Paint the Wind

by Pam Muñoz Ryan

  “Fig,” interrupted Aunt Vi, “you can give her all the details when she’s rested. Maya, in a few days, I’ll be heading back out to the campsite. I’ve got a ranch hand out there right now watching Artemisia and the horses. I need to put things in order and get set up so I can finish my summer work. As soon as that cast comes off, Moose and Fig will bring you back. Payton’s going with me. Where is he? Payton!”

  He popped his head out of Maya’s closet. “Here I am!”

  “Go outside and play with Golly,” sighed Aunt Vi.

  Payton ran from the room, clambering down the stairs. She shook her head. “We’ve got to get as much summer into that boy as possible. Maya, can you believe that he argued with me about going back out? He wanted to stay here with you.”

  Maya smiled. “I missed him, too, Aunt Vi.”

  On the morning they were to leave, Maya looked up to find Payton standing in the bedroom doorway.

  “You can come in,” she said.

  He walked toward the bed, holding something behind his back. “We’re leaving. Me and Aunt Vi. And well … I made something for you.” He held out a leather drawstring bag.

  Maya took it, loosened the leather ties, and peeked inside. “My horses!”

  Payton shrugged his shoulders. “Your tepee flooded and the box got all wrecked. Moose taught me how to cut the leather and punch the holes and thread the cord.

  “I looked and looked for the brown-and-white one and finally found it in the bushes. And I put it in your tent, but it must have gotten lost in the earthquake. It’s the only one missing.”

  Maya shook her head and smiled. “I found it in my tent that morning right after you left with Aunt Vi. It’s right here.” She pulled it from the pocket of her robe. “I had it zipped in my vest the entire time I was gone.” She dropped it into the bag. “I wanted to tell you thank you by finding an eagle feather for you. But I found Artemisia instead.”

  “That’s okay. Oh, Aunt Vi says if your foot heals on time that she’ll take us with her on a weekend pack trip into The Winds the last weekend of August, before I have to go home. That would be the disgusting worst if we couldn’t go. So promise that you won’t do something stupid to make your foot heal slow and that you’ll get better really quick.”

  Aunt Vi called from downstairs. “Payton!”

  “Promise?” he said.

  Maya smiled. “I promise.”

  “Yes!” he said.

  ARTEMISIA WALKED THE PERIMETER OF THE ENCLOSURE, her instinct to keep moving still strong. It felt strange that she didn’t need to wander to search for water or food. The water trough filled automatically, and someone brought hay each morning and evening for her and the other horses in the adjoining corral.

  The woman came every few days to work with her, lungeing her on a long lead in a large circle. She was strict, yet gentle. Artemisia remembered the cues from a long time ago and responded to what she requested: walking, jogging, loping, backing up. Often, after a workout, the woman lingered at the corral and talked to Artemisia, just as the girl had done.

  The woman groomed her, and Artemisia enjoyed being curried and combed. Even the witches’ knots and burrs disappeared from her tail and mane. After several weeks, she allowed herself to be blanketed, saddled, and tacked with a bit and bridle. Then, the woman rode her on the long track of dirt and sometimes on trails not far from the corrals.

  Soon, the new routine felt familiar. Artemisia learned to recognize some of the other horses by their snuffles and blows, whinnies and snorts. But she still didn’t belong to them. And they didn’t belong to her.

  Every evening at sunset, Remington appeared on the ridge, and when Artemisia saw him, something stirred deep within her. He whinnied and she answered, “I am here.” He never approached, but wasn’t consoled either, often roving back and forth until dark.

  Artemisia grew accustomed to his visits. Each day by late afternoon, she lifted her head toward the rim, searching for him and pacing in restless circles of anticipation. She didn’t calm until he appeared. Every evening it was the same. The sun closed on the horizon, and she became the contented audience for his persistent wooing.

  FOR THE SECOND TIME THAT SUMMER, MAYA SAT between Moose and Fig in the truck cab, with Golly in Fig’s lap.

