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Centaur  |
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The Horsebraider's Daughter
Northwest Texas, Llano Estacado, 1871 Manuel Montega’s tanned fingers were as cracked and chapped as the strips of rawhide he steadily wove to form the bozal. The taut strands creaked in futile protest as they were pulled with a confident tug over his callused fingers. With every twisted slap of leather, his mind drifted off planning the work that would need to be done before the first rays of sun lit up the russet edges of the Mescalero Escarpment. To the vaquero, there was contentment in his solitude and sometimes Manuel felt he did his best thinking while he wove. A muted silence clung to the air, hovering around him like unseen specter and it was only far off in the moonlit distance that his ears could detect sporadic locust chirps and occasional coyote adagios as they punctured the desert night, echoing off the canyon walls. As he worked inside the heavy plastered walls of the adobe, all was quiet. By the flickering flame of waning candlelight, in and out, Manuel patiently continued the motions, braiding the dampened leather, not too tight or too loose; following a rhythm as old as the shifting sands that swept across the Llano Estacado. After a lifetime of weaving, Manuel’s fingers moved with almost unconscious effort and each digit followed the next, like workers on an assembly line. Once finished with the bozal, the part of the harness that crosses the horses’ nose, he began the mecate, producing the long rope used to lead the horse. After spinning the coarsened horsehairs into long continuous threads, he wrapped them between two posts, then began cranking a metal handle, twisting the threads of horsehair together where he wove the sorrel and white horsehair into a distinct checkered-pattern. Almost by magic, the inch thick rope now gathered in his hands, wound into a diamond-studded design that looked as simple and as achingly beautiful as the jagged peaks and valleys of the surrounding Madera canyon. As he sat in the small room, he felt a soft caress of breath on the back of his neck. He knew immediately that it was not produced by the dry breezes that slipped in and out like a brazen thief from the desert night; it was one that only a father would recognize and without looking up from his work, he chastised his young daughter for not being in bed. “Mija…it is late!” “Papa….you promised” there was a familiar whine in her voice, as this had not been the first time she had hovered around her father, making herself a pest so that she too could learn the family trade. For as prosperous a man as he was, Manuel Montega had been dealt a most unsettling dilemma; the ranchero and his wife had borne no male descendents to carry on the ancient craft. They had been blessed instead with five beautiful daughters. And the most determined of all was his eight-year-old daughter, Estrella, who might possibly love horses more than he did. Manuel sighed and turned to his youngest child. “Yes, I did…and maybe someday I will teach you, mija. Someday—but not today!” In spite of his irritation, he stroked her cheek and looked deep into her wide-spaced green eyes, “Don Juan de Ortega needs this done by morning. Now! Off to bed before your mother yells at us both!” With a reluctant turn, Estrella Montega headed beneath the clear moonlight back to their main house. Estrella was the gem of the Montega Family and her unique looks made her a cherished and coveted prize. She was the exquisite culmination of European and mestizo breeding, her fine bones were the mirror image of Manuel’s own grandmother, Anna Marqueza de Cordova, who had made the trip across the Atlantic in her early teens, leaving behind not only the ancient village of Cuenca, Spain where as a young girl she had run along the cobblestoned streets and gazed off the perched cliffs into the distant pampas, but also a trail of broken hearts which she continued to scatter among the dusty plains of Mexico. Her devastating beauty was the usual source of many a brokenhearted and miserable vaquero, whose trembling voices fought back tears while singing and strumming unrequited love ballads by firelight. Estrella also shared her great-grandmother’s wild and unfettered spirit, one that sought the open spaces like an untamed filly as she often ran through the plains with her long, fine hair flying about her head and shoulders. Estrella’s demeanor and looks were most unlike her very serious sisters, who had inherited the coarsened black locks of their mother’s Indian ancestry, and where they pinned, pulled and braided their hair until it gleaned with an iridescent sheen against the sunlight, Estrella’s soft hair would inevitably escape the confines of such hairstyles, always eluding the metal pins that scraped against her scalp, seeking freedom to drift against her face, wispy and golden. Her almond-shaped eyes lit up with a neon glow against her tawny skin and her long limbs moved with the stealthy grace of a stalking puma. But those striking eyes glinted with fine humor and quick intelligence and above all, Estrella Montega loved to weave. There was a woven bond between herself and her father, a mutual love of their ranching way of life and the pure artistry of rawhide braiding that churned like a herd of wild horses in both their veins. Estrella prayed that one day she too, would be privy to the guarded braiding secrets, traditions handed down from generation to generation where each family used distinct patterns, weaving signature knots and designs and created fierce competitions between these now more modern horsemen. Because of this vocation, the Montega’s held a high reverence to the land, recognizing the sacrifices of maintaining such a life and also those of the animals they raised. For Manuel most of all, felt humbled to be witness to that very cycle of life and death; and the daily reminders of its utter fragility. For, as he knelt at Mass each Sunday, Manuel thanked God for the humility and appreciation of each animal and family member that God had bestowed upon him. And as such, Manuel’s greatest gratitude could be seen in his beautiful weavings. Braids and ropes that were skillfully tied and woven by utilizing and honoring the