The Hummingbird's Cage (13 page)

Olin
had built a freestanding fireplace and grill on the patio behind the house, with a pumice stone core and faced with sandstone flags. Jessie said they used it deep into winter, bundling up like Eskimos. There was no need to bundle yet—it was only the end of August, according to Jessie, although I couldn't see how she kept track. The two of them owned no calendar—Olin said there was nothing a calendar could tell him that the elements couldn't.

“Except birthdays,” Laurel said.

“That's what the wife's for,” said Olin.

Simon suggested a barbecue, and he'd bring the venison steaks. By now Saturday suppers were settling into routine, and no longer a cause for panic. I still left the bulk of the conversation to the others—I'm not garrulous by nature, but can appreciate those who are. Even Laurel has a better talent for it than me.

We were on the patio when Simon arrived. He showered and joined us, his eyes skimming my yellow sundress. I turned my back to finish laying the table, awkwardly smoothing the fabric over my hips.

Simon was a creature of habit, too, and as usual he took a seat facing me while Laurel claimed the chair next to his.

Olin took charge of the grill, forking the steaks onto a platter for Jessie to distribute. She started with Laurel.

“Ever had venison before, honey?” Jessie asked her.

Laurel frowned suspiciously. “What's that?”

“Deer meat,” I answered, cutting her steak for her. “Give it a taste.”

She chewed cautiously at first, then nodded. “Good!”

“Atta girl,” said Olin.

“Mommy?” said Laurel.

“Yeah, sweetie?”

“I heard her again.”

“Who's that?”

“Tinkerbell.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. I set down my knife and fork.

“Not now,” I murmured, handing her the breadbasket with a warning shake of my head. “Here, have a slice.”

Olin looked intrigued. “What's this?”

“Nothing at all,” I said.

“Tinkerbell,” said Laurel. “She's up there.”

She twisted in her seat and pointed high on the Mountain. Olin squinted, trying to make something out.

“It's nothing,” I repeated.

Laurel pressed her lips in a stubborn line. “She was barking again,” she insisted. “I
heard
.”

“Is this your pup, hon?” Jessie asked her. “The one that run off?”

Laurel nodded. “I looked and I hollered, but she never came back.”

“Now, that's a shame,” said Jessie.

“Mommy, we gotta go get her.”

“Please stop, Laurel.”

“But, Mommy—”

“Laurel! Stop! Now!”

She was shocked to silence. But I could see the fury brewing, every ounce of it plain on her face, until she broke into howls of misery.

I took a deep breath and tried again, this time without the snap in my voice.

“Tinkerbell got lost a long way from here,” I said. “She couldn't have walked this far. In fact . . . In fact, I bet some other family took her in by now.”

A lie is forgivable, I figured, if it hides a wicked truth. And I had enough to handle as it was, without the worry of that poor, wretched dog.

Olin smiled at Laurel. “Why, that's very likely,” he said. “Folks would take in a lost pup, quick as that.”

Laurel didn't look convinced, but the howls were trailing off to wet hiccups, and she wasn't fussing anymore. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

“Simon,” said Olin, “I hear you got yourself a new horse out at your place.”

“Four-year-old gelding,” said Simon. “Underweight at the moment, but good form. He'll fill out fine.”

“Bring him over when he does.”

“Or come see him yourself. It's been a while since you and Jessie were up. And, Joanna, you haven't seen my place yet. You and Laurel.”

Before I could answer, Olin accepted for all of us. “You'll need a corral, though,” he said. “Got any help?”

Simon hesitated. He glanced uncertainly at me before answering. “Davey's been lending a hand.”

Olin and Jessie traded a queer look and fell silent. I'd never
heard them—or Simon—ever mention anyone by the name of Davey before.

Simon cleared his throat. “Till the corral's finished, the horse boards close by. Grazes behind the cabin.”

Laurel was looking curiously at Olin and Jessie. Even she could sense the shift in the air.

“Who's Davey?” she asked.

More silence. Finally Olin spoke.