  Maya leaned forward and squirmed on the seat as Moose slowed the truck and turned onto the road to the Sweetwater camp. It was hard to believe that it had been more than a month since the night Moose had scooped her into his arms and driven her to the hospital. Every day, she had longed to be back near the river and had missed the smell of sage, the campfires, swimming in the river, and even her tepee. But most of all, she had missed Aunt Vi and Artemisia. The doctor had finally removed Maya’s cast, and within days the broken ankle became nothing more than a memory.

  As they drove up the hill past the old campsite, Maya asked, “Can you let me out at the horses?”

  Moose stopped the truck on the road, liberating both Maya and Golly from the cab. The dog darted down the embankment and the truck pulled away.

  Maya stood on the hill, savoring the scene before her. Much looked the same: The river wound through the valley with the tall willow bushes surrounding its banks; five little tepees dotted the clearings; the office tent had been reinstated; the kitchen tent flew the flag; and a campfire beckoned.

  Maya looked toward the corrals. Wilson was back, his leg healed, plus all the other horses, including Seltzer. She walked to the tack bench and ran her hands over the saddles, pads, and bridles. She had missed the smell of the leather and the damp hay. Opening the blue container, she inhaled a whiff of the molasses grain.

  “Maya?”

  She turned.

  Aunt Vi strode forward holding a lead rope to the haltered Artemisia. The horse’s brown-and-white coat had been curried and brushed to a lustrous sheen, the blond mane and tail combed sleek and smooth. Maya’s heart swelled and she hurried toward them.

  Aunt Vi held the rope out to Maya, and said, “She’s yours now.” But instead of taking the lead, Maya hugged Aunt Vi, holding her tight.

  The woman rocked her back and forth. “The girl cometh back. Now we’ll all be in the mush pot if we don’t pull ourselves together.”

  Maya laughed and released her. They both had tears in their eyes.

  “Hey there, girl,” said Maya, taking the rope and running her hands over Artemisia’s muzzle. She stroked toward her crest and down the withers and her back. Maya leaned close and nuzzled her neck.

  The horse responded with a throaty nicker and dropped her head toward Maya, her mane tickling Maya’s face. She rubbed her head up and down against Maya’s chest, as if to say, “Welcome home.”

  Maya found the rhythm of camp life she had missed: rising with the aurora, hurrying to finish her chores, training on horseback until she was dusty and sweaty, and dousing in the river. As September loomed, she counted the remaining days, not wanting them to end. Payton would be leaving soon, and she’d be heading back to the ranch with Aunt Vi, Uncle Fig, and Moose to start school.

  A few days before the promised pack trip, Fig, Moose, and Payton gathered their fishing poles early in the morning and walked upriver. Golly followed. Aunt Vi and Maya watched them leave, and then looked at each other.

  “Ready?” asked Aunt Vi.

  Maya took a deep breath and nodded.

  They walked to the corrals and tacked their horses for the trail ride they’d been discussing for days. Maya rode Artemisia, and Aunt Vi rode Seltzer and ponied Wilson on a lead rope.

  They retraced Maya’s journey: They picked through the shallows of the Sweetwater, surveyed the landslide from the earthquake, and dismounted in the aspen grove, tying the horses so Maya could give Aunt Vi the grand tour. Maya showed her where she had lost Seltzer, the spot Klee was buried, and the well of water in which she had found the trout. She retrieved her abandoned binoculars and demonstrated how she had made fire.

  All the while, Remington shadowed them.

 
After they saddled up and headed home, Aunt Vi said, “He’s been coming to camp every night at sunset. And when I take Artemisia out for rides, he appears. He’s waiting for an opportunity. I considered letting her go, Maya, but didn’t think I should make the decision.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” said Maya, reaching down and protectively patting Artemisia’s neck.

  “I know how you feel,” said Aunt Vi. “If she were out there with Remington, there would always be the chance that they’d be captured in another gather. And then separated. There’s no guarantee that they’d stay free and … together.”

