Dust Devil's Dance

I’ve never been exactly sure of the difference between a ravine and a canyon, but there’s either a little canyon or a big ravine I short cut through to check the north fences. I’ve rarely seen another person there and don’t recall ever noticing any bleached bones or arrow heads when I walked about. An unusual place, but a time saver just the same.

The mare I sometimes ride hates the place – she has her reasons, but that’s not the story I’m telling now; this story is about something I discovered, well actually the mare discovered, in that dried up river dug ditch.

I was grooming one of the quarter horses when the mare appeared, a rearing black silhouette outlined against the red dawn horizon. She comes to visit from time to time, but by agreement, she stays away from any structures and keeps well clear of me. Instead she approaches just close enough to draw my attention then waits for me to follow at a respectable distance. Seems like a complicated dance, but it’s a safe plan carefully worked out a long time ago. She’s not my horse, but we’re pretty close and it’s common knowledge that I’ve far more affection than means to afford her. But again, as I said, that’s another story.

It was apparent from her demeanor, that she had things to do, things she needed me for. I’d learned not to question her, so I gathered the grooming tack save a small curry comb and brush, which I shoved in my saddle bag, stowed everything else in the groom box, grabbed a light saddle and mounted the quarter horse and followed the mare – respecting our agreed upon distance.

The mare proceeded at a gallop. I gave my horse his head, knowing he knew to follow the mare – I know I would if I were him – she’s a fine horse – something that struck me the first time I saw her. I keyed on her potential even through the scratches and mud matted into her mane – I saw in the scared shivering filly, a noble bloodline and wild spirit. We first met about 6 years ago at the opening of the ravine. I don’t know how she got there, miles from the ranch I suspected she was from, so young and in such a dreadful state. I was patient with her and worked to calm her down. I let her smell, then lick my hand, rubbed behind her ears and ran my fingers through her mane while whispering calming sounds. I didn’t rush her, I just led her away from the canyon all the while trying to ensure my posture and movements we’re familiar, something comforting from her herd and nothing that would trigger her instinct against predatory behavior. I kept my head in line with hers, stayed away from her flanks and rear and kept whispering comforting sounds while petting and patting her, but I’m digressing and I really need to get back to what was in that ravine.

About two miles from the line camp where she came to get me and another mile or so from the mare’s ranch, we decided it was safe to approach each other. I dismounted and greeted her letting her smell then lick my hand, revealing the biscuit I had hidden within and teased at pulling her mane. She sniffed then ate the biscuit nuzzling my shoulder as she chewed. Our ritual was followed by her trotting impatient circles around me as I removed the bridle and saddle from the quarter horse. I gave the quarter horse a light pat on the rump and pointed the way we have come and told him to go straight home – knowing he would, with no stops.

The mare approached again from her circles and stood still as I threw the saddle over her back, cinched the girth and adjusted the stirrups. I decided against using the bridle confident I could trust her, knowing if need be I could lead her with my knees and firm but gentle tugs of mane. She took off at a gallop as soon as I settle in. We matched riding rhythms more like different parts of the same body than rider & ridden. We enjoyed each other’s company from the get go. I’d initially feared she would associate me with pain after the beating she received when I returned her to the ranch after finding and grooming her. I didn’t learn of her mistreatment until a few days later when I came to check on her and to see if she was for sale. I was curtly thanked for leading her back home, offered a $10 reward for my trouble and told in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t afford a horse of her breeding potential and that both my poverty and my interest had been duly noted – which I interpreted to mean if the horse went missing, my place would be the first searched – never mind all that though.

We were about a half mile out from the mouth of the ravine when I felt the mare’s gait become a bit less confident. I knew she didn’t like being near the ravine, but she was heading us there on her own, I was just along for the ride. I caught just a hint of a wind, but nothing even remotely warranting being called a breeze. Yet, I noticed margarita daisy petals, old rotted cottonwood cotton and a few bits of torn dried leaves dancing about in the air. We rode through it, seeing airborne blades of green grass and wild flower petals as well as detritus becoming denser as we approached.