“Why, a local boy,” he said lightly. “Lives on a ranch outside town. Takes on odd jobs to help out his folks. Smart as a whip. Good with his hands.”

Jessie was nodding in agreement. From the description, I couldn't see why the mention of the boy's name would scupper the conversation. None of them offered more than that.

I turned to Simon. “Do you have other horses?”

“This is my first,” said Simon. “He'll be a handful when he's filled out. Do you ride?”

“I took lessons one summer when I was a kid. English style. I had what they call horse fever—read every book on horses I could get my hands on. But I can't say I'm a rider. Lessons ended before I got the hang of it.”

“Why didn't you keep it up?”

Ending the lessons hadn't been my idea. The summer I turned thirteen, I was living—yet again—with my Oma in her little house outside Taos. Every time my mother took on a new man, sooner or later she'd pack me off to my grandmother's, which suited me fine. I guess when I was younger she meant to spare me the sight of strange men at the breakfast table. But as I grew older, she started to see me as competition.

That particular summer, my mother and I were living in a
town in west Texas, and the new man was an assistant city planner who laughed too much and drank too much and had sweaty palms that he liked to drape over my shoulder in a friendly sort of way, casual, as if he weren't trying to run his fingers down the curve of my breast. One day my mother caught him at it, and the next I was on a Greyhound to Taos.

There was a small stable near Oma's house, and she signed me up for riding lessons. I took on babysitting jobs to help pay for them. It was a wonderful summer, until my mother's affair flamed out, as they always did, and she packed a cooler with six-packs and drove up to fetch me—at first because she wanted someone to comfort her in her latest hour of need, but eventually because she needed somebody to blame.

After that, we moved to another new town where my mother could put the booze and the past behind her. Start fresh. One more time.

“Riding lessons . . . they're expensive,” I said finally.

“They are,” said Simon. “But there's horse people round about that could help you take up where you left off. Olin here was a real rider.”

“Good enough,” said Olin.

“More than good enough,” Jessie said affectionately.

Olin squeezed her hand. “A tale for another day. But if you're up to it, Joanna, I could make a real cowgirl out of you.”

*   *   *

One morning not long after, I woke to the sound of whinnying. I belted my robe and headed to my bedroom window. There
was a man on horseback below, speaking with Olin at the open gate of the corral.

And the corral was no longer empty, but held four horses. I pulled on jeans and a shirt and hurried outside.

“Mornin', Joanna!” Olin called. “This here's an old friend—Morgan Begay.”

The man looked to be in his sixties, with a barrel chest, graying hair to his shoulders and deep brown eyes magnified by bottle-thick glasses. He wore a work shirt with a black vest and dungarees. Around his neck was a fetish necklace strung with polished stones carved into bear shapes.

“Are these your horses?” I asked him.

“From my herd.” His voice was deep, with a clipped accent.

“They're beautiful.”

“Begay's from the other side of the Mountain,” Olin said. “He'll be leavin' these horses awhile. Wanna try one?”

“Now?” I asked.

“Which one you like?”

It had been so long since I'd sat a horse, I wasn't sure I wouldn't just mount up and slide off the other side again. I took a step back.

“Buck up, now,” said Olin.

I looked the horses over. The first three were a handsome blood bay, a pinto and a big roan.

But the fourth horse was a sleek liver chestnut—a hand or two smaller than the others, with the swan neck and small, shapely head of an Arabian.

When I was thirteen, this had been my dream horse, like Lula's Eldorado.

“He's a beauty,” Olin said, following my gaze. “Name's—what's he called, Begay?”

“Nastas.”

“That's right—Nastas. What's it mean in Navajo? ‘Leg-Breaker'? Or ‘Never Been Rode'?”

I laughed. “Sure it doesn't mean ‘Call an Ambulance'?”

“Atta girl,” Olin said. “Actually, it means ‘Curve Like Foxtail Grass,' for that neck of his. Come on over and I'll make the introductions.”

Begay had already dismounted and was leading Nastas to the gate where I stood. The horse seemed much bigger up close. His ears swiveled at the sound of my voice.