  As the sun lay down on the prow of The Winds and they headed home, Maya thought about all those days in the aspen grove and how Artemisia had never left her. When she looked into the blue sky warming with streaks of orange and pink, she remembered the mountain lion and how Artemisia had fought him off and frightened him away. And she relived the grueling bareback journey to camp and how carefully the horse had carried her. Maya fixed her eyes on twilight clouds, which only a few moments earlier had been white puffs but now drifted across the horizon in black-and-gray silhouettes. A tear slid down her cheek. Maya whispered, “Artemisia, we’ll always be together.…”

  Before dark resolved, they emerged onto a vast plain with little sagebrush. Maya considered the expanse and her breath quickened. Artemisia whinnied. An irresistible desire overtook Maya, and she looked at Aunt Vi with eager query.

  “Go ahead, Maya,” said Aunt Vi. “Give Artemisia plenty of rein, and stay centered.”

  The breeze stiffened.

  A sparse overture of early stars blinked. Maya clucked for the jog. Artemisia picked up speed. She kissed for the lope. Artemisia lifted and raced, horizon-bound, her hoofbeats pounding out a primal refrain, keeping pace with the beating of Maya’s heart.

  Who feels alive in this wind?

  Artemisia huffed, her breathing loud and cadenced.

  Maya heard her own voice. Ride, Maya. Ride! She leaned into the wind, infused with contentment for the most trivial things: the smell of sagebrush, the sound of Aunt Vi’s songs, and the feel of Golly underfoot. For Uncle Fig’s pancakes and a grandfather who wore his heart on his sleeve. For the ranch and her father’s painting and the room with the slanted ceiling and for Payton and the promise of a little more summertime. For the parts of her that were the same and the parts of her that were new. For her mother who had traipsed all over kingdom-come on a horse. And for a journey about to begin. She rode.

  Artemisia stretched into the gallop. Hoosh, hoosh, hoosh, hoosh.

  Maya dropped the reins over the horn and held her arms outstretched like wings. Suddenly, it was as if the ground fell away and she was no longer earthbound but galloping between emblazoned stars, faster and faster. She galloped and galloped and galloped and galloped. Time was suspended. Nothing that had happened before or might happen after mattered. She arched her face upward.

  She was the horse and the stars and the wind.

  Maya and Aunt Vi rode back to camp in silence. The swath of the Milky Way and the moon illuminated the horses’ footfalls. Dusk settled.

  Remington paced on the ridge.

  Maya looked up at the stallion’s silhouette. Should she let Artemisia go to him? Would his protection be enough? From a mountain lion? Or a dozen wranglers during a gather? What was the right decision? And when she decided, how would she know it was the right choice? Especially when there was so very much she didn’t know about knowing.

  Maya gazed at the immense panorama before her. The Sweetwater was nothing more than a wavy line of green, their campsite, one dot in the universe. But instead of feeling belittled, the bigness captured her thoughts and laid them all out, in order. Some people get stuck and hold on much too tight.… You never have to get over it, you just have to get on with it.… Out here every single thing matters.… Imagine being free and then put into confinement.

  Maya slowed.

  Aunt Vi continued for a short distance, then waited.

  Maya turned Artemisia toward the spot where the stallion stood. She dismounted, released the cinch strap, and pulled the saddle and pads from Artemisia’s back.

  Remington called.

  Artemisia’s ears perked.

  “What is it you want?” Maya whispered. “To run free and belong only to the stars …?” With tender affection, she stroked Artemisia’s cheek. She looked into her huge brown eye and saw her as she had the first time near the buttes: a horse her mother had ridden. With the confidence to guide. With knowledge of the land. Herd-smart and keeping peace. With shaggy hair and a knotted tail and dirt crusted on her barrel. Spirited. Alive with abandon. Maya saw her with Sargent and Mary and Georgia at the gulch, rolling in the water hole. And with Klee by her side, their necks intertwined.

  Remington neighed.

  Artemisia arched her head upward and answered with a hearty whinny.

  Maya slipped her finger beneath the split ear bridle strap, let it drop, and slung it over her shoulder. She slapped Artemisia’s thigh. “Go!” she cried. “Go!”

  Artemisia started up the hill, then paused and turned toward Maya.

  Maya choked on her tears. She waved her arms. “Run, Artemisia! Run!”

  Artemisia bolted upward. Remington trotted to meet her. For one moment, their muzzles touched.

  Remington lifted his head and whinnied.

  Artemisia determined their path and he followed.

