Bury Your Horses

by Dan Dowhal

  She looks up at Shane. “I reckon it’s about time I said thank you for everythin’ yer doin’ for us. From what Abraham tells me, you’ve been a real friend in need.” She surprises him by getting up on her tiptoes and delivering a chaste little hug. Then she turns to Abraham and proffers her hand. “Now, Abraham Johnson, if you please, I’d like to be wearin’ my ring.”

  The day is waning, and Shane is anxious to get to the hidden valley before sunset. Given that it is her first time in the city, he is concerned that Zaylie’s curiosity and excitement will slow them down, but it is soon obvious that she is overwhelmed by the urban environment. As they head back to where the Indian is parked, she clings to the arms of her male escorts like she’s afraid the crowds will carry her off.

  They reach Beñat’s valley just as the sun is starting to flirt with the horizon. Shane is somehow not surprised that the Basque is waiting for them when they pull up.

  “Let me guess, the sheep told you we were coming,” Shane jokes as he embraces the old shepherd.

  “It was not necessary for anyone to tell me, mon ami … I can hear the sound of that engine miles away. You have traded vehicles, I see.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Beñat laughs, and Shane realizes how much he has missed the little fellow’s indefatigable good humour. “You have only been gone two days. How long can it be?”

  “You’d be surprised. Two days? You sure? Feels a lot longer.” But Beñat is no longer paying attention to Shane. He has moved forward to stare incredulously at Zaylie and Abraham, who stand there meekly, arm in arm.

  “Dios! Can it be? He found you!” Beñat emits a giant laugh that echoes through the hills, then does a little dance. He hastens back, hugs Shane, slaps him hard on the back, then returns to face the young couple. Removing his giant beret, he flourishes it in front of him and bows formally.

  “Beñat Koldobika Goikoetxea, at your service. You are most welcome.”

  “Howdy, I’m Abraham Johnson, and this here’s Zaylie Hutchinson. Shane there was saying —” But he does not get a chance to finish. Beñat laughs again, then hurries away, beckoning for them to follow.

  “Come, come, come,” he exclaims with unbridled glee. “You will want to see the valley and the sheep before it grows dark.” He turns to Zaylie. “And you, my lovely child, will want to see your living quarters and the garden, of course.”

  The Basque continues talking away as he leads them into the entrance crevice and along the claustrophobic path into the canyon. “I have only a little garden right now, but the soil there is good, and we can make it bigger very easily. The stream runs for almost all the year, but we can bring water from the well if the rains are inconstant. The sheep still have their coats from the winter, so we must plan the spring shearing soon. The Zuni elders say they can use all our wool and offer a good price this year for our share.”

  Bringing up the rear as they move through the tight passageway, Shane can only imagine the expressions on the young couple’s faces. When they emerge into the lush valley with its grazing herd of sheep, he is gratified to see them exchange a pleased look as their fingers intertwine.

  Napoléon, the little sheepdog, comes running over and barks excitedly at Abraham. The youth bends over and pats the dog’s head. “Well, hello there, little feller.”

  “Napoléon says welcome, and he is anxious for you to meet the sheep. He apologizes for his bad English and promises we will all work on it together. Go, go with him while you still have the light. Shane and I will show Zaylie the houses and the garden, assuming mademoiselle is comfortable to be left in our care.”

  Zaylie nods. “Don’t be long,” she calls after Abraham. “We still got a heapa chores before bedtime.”

  The youth and the dog walk toward the hillside, with the latter running circles around his new colleague in excitement. Zaylie, meanwhile, is eyeing the pueblo houses and the ladders leading up to them.

  “Nobody said we was gonna be livin’ in caves … and there sure are a heap of ladders to climb,” she grouses as they begin the trek upward. When they reach the rooftop terrace, she stops to take in the view and wave at Abraham in the distance before nosing around in the dwellings.

