She first appeared as a rough speck amongst the smooth perfection of the ridge. The setting sun seemed to pause momentarily behind her, burning her into a thin, black crisp as it obscured my vision. I tried not to look away, but soon found myself forced to do just that, and only partly from the brilliance of that distant star.
After averting my gaze once, looking up no longer seemed an option. Instead, I kept my eyes rooted heavily on the ground, staring down the muscular length of the shoulder and foreleg of my mount. I concentrated on the deep chestnut brown of his tawny coat and the faintly sweet smell of his shaggy mane as she rode down to me. Long moments passed after her prompt arrival that we sat in silence. The day slipped around us, coming ever closer to night.
“It’s not much longer of a ride, if you want to reach the next peak before we make camp for the night”, she said. Her voice was clear, like the sound of bells or chimes, but its usual crispness was muffled by something inside. She held her hand out to me, her slender fingers holding the girth of a perspiring canteen; almost as if the water were some strange peace offering made to ease the weight of words between us.
I took it from her, careful not to touch her hand, and drank from it lightly, not quite letting my lips touch the spout. “Thank you”, I said, in a tone as meaningless as I felt. After drinking, I quickly handed it back to her and rode on, edging my mount steadily past hers.
She gave her horse a small nudge and curved back around me, assuming the lead, as I knew she would do. She would always lead in this bitter dance, of sorts. The slender square of her back and the tightness of her shoulders flanked me, making it hard to breathe. I focused on the bare expanse of skin hovering just slightly exposed on the left side of her face, finding that the distraction helped to calm and soothe me. We pressed onward into the abysmal landscape that lay before us, seemingly marching upwards and upwards into the deep, dark sky. I had never seen an orange so brilliant.
Problems lay before our path, littering hope with the same tragedy as broken lives. She thought of asking. I thought of asking. But words just wouldn’t solve them.
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Reviewed by Andi Chrisman
4/26/2004
Your writing is just so descriptive with beautiful metaphores that make even unimportant details seem fanstatical and other-wordly. It's beautiful.
This was no mere illusion. Colin Chase Rand, pulled through a magical portal, landed in 1935 where the dust bowl and the Great Depression was destroying lives, and a serial killer was in their midst