When the mouth of the ravine came into view, I noticed that the confetti seemed to settle, I watched daisy petals snow flaking to the ground as we entered. It was apparent that the mare was feigning bravado she didn’t quite feel, but I continued letting her have her head and we entered. Flower petals and leaves banked the sides of the ravine. I was surprised to see pieces of newspaper spiked on nettle and cactus thorns like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

I was even more taken aback to notice how neatly the colored piles of grass, flower petals, leaves and bits of paper lined either side of the passage. A narrow strip of white would be followed by one of red, then a darker color, then blue then brown. Someone had spent a lot of time collecting and sorting all of this by color and carefully adorning either side of the ravine floor. It was pretty, and pretty eerie.

The mare sensed my unease, but she kept moving, careful to stay close to the unmarked centerline of the ravine. About a quarter mile in she angled toward one side of the canyon and I saw she was headed toward a larger greenish brown pile, next to it was another pile similar in size and shape but more straw colored. When we neared, it was obvious that it was straw. The greener pile was alfalfa. We stopped and I dismounted and reached into one of the piles before the mare could eat any. I inspected the alfalfa as best I could rolling it between my fingers, smelling it and finally tasting a small piece. The mare waited patiently until I completed my inspection then lowered her head and grazed.

I looked around, wondering who might have decorated and stocked such a barren and godforsaken place when I saw again flower petals and leaves floating in the air. It was different than when we were approaching the ravine. Before, the bits were blowing haphazardly in the wind, drifting like fly ash. This time they swirled about in color coordinated patterns – spirals of large white yucca flowers bordered by smaller tighter coils of pale yellow margarita petals both bordered on the outside by the silver grey foliage and fuchsia flowers of purple sage. As the color coded cyclone spun nearer, I considered remounting and high tailing it out of there, but the mare didn’t seem particularly concerned and curiosity was overpowering any sense I ever professed to have.

I guess my curiosity is one of my hallmark characteristics; it’s what landed me in jail for a weekend on horse theft charges the first time the mare came out to my place. It was 7 or 8 months after I first saw her and after I returned her to the ranch. On her first visit, she came all the way up to the cabin and I let her into the coral and was grooming her when one of the newer sheriff’s deputies arrived. There wasn’t much of an altercation, I told him the mare just appeared and I was about to take her back to the ranch, but the deputy made it known he had been warned that would be my story when in fact, he knew on good authority that I had been planning to rustle this filly for almost a year. He confiscated the horse and took me into custody. It was my misfortune that the sheriff was out of town for a few days and better sense and justice would just have to wait until he returned Monday morning – but good sense did eventually arrive in the form of the sheriff who knew me and had little respect for the ranch owner. He released me with a paternal warning to steer clear of the ranch and that mare. Which through my keenly selective hearing, I heard as “be more careful next time” which in turn led to the mare and my cautious choreography. Yet more history distracting me from the story

The mare stopped eating and moved between me and the whirlwind, breaking my kaleidoscope induced trance. I don’t know if that was her intent or if she just noticed the spinning mass, still spinning, wasn’t moving any closer. She braved a few steps in the direction of the spiraling colors but with each step, the spiral either retreated an equal distance or was leading us somewhere. I followed the mare’s lead and tried to close the gap between us and the cyclone as it led us deeper into the ravine.

Still mesmerized by the shifting, swirling palate, I was having difficulty paying attention to where I stepped. My attention focused more acutely on the whirlwind as I perceived thousands of rays of multi-spectral light beams, each seeming to emanate from separate and distinct particles of something reflective swirling in a tight spiral in the cyclone’s inner most core. The light show, intermittently deflected by the solid colored bits of matter swirling amid the reflections, drew me stumbling after it. Eventually the mass began to veer toward the side of the canyon. It hovered against the wall, where I watched its narrow funnel compress into a fist sized hole.

The mare and I approached to within arms length watching as a solid stream of shiny particles spun out of the hole to be adsorbed into the swirling mass. It span faster, causing the particles to shred the bits of paper and vegetation until they were centrifugally cast off leaving a monochrome column of spinning blindingly shimmering …GOLD!

The sheriff helped me secure an honest assay and stake a claim to the ravine so no serious questions were ever raised about my instant wealth. Endless question are raised, however, by the fact that neither the mare nor I are ever seen without bits of colored flower petals or paper in her mane and my hair.

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Tags:

fiction, horses, relationships and surreal