  Shane wants to get Beñat alone, in order to tell him about Mack Black’s gravesite, but the little Basque is far too eager to play tour guide to Zaylie. He greets every one of her concerns with good humour and a ready remedy, and soon the young woman is clearly being won over. The coup de grâce is a large storeroom Beñat leads her to, urging her to take whatever she and Abraham may need, now and in the future. Hewn deep into the stone hillside, the storage area looks like a small general store. Not only are there sundries, canned goods, and preserves, but also camp supplies, carved wooden furnishings, bedding, even an assortment of clothing.

  “The Zuni shamans send gifts all the time, but my needs are small,” Beñat explains. “I think perhaps some of these gifts were meant for you,” he says, his eyes twinkling. He indicates a rack of skirts and women’s blouses. Zaylie immediately goes over and starts examining the garments. Meanwhile Beñat flits to a shelf and fishes around for a minute, muttering something softly to himself in Basque, before exclaiming, “Aha! There it is.” He hands Zaylie a small wooden box. Shane cranes his neck to have a look as she opens it. Inside are two silver rings, one smaller than the other, ornately worked with an intricate geometric pattern. “A welcome gift for you two,” Beñat says, handing her the box. “Ongi etorri! Welcome to this valley.”

  The delight shines on Zaylie’s face as she accepts the jewellery. Her freckles shimmer upward, and Shane realizes it is the first time he has seen her smile. The change is profound, the way the sun emerging from clouds can transform an entire landscape. Poor Abraham must have been powerless the first time she unleashed the power of that smile on him.

  “Them houses are a darn sight bigger than they look from the outside,” Zaylie comments, as they re-emerge onto the terrace. “Land’s sake, a couple hundred folks could live here.”

  “Close to a thousand in the old days, I believe,” Beñat says, igniting a fire in the stone hearth and fussing over his teakettle.

  “And you been livin’ here all by yourself? Don’t it get lonely?”

  Beñat gives his trademark shrug. “A man can be in the city with a million people around him and still be lonely. I, on the other hand, have been content. When I first came here, I needed refuge and time for contemplation, and this valley gave me both. The shamans visit and hold their ceremonies — in fact, they come for their spring blessing tomorrow. And I have made a few friends who come to call. I am happy.” He laughs. “And now I have you. You will stay?”

  Zaylie nods. “I reckon so. It’s queer … I can’t rightly put it in words, but this place sits right with me, especially now that I’ve been here a spell. I only ever called one place home before, but for the last coupla months it ain’t felt like that at all. I felt trapped and set to, like I been tossed to the dogs.”

  She looks at Shane. “I know I only spent a coupla hours in that city you took us to today, but that were plenty for me. All them folks livin’ on top of one another and rushin’ round like starving rats loose in a granary … and the air itself stinkin’ of all them machines. And from what little I know of Abraham’s ordeal, there’s a heapa wicked folks out there, too. He says he’s flat out stopped believin’ in God. I won’t go that far, but I sure been reconsiderin’ some of what them elders preached to us … a lot of it beat into us with a switch.” She looks over to where the waning sunset has tinted the tops of the canyon’s far walls. “But I gotta say, this place feels like a godsend in every sense of the word.”

  Abraham climbs up to the terrace and joins them around the fire, cuddling up to Zaylie. “That’s a mighty fine herd of sheep you got there, Beñat,” he reports. “Nice and fat and healthy. And that little dog of yours, if he don’t beat all, the way he keeps them critters gathered all up. I swear there ain’t much for me to do when he’s a
round.”

  “Don’t you worry your head about that, Abraham Johnson,” Zaylie says, patting his arm. “I can find you plenty to do. Startin’ with right now. I done picked out a fine house for us to live in, and Beñat has been kind enough to stake us to everything we need. I’d like to get our bed set up before it gets pitch black.”

  “Our bed? But you said —”

  “I don’t need some fool boy to tell me what I said.” She frowns and studies him for a minute, then rises to her feet. “Listen to what I’m sayin’ now. Abraham Johnson, I’m gonna ask you a question, and you give me yer honest answer. Do you love me, and do you promise you ain’t gonna have any other gal but me, and you’re gonna take care of me and stick with me, no matter what happens, and spend the rest of your life makin’ sure I’m happy and taken care of?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Say it. Say you vow it, with the Almighty and these here men as witnesses.”

