began. At first, the strides were steady, clean, show-ready. I leaned forward in the saddle, and let him break out into a full run. I am honest to say that my gelding was never War Admiral or Man o’ War, but if you had been watching me, you wouldn’t know the difference. As my thick, blond hair flew back in all directions, I suddenly remembered my math teacher, passing out my appalling grade, on that rainy Friday morning. Suddenly, like an accidental breeze, the moment had fallen behind, like a struggling horse on the last homestretch. Ha! I thought to myself, feeling like a new world had just begun. I felt Hobo’s powerful strides beneath me. They were not labored, nor were they showing any signs of reduction. He was running for me, and no one could ever stop us. The red-faced, demanding looks of that annoying girl I was holding a grudge against, suddenly were whipped from my mind, and went spiraling fast into the earth beneath me. Suddenly, the entire week was going with it, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . . I couldn’t stop myself

A Scrap of Orange Cloth

Yesterday, a stranger landed on our beach. I was on the beach because Pa won’t let me go out on the boats fishing. I saw the sail first, then the man balanced on the prow of a wooden boat, skinny knees protruding from under cut-off fatigues. He was real dark. Even in the distance I could make out that he was darker than me or Andre or Paul. He waded ashore and heaved his boat a little ways up onto the sand. The stranger looked at me out from under a floppy, canvas, army-patterned hat. There was burnt skin peeling on his nose and cheeks. He looked young, in his mid-twenties at most. I spoke first. “My name is Mattieu. I am fourteen. Welcome to the Seychelles.” When he answered, his voice was deep and lilting, filled with music. “I’m Kizza,” he said. “Is your village nearby?” I smiled. “It’s quite close, but all our men and boys are fishing and the women are at the market selling yesterday’s catch.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask me why I wasn’t fishing too. “I’m Kizza,” he said “Is your village nearby?” Kizza’s brown eyes danced. He stretched his arms wide, then slapped his hands on his knees and laughed deep, booming, and bell-like. “Then, I’ll pull my boat up on the beach out of reach of the fingering tide and sit in the sail-shade to wait.” Kizza leaned down to the bow rope neatly coiled on deck. He looked up. “Mattieu,” he said, “maybe you could stay around for a while and we could swap stories if you have no work.” “Cool,” I said, using one of the words I had picked up during the tourist season. Kizza swung the rope over his shoulder and dug his feet into the sand. I watched his boat slide up the beach. I saw how as it ceased to bob with the tide, it became a lifeless thing, made of wood and canvas. I could see the name now, painted on the stern, Rosa Maria, in white on the red wood. “Did you know her?” I asked quietly. Kizza followed my finger with his eyes. Then a change came across his face, almost as if a shutter had been pulled down behind his eyes. “Yeah, I knew her,” he said softly. Then the shutter flicked up. “Is that far enough?” he said, his eyes shining. *          *          * We sat in the shade of the Maria’s sail, while Kizza told me his story Kizza’s teeth and dirty T-shirt gleamed white on his black body as he spoke of his country Angola; of the rivers and the seas and the people. I listened, hands clasped around my knees, as he described the brutal civil war and the scourge of HIV/AIDS, which had devastated Angola. I was entranced as he told me how he had fought two years for freedom, and how it was won. Then he told me how his thoughts turned to love, and how just weeks before his marriage to a beautiful woman with a Portuguese name, she had drowned in the monsoon rains. I listened, raptured. His words were no longer just words; they blended together into blurred images that danced before my eyes like mirages on the sand. I felt his pain as he told me how he knew he could no longer remain in Angola so he was pursuing his dream to circum-navigate Africa in a twenty-two foot sailboat he named after his fiancée. “Now,” he said, “this is my purpose. Everything I have, I am giving to this quest. I do not know what I will do once I reach Angola again, but I know I cannot stay there.” He let out a ringing laugh and hit the sand beside him with his open palm. That broke the spell. My head snapped up to look at the sea. I saw how the tide had risen and then the shadows of fishermen on white sailcloth guiding their boats in to the beaches. One lone boat followed them, a figure hunched over at the tiller. I knew it was my pa’s boat, the Samuel. I ran down to meet the men, sand swishing on my dry feet. The yellow, blue, and red skiffs blurred in my mind with the black faces of the villagers. I talked with and laughed with them. They jested back, my friend, Andre, hovering on the outside of the group, a strange mixture of pity and compassion in his eyes. I thought about Kizza’s eyes, how they sparkled with life as he spoke, and I realized that he treated me as a man, while the villagers acted like I was a child. The fishermen departed, talking loudly about the day’s catch. Kizza looked back at me, about to say something, then old Dominque touched his arm and he turned to go. I gazed down the beach at the boats drawn haphazardly onto the sand, drinking in the sounds of the sea. The memory came unbidden, rising from the depths of a dark sea in my mind. I saw Samuel, as real as the images in Kizza’s tale. I was jealous and he was laughing, standing in a brightly painted boat, a salt-stained orange life vest slung over his shoulder. He was fourteen then. “Sam, please,” I said. He smiled at me, the smile he reserved for his only brother. “I’ll take you fishing tomorrow,” he said. Samuel’s words lingered for a moment on the air, then left me, the waves sighing around my ankles. When I returned to the village alone, the women had come back from the market and were dancing in time to a drum and a deep tenor voice. Kizza stood in the middle of them, eyes laughing, singing: By the moonlight, By ebbing tide, Look for me on the silver rocks, By ebbing tide, By the daylight, By rising tide, Look for me in the clear waters, By rising tide. By any day,