  Maya held her arms high in the air and waved. And somewhere deep in her heart, a truth enveloped her, along with her tears. “We’ll meet again … I promise … Artemisia.”

  Maya watched the two horses run across the ridge. The dark of their bodies fused with the night, and the white of their coats illuminated in an alabaster glow. Two ghostly spirits. Gossamer brushstrokes on a shadowy canvas. Jogging. Galloping. Painting the wind.

  APPALOOSA A breed of horse famed for its spotted coat.

  ARABIAN A breed of horse distinguished by a small, concave yet delicate head and a long, arched neck.

  AUDUBON, JOHN JAMES (1785-1851) American wildlife artist, famous for his depictions of the birds of North America.

  BARREL The rounded sides of a horse, formed by the ribs.

  BAY A reddish or dark brown horse with a black mane, legs, and tail.

  BELLY LOOP A loop of rope around the barrel of a horse (under which the knees of a rider can be tucked and secured). Historically, used to ride bareback. In certain regions, it is sometimes referred to as a Comanche Coil.

  BIT The mouthpiece of a bridle.

  BLAZE A facial marking on a horse, characterized by a wide swath of white running from the forehead to the muzzle.

  BLUE ROAN A horse with a black mane and tail, and black and white hairs throughout the coat, which give it a blue-gray tint.

  BRIDLE A harness for the horse’s head, usually meaning the headstall, bit, and reins.

  BUCKSKIN A horse with a coat the color of soft, yellowish leather, with a black mane and tail.

  CASSATT, MARY (1845—1926) American painter whose parents objected to her decision to become an artist. She went on to become famous for her work with pastels. She is noted for depicting the lives of women and for her poignant portrayals of the mother-and-child relationship.

  CATLIN, GEORGE (1796—1872) American painter known for his portraits of Native Americans.

  CINCH A strap that goes under the barrel of the horse to secure the saddle.

  COLT A young male horse not more than four years old.

  CORRAL An enclosure for horses.

  CURRYCOMB A flat, nubby comb, usually round or oval-shaped, for loosening dirt on a horse’s coat.

  DANDY BRUSH A brush, often elongated, used for making sweeping strokes across the horse’s coat in order to dislodge dust and dirt.

  DUN A tan-colored horse, usually with a black mane. May have circular stripes around its legs and a stripe down its spine.

  EQUINE A horse or pertaining to a horse.

  EQUUS CABA
LLUS The Latin species name for horse.

  FILLY A young female horse not more than four years old.

  FOAL A young horse that is still nursing.

  GAIT The method in which a horse moves, for example: walk, jog, lope, gallop.

  GALLOP The fastest gait, about 25 to 30 miles per hour. In the wild, horses gallop when fleeing from predators or danger or to get from one place to another quickly. During the course of each stride, all four feet are off the ground.

  GATHER A roundup of horses by horse wranglers or mustangers.

  GENTILESCHI, ARTEMISIA (1593—1653) Italian painter of the early Baroque period. She pursued her art during a time when the artistic community did not embrace or encourage the efforts of female artists.

  GRULLA A grayish-colored horse, usually with a dark mane and a stripe down its spine.

  HAREM BAND A group of female horses that may include their fillies and colts (until they are two to three years old). A harem band is dominated by a stallion who does not allow any other mature male horses access to the group.

  HOCK The joints in the hind legs of a horse, which correspond, more or less, to the knees in the front legs of the horse.

  HOMER, WINSLOW (1836—1910) American painter, known and revered for his seascapes.

  HOOF PICK A curved pick used to remove debris impacted within a horseshoe on a shod horse.

  JOG A two-beat gait. At a jog, a horse travels about 6 to 8 miles per hour, about the same speed a human can run. A slow jog is easy to sit without bouncing, but during a fast jog, most riders “post,” raising themselves up and down out of the saddle, in rhythm with the horse. In English disciplines, the jog is called the trot.

  KLEE, PAUL (1879—1940) Swiss artist who worked with many types of media, including oil, watercolor, and ink. His art is considered difficult to classify because it has elements of many styles, including cubism, surrealism, and expressionism.

  LATIGO A strap on the saddletree of a Western saddle used to secure the cinch.