  “I vow it, Zaylie Hutchinson, I vow it with all my heart and soul.”

  “Well, Abraham Johnson. I’m givin’ you my solemn vow that you’re the only man for me, and you always will be, and I’m gonna love you, and I’ll never stop lovin’ you ’til the day I die … and then some. And I’m gonna be at your side through thick and thin, come hell or high water, and no woman could ever be a better wife to you than what I’m gonna be.”

  She produces the rings Beñat gave her earlier. “Here, put yours on and put this one on me,” she says, handing over the rings and offering her finger for the second time that day. Abraham obeys, and when the act is complete, she leans forward for a kiss. Abraham doesn’t respond immediately, still somewhat confused, with his mouth agape. “Abraham Johnson, ain’t you gonna kiss your wife?”

  “My what?”

  “Well, you can sure as shiz believe we ain’t part of no Holy Waters Temple no more, and good riddance to them, I say. So I reckon we’s our own temple now, so we get to say what’s right and wrong. Now, seeing as both of us have reached our eighteenth birthday, we can speak for ourselves, and we just gave our solemn vows in front of God and these witnesses and had our very own sealing ceremony, and that’s good enough for me. As far as I’m concerned, this is a celestial marriage, and you ’n’ me are gonna be bound together for all eternity. And seein’ as we’re now man and wife, startin’ tonight we’ll be sleeping in the same bed. Anyhow, them’s my thoughts on the subject. But I ain’t gonna do your thinkin’ for you, Abraham. Do you agree with me or not?”

  “Oh, yes, Zaylie!” Abraham cries and plants a big kiss on his bride’s lips.

  “A wedding! A wedding! We must celebrate!” Beñat shouts and leaps to his feet. He goes running first to the storeroom, then into his house, emerging with two bottles and four brass chalices.

  Overrun with excitement, the little shepherd hands Zaylie and Abraham each a chalice. “Am I correct that you will not drink alcohol?”

  “No, sir,” Zaylie shoots back. “I still believe in Joseph Smith and his Word of Wisdom, the law of health the good Lord gave him in 1833. Now, my good husband here has seen a little more of the world than I have, so I’ll let him make up his own mind if he wants to go messin’ with intoxicating spirits on his wedding night.”

  Abraham casts a glance at his wife. “No liquor for me, neither. Our bodies and our minds are precious gifts from God, so we gotta keep ’em healthy and strong,” he replies, clearly reciting from memory.

  “That is what I thought, so this is some sparkling grape juice — exquisite, but without alcohol. Here, Shane, aide-moi.” He passes the things in his hands to Shane, and then begins working on the top of what resembles, in all other respects, a bottle of champagne. The cork pops and goes flying off into the dusk to cheers from the assembly, and Beñat fills up the young couple’s cups. He then retrieves the remaining bottle from Shane. “You have not taken up abstinence during your recent adventures, have you, mon ami?” the little Basque asks.

  “If I had, I’d give it up for a special occasion like this,” Shane replies, holding out his chalice.

  “Excellent! Because this is a bottle of very rare cognac I have saved for such a moment.”

  When the cups have all been filled, Beñat offers the first toast. “Osasuna! To your health. May your hearts always be filled with love and your house filled with the laughter of children.”

  “To the bride and groom!” Shane shouts, and after the chalices clank in a communal toast, he takes a sip of the cognac. It is smooth and easy on the tongue, with a hint of fruit and spices. He wonders if it might be the best he’s ever tasted, given that most of his experiences with cognac — coming at the end of meals that typically involved gallons of beer, cocktails, and wine — are somewhat of a blur. In his previous life, a world of testosterone-filled, nouveau-riche, twentysomething millionaires, even the most outrageously expensive spirits were consumed in large volumes during hedonistic riots of excess. He and his teammates, filled with a sense of entitlement and urged on by the sycophantic encouragement of hangers-on, acted as though they were rapacious demigods, and the universe itself was meant to be devoured. He takes another small, appreciative sip of the cognac and experiences a pang of regret at the waste and folly of his youth.

