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Excerpt
from Legacy of Guilt:
But to me, the Wolf
dressed in Grandmother's clothing, the black cauldron awaiting Hansel
and Gretel, the succulent poisoned apple all were quite real.
Before dinner, I had
sensed that something was coming, just like I could sense when Joe was
around the next corner, or when my mother or brother walked outside and
suddenly I was alone with him in the house. I could always tell.
Something in the air just... switched.
Joe and my mother were
talking about the wild mustang that occasionally ventured down from the
hills in search of food. They had nicknamed him Paisano. My mother
claimed the name came from an empty bottle of wine they found on the
property, but I remember it as one of their favorite cheap wines. The
landlady said Paisano had never been caught or tamed, and he rarely came
close to the lowland ranches.
But hunger and cold were
forcing the hungry little mustang to venture toward the bales of hay
that sympathetic ranchers left along the dirt road. In winter wild
animals were apt to scrounge around ranches for food. To protect their
own animals from attack and disease, ranchers left bales of hay along
the roads, not to lure wildlife closer, but to keep them away.
As winter shrouded the
sparse landscape, I searched the horizon for Paisano. Occasionally I
would see him in the distance, his dusty brown coat nearly
indistinguishable from the frozen foothills. He would stand like a
sentinel, silently watching, but I knew he would not dare to come down
to the hay until there were no people around. Paisano reminded me of
Dark Pony, the regal stallion hero in "Sleepy Town," a bedtime
story in my first grade reader which had been a going away present from
my teacher in New York. She had signed the inside cover in red pencil,
"To Carol Ellen from Mrs. Apter." That book holds a place of
honor on my bookshelf to this day.
Hoping to catch the
elusive Paisano, Joe spread loose hay along the weathered board fence of
our corral. I was torn between the dream of a stabled pony to ride and
my childish vision of a free wild stallion who needed no fencing because
he'd come whenever I'd call.
One day Joe and I watched
from the opposite side of the fence as Paisano ventured closer and
closer to the hay, hesitant with fear but tempted beyond his weakening
endurance. As Paisano approached, he made deep growling sounds that I
didn't know horses could make. My fairy tale stallion was a feral wild
beast.
But his hunger was too
strong and his will too weak to resist. Paisano approached the fence
sideways, eyes flickering this way and that, hooves shuffling, ready to
bolt. The starving mustang was mere inches from the fence before he
lowered his head to the hay, careful to face us and watch.
I had been straddling the
fence, but I lifted my right leg over to sit on top, facing Paisano. Joe
reached around and patted Paisano's coat, raising a spray of dust. The
mustang bared his teeth, but continued to chew his thick, dribbling
mouthful of hay. Again Joe patted the horse's back, but this time
Paisano snarled and backed away, shifting his body parallel to the
fence, pinning my right leg against it.
The sudden pressure of
Paisano's thick, muscled body against mine brought a hot rush of both
pain and exhilaration. I wondered if he would crush my leg. Instead,
Paisano's weight felt comforting and warm. My nose filled with the smell
of him - masculine, musty, dusty, oily and slick with dank sweat. He was
amazing, primitive, untamed, wild, and free. I marveled at the closeness
of him. I knew that no one had ever been this close to Paisano before.
He had a reputation among local ranchers as being nasty and lightening
quick. He'd been corralled only once, at the expense of the corral.
Paisano was not to be tamed.
Instinctively, giving it
no thought whatsoever, I grabbed Paisano's tangled mane and used the
brace of my pinned right leg to swing my left one off the fence and
across Paisano's back. I expected the little horse to bolt but he merely
shifted, accepting my weight and my trust. Joe could do nothing but
stare. I was beyond his reach and control, bareback on the wild mustang
who had denied him. Paisano did not panic or try to throw me off. He
just kept on chewing, eyes appraising Joe.
Paisano felt earthy and
natural beneath me. His bare back was the most wonderful and magical
place in the world. I rubbed my hands over his wide, protruding ribs
that felt like fence rails against my legs. With each new mouthful of
straw I felt his thick muscles ripple. I petted his smelly,
dirt-encrusted coat and ran my fingers through his bristly mane.
Paisano was wild and
unpredictable. At any moment he could flee for the hills with me
clinging for life to his back. But I was thrilled and unafraid. Paisano
was allowing me to do something he had not allowed anyone else to do. I
felt honored, significant, recognized, understood, loved. Instead of the
wild animal belonging to me, I felt instead that somehow I belonged to
him. I knew this was the difference between me and Joe.
Paisano always appeared
alone on the horizon, a solitary creature, like me. Our brief kinship
remains one of the most transcendent experiences of my life. I
understood something momentous had occurred. For a fleeting moment, I
had gazed upon the incomprehensible face of God. I felt affected,
changed. At such moments, moments out of time, you breathe slowly,
knowing it will pass much too soon.
I may not have understood
these things in a mature, comprehensive manner, but I knew them
instinctually. I wanted to get as far away from Joe as I possibly could,
and Paisano was showing me how, if not physically, then in another, more
transcendent, way. Paisano had done it, so could I.
I also was aware of the
unspoken challenge I'd presented to Joe. I had succeeded where he had
failed, and challenging Joe was a dangerous prospect. He enjoyed
pointing his gun.
Joe stiffened, his thin,
cold smile stretched taut across flush cheeks like a rubber band ready
to spring. I continued running my hands in long, gentle arcs across
Paisano's incredible back. I knew I had crossed a line with Joe, but I
was afraid even to acknowledge that I knew it. Sitting on Paisano put me
safely beyond Joe's control, and losing control was not something Joe
would tolerate for long.
Joe stepped forward and
tried to slip a rope bridle over Paisano's snout, but the animal snorted
and backed away. Joe glared at Paisano, then me, but said nothing.
No one ever rode the
little mustang again; that was my gift. And he never was confined. No
matter what Joe did to me, he could never change what had happened. Not
only had I found a way to escape Joe, I'd accomplished something he
never could.
Sitting on Paisano,
watching Joe watching me, knowing what Joe was thinking and feeling,
knowing how much he hated me, I sent my thoughts high up into the
clouds. I wondered what it would feel like if the little mustang just
took off and ran. I'd hang on to him as we flew to the hills.
I'd be
free.
©
Carol Zanetti. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this page, excerpt or
book may be reproduced in any form or
format except for review purposes.
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