“Good boy,” I murmured nervously, running my hand down the firm muscles of his neck. Olin handed me a carrot, and I held it to the horse's muzzle until he snorted and grabbed it in his teeth. All the while, Begay was settling a blanket on the horse's back, then a saddle. He cinched it snug.

“His mouth is soft, so easy on the bit,” Begay said as he worked. “Ask him—don't tell him. He knows.”

“Okay, boy,” I murmured. “I'll go easy on you if you go easy on me.”

“All set?” Olin asked, gripping the bridle. “Don't worry—he likes you.”

“Yeah?” I said shakily. “Let's see him show it.”

I stepped to the side and slid my left foot into the stirrup, grabbed a handful of mane and pulled myself into the saddle. While Begay adjusted the stirrups, I ran through those old riding lessons in my head—
back straight, toes up, heels down.

“Take the reins in your left hand—this is Western style, not English,” Olin said. “Grip 'em in front of you. Not too tight. That's right.”

Begay led the horse forward at a slow walk. We moved
halfway around the corral like that, till he let go and moved to the side. Then it was just me and the horse making a circuit all by ourselves.

“How's it feel?” Olin called out.

I smiled. “Like riding a bicycle. A really big bicycle.”

“Doin' good,” Olin said. “Ready for the lesson?”

“I thought this was it,” I said.

He and Begay laughed.

“Aw, now, you can do better'n this,” said Olin.

Begay approached again. He patted the horse's neck and said something in a language I couldn't understand. Then he looked up at me.

“Listen to Olin,” he said. “You can do better.”

He stood back to give the horse a light slap across the flank, and Nastas set off at a hard trot that jarred every bone in my body. In desperation I tried to post, which I knew wasn't Western, either. Olin called out for me to sit and relax. Find the rhythm.

Instead, I pulled on the reins to make it stop before I could fall off. Nastas shook his head, his mane flying. He was disappointed; he wanted to run. I had a feeling this wouldn't end well.

“Whoa, boy.” Olin was grabbing the bridle again as Nastas ground to a halt. “You're fightin' 'im, Joanna.”

“I wouldn't fight anything that outweighed me this much. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.”

“Now, now, I can tell you rode before,” Olin said. “You just don't trust your horse—so he don't trust you. And you're too afraid to fall off.”

“I don't think that's unreasonable.”

Olin chuckled. “Say you do. Then what? You climb back up
and try again.” He stepped back. “Ready? Kick with your heels. You can do it.”

Nastas needed only another grazing swat to break into another trot that had me sliding to the side, grabbing for the saddle horn with my free hand.

“Keep goin'!” Olin called out. “That's it! You ain't bouncin' near as much as you think!”

I grit my teeth. I was still landing hard, fighting the urge to call it quits and yank on the reins again.

This was grim—not at all the joyful experience of my childhood. The horse's ears had flattened out; he was miserable, too.

I willed myself to try to locate some rhythm, but my entire body had clenched like a fist and refused to unknot. I wasn't just bouncing in the saddle, but sliding all over it. I knew I couldn't keep my seat much longer.

Frantic, I bent my knees, pulled up my heels and pressed hard—

And suddenly I wasn't bouncing anymore, but flying—cresting on rolling waves, up and down, up and down. Nastas had exchanged that punishing gait for a springing gallop.

Olin was shouting as if I'd managed to accomplish something, beyond not getting pitched to the ground.

We circled the corral several times before I reined in again. The horse slowed to that awful trot, but I reined more firmly and he curbed to a walk.

Olin and Begay were outside the corral now, leaning on the top fence rail.

“A good start,” said Olin. “Before you know it, you'll be stickin' to him like a burr and won't need those reins near as much. A good horse and rider—they're like one animal. You
lean and turn, press with your legs, and he'll read you right enough.”

“So when I bent my knees and pressed—”

“You were tellin' him, ‘Let's hightail it!' So he did.”

“And here I thought I was just hanging on for dear life. Can I give it another go?”

*   *   *

Lesson over, Begay rode off toward Morro, leaving me and Olin to ready four stalls in the barn for the new horses.