  “Music, we must have music!” Beñat now shouts. Again, he dashes off into his room. He surprises Shane by reappearing with an MP3 player and battery-powered speakers. Reading Shane’s expression, Beñat laughs as he plugs in the cables. “What, you expected pan pipes or a lute? Not all technology is foreign to this valley, mon ami. I can assure you, this little music box is like a gift from the gods to a shepherd.” He scrolls through the device’s contents. It is clear when he finds what he’s looking for by the impish delight plastered over his face. A lively bluegrass tune starts to play, and Shane suddenly feels his foot start to tap, as if it has a mind of its own.

  “First the bride and groom must dance, and then it will be my turn,” Beñat calls out. Abraham and Zaylie look at each other, unsure what to do. “What, do you people not dance at weddings?” the Basque demands.

  “I’ve heard tell other temples allow it, but we never did at Holy Waters,” Abraham says. Zaylie nods agreement.

  Beñat frowns, the stern expression looking alien on his nearly always happy face. “This is not right! Everywhere around the world, north and south, east and west, they follow this tradition. Come, come! Celebrate! Take each other and dance!”

  The young couple glance at each other questioningly for mutual consent before obeying, and although their style is initially stiff and uncertain, soon their knees rise with each step and they are stomping around to the infectious music as Shane slaps his thigh in time. Beñat, prancing like a show horse, comes over to replenish Shane’s chalice.

  More foot-stomping fiddle tunes ensue from the playlist, and next Beñat, then Shane dances with the bride. Zaylie is radiant, the effort of dancing adding to the glow of her flagrant joy. Beñat, the self-appointed host of this celebration, now conjures up a large plate of cheese, sausages, flatbreads, olives, and pickled delicacies, which he places on a low table in front of the firepit for the revellers to consume at their leisure. When Zaylie takes time out for a rest, the menfolk keep the party alive by dancing with each other. Although Shane drinks more cognac, he finds he is not getting drunk, and he is happy to derive his intoxication from this magical moment, which he has helped birth. He watches the sparks from the flame dance skyward, though not in time to the music the way they seemed to during his psychedelic experience. There, too, the urges have passed, as he has no compulsion to elevate his mood with some hallucinogen, nor, for that matter, with cannabis, cocaine, or codeine. Yet, as much as he feels deeply satisfied, he knows it will soon be time to move on. He is also content in that knowledge.

  He remembers his spirit guide’s prediction that his road home would first run red and black. That has come true in more ways than one. But he was also counselled that, in the end, the future consists of possibilities, and that he, Shane
“Bronco” Bronkovsky, not some preordained fate or magical force, ultimately holds the reins of his own destiny. He smiles at the knowledge, and as he does so, he seems to see the shape of a bear amidst the flames, dancing briefly on its hind legs before disappearing heavenward.

  His meditative moment is interrupted by the bride and groom announcing that they are going to call it a night.

  “Luddy Mussy! Who ever would have thought when I woke up this morning that my day was going to end up like this?” Zaylie chuckles as she takes her husband’s arm. As a final gesture of goodwill, Shane and Beñat help Abraham carry a frame, headboard, and mattress from the storeroom and wrestle them through the narrow doorway to set up a bed in the house that the young couple will inhabit, while Zaylie follows with the bedding she has selected. There is much laughing and backslapping and hugging and congratulating as Shane and Beñat take their leave.

  They return to the firepit for a nightcap, and Shane finally has the opportunity to tell Beñat about the death of his nemesis, Mack Black.

  “It’s true, Beñat, he’s dead. I’ve seen his grave myself.” He is about to add that it was by sheer fluke that he stumbled across it, but given everything that’s happened, he questions how random the event really was.

  Beñat, meanwhile, sits mutely, staring into the flames. The smile is gone again. “This, the spirits did not tell me,” he says softly.

  “Well, now I’m telling you. Isn’t that great news? For starters, it means you can get the hell out of this valley … especially now that you’ve got those two lovebirds to watch the sheep.”