Mrs. Will Baker

Jessie sat down heavily on the bench and sighed. The heat was getting to her again, and her dress clung to her body. Hopefully, the tree would provide some cool shade. Although in South Carolina, it seemed that nothing was cold. The baby gave a little kick, and Jessie smiled. Lately, though, even smiling got to be tiring. While she found good reasons to, she also had to show too many fake and forced smiles, for when Will needed them. Will. She had never imagined that their lives would be like this, or that Will could get so sick only a year after they got married. He was only twenty-three! Consumption had almost made him a different person. But he tried. When the doctor had told them to go to South Carolina, they had thought that everything would be better quickly, and it would be like a vacation. Now, every day showed him getting either better or worse, and every small step was a blessing. Going hunting. Getting out. Going to town. When they went out, it was almost like they were sixteen again . . . *          *          * Jessie picked up the letter and unfolded it. There, in Will’s careful, even handwriting was the message: Saturday, June 15, 1896 Jessie: Would you like to have my company to Walter’s tonight. Will   A huge grin spread across her face, and she twirled around in circles. He was so charming and courteous. Always obeying the traditions that she often laughed at. He knew that she would go with him! He didn’t even write it as a question. What a different person he was when they were alone. But still the same, too. Jessie ran upstairs to tell her mother where she was going. *          *          * Jessie got up and shook out her skirts. She walked slowly back to the hotel, where Will was resting. The shade hadn’t helped the heat too much, and tendrils of hair escaped her bun to stick out wildly. Even in the heat and humidity of the day, though, birds were singing. Jessie stopped to pick a flower and winced as she tried to bend over. As she kept walking, she allowed herself to close her eyes and walk in a dreamland. Someone calling her name snapped her out of her reverie. “Jessie! Jessie!” Her mother-in-law, a slightly overweight and friendly figure, was walking quickly toward her. “We were wondering where you were. I thought that you might have gotten heat exhaustion. We have to take care of you now!” She laughed a good-natured laugh. “Come along, it’s time for luncheon. I was thinking that we could go into town afterwards and . . .” Jessie listened amiably as Mrs. Baker rambled on, saying something when it seemed necessary Soon, they had arrived at the hotel, where Will and his father were already sitting at the table. Jessie went over to Will and kissed him on the cheek before her customary “How do you feel?” Jessie listened amiably as Mrs. Baker rambled on As usual, the answer was “Just fine, now that you’re here,” accompanied by a grin. Jessie smiled at him, and the ladies sat down for their meal. Throughout the luncheon, Jessie prodded Will to eat his food—the healthy part—and tried not to let him exhaust himself by talking. Afterwards, Mr. Baker suggested a “quick walk to refresh themselves.” Trying not to lean on his wife’s arm, Will got up and started to follow his parents. Jessie walked with him, letting him rest his thin, undernourished body on her arm, and not mentioning it. Only twenty pounds separated their weights now, when it used to be sixty. After about ten minutes, Jessie saw Will beginning to tire, and without saying anything, turned around to head back. Without seeming to notice them, Mr. and Mrs. Baker turned back at the same time, and came up behind them. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” Mr. Baker remarked. “The same as it’s been the whole time we’ve been here,” was Will’s reply, soft enough so that only Jessie could hear him. She smiled an amused smile at him, and her father-in-law kept talking. “It’s perfect weather for hunting. What do you say, Will? Want to go tomorrow? We could get some good meat for supper.” He put a lot of effort into these few words, really wanting to convince his son into going. “Of course, Father. I’d love to.” Will put just as much effort into this short statement, but that was because he was almost wheezing. Casting a worried look at her mother-in-law, Jessie motioned them to go ahead. Slowly, she and Will walked back, trying to enjoy the time outdoors. Breathing in the fresh air, Will remarked, “In some odd way, this reminds me of the sleighing party we had. You remember, by Miss Pearl’s house?” Of course she remembered. *          *          * There were fifteen of them there, on a Saturday evening. Everyone was bundled up for warmth, and each girl knew which boy she wanted to sit next to. Jessie and her closest friend, Sarah, huddled together with the other girls, laughing and getting ready to go. Will, of course, was there, and she could see the twinkle in his green eyes as he came over, even though he was as bundled up as the rest of them. “Come on!” he said as he grabbed her hand. “We’re first.” Giggling, Jessie separated from the clump of girls, and gazed up at Will. “Scared?” he asked as he helped her in. Jessie laughed and sat up straight. “Never!” Behind her, John was helping Sarah in the sleigh, and soon they were all in. “Ready?” John called to the girls. A chorus of assents came from the back. “Off we go!” and then they were riding through the cold night, laughing. Jessie sat close to Will, and they yelled and sang along with everyone else. They raced against the snowflakes and watched the path