animals’ very skin. Manuel continued this heritage of acclaimed artisans, whose wealthy clients traveled hundreds of miles from back east just to purchase these treasured items. The Montega’s were respectable, hardworking and the closest thing to nobility that the arid and isolated climate could claim. But there were rules to be followed and Manuel never let his daughter’s forget that in the Montega Family, a girl was to grow up, to marry into a respectable family and have children, preferably a few of the male gender, but from there Estrella stopped listening to her father’s plans about her future. Estrella Montega had been born with other dreams. She had in fact, already tried to teach herself the fine art that her father spent each day on, spying on his frenetic weaves and the rhythmic twists and turns. Every piece of vegetation found along the playas and ponds were pulled into her slender fingers as she grabbed stalks of windmill and bristlegrass, mesquite, rabbit tobacco and popotillo. During the afternoon siestas, Estrella would quietly slip away from her overbearing sisters and spend hours twisting and braiding, mostly tearing apart the broken straw until she created new patterns and textures; muted colors that mimicked the endless prairie and vegetation that grew all around her. As Estrella Montega walked along the dusty trail, kicking up small stones as she navigated her way under the moonbeams, she decided that someday she would be the best braider in all the world. She pictured her father’s face filled delight and awe when he saw the ropes and braids she created and the clever new patterns that she invented. But Estrella knew in order to be a true braider she would still need to learn the old ways. After all, her father promised. ***** Mescalero Escarpment, Texas 1881 “Damn!” The tall man swore under his breath as he took a look at the broken rope in his hands. Gardner Able had gotten the general impression that he was being tested over these last few years, a test something along the lines that Job himself might have had to endure. Though Gardner didn’t have the cheating wife to tussle with, he did however, have to ride in the company of men whose collective intelligence would most undoubtedly be levels below his own horses’ which somehow in his mind made up for what he considered the torment of any imagined infidelities would incur. But now, with his hands fingering the frayed strings of what was formerly his horses’ lead rope, Gardner Able’s great patience was near as spent. “What’s a matter, Gard?” Dustin McDonnell asked, stringing his words so closely together they seemed to come out in one quick breath. “I don’t know, what do you think?” Gardner Able raised the rope up for the man to try to fathom a guess for his bad temper. “Looks like a problem, all right!” Dustin announced to Gardner, proud to demonstrate his seemingly acute powers of observations regarding the dilemma. He gave Gardner a gap-toothed smile and then stated the obvious, “Why, here we are in the middle of nowhere and you got no way to tie your own horse!” Gardner had been recently entertaining the prospect of moving out on his own and the more time he spent with these men had sort of solidified that very idea in his mind. He realized these men weren’t men at all; just boys in disguise that were too many years younger and too many lifetimes apart, not to mention Gardner hardly had the stomach to deal with the daily nagging for pay and also the opportunity to celebrate those fleeting riches. But the broken rope had given Dustin cause to ponder the situation a bit, “Might be that in the next town there’s a place to get a new rope.” “Maybe…” Gardner Able mumbled. His foul mood seemed to be reflected in the desolate place he found himself in. Typical of the northwest Texas terrain, the endless land was covered in a sea of grassy plains and flanked by rugged canyons. He recalled hearing stories about some Comanche battle that had taken place along the arroyos near here and commiserated with those Indians who stood up, choosing fight to the death like the warriors they were, rather than face the humiliation of being relocated to Oklahoma by the U.S. Calvary. Whenever thoughts about the government slipped in his mind, Gardner bit back the familiar bitter taste on his tongue. Like most men his age he had fought in the War Between the States. Of course, he had been a much younger man then, bursting with Union pride and overwhelming patriotism when he and his younger cousin had enlisted in the summer of 1864, anxious to fight those rebs and bring peace once again to the rest of the United States. His cousin, Martin Able, had also been caught up in many of the soldier’s youthful enthusiasm despite the fact that he looked as though he still had some growing in him as whiskers had yet to make any appearance on his smooth pink cheeks. And true to his cousin’s adolescent demeanor, he had talked non-stop about their upcoming valiant battles and the undoubted glories of victory found along the battlefield. But their wartime naïveté was quickly replaced after Gardner and his cousin were captured after an intense skirmish by Confederate soldiers where they were eventually brought behind the walled 26-acres of pure hell-on-earth; the disease-ridden, horrific and inhumane swampy prison grounds of Fort Sumter. Gardner sheltered his younger cousin as best he could, quick to intervene when issues arose about food or shelter, pulling him under his wing, yet because his cousin’s most unfortunate pubescent appearance, Martin was quickly singled out and often the subject of attacks by their fellow soldiers. A particularly loathsome group of men called themselves, The Anderson Raiders, and like a pack of skulking hyenas, they scoured the prison area, carefully staking out the weaker new prisoners, stealing, beating and killing to capture their bounty. One night, after Gardner and his cousin had found a quiet corner to settle down a blur of shadows suddenly overwhelmed the two of them. Wrestling against darkness, unseen men and utter shock, they found themselves unable to fend off the brutal attack and under a flurry of clubs, were both beaten unconscious. By the light of the next morning, Gardner found the still body of his young cousin, stripped of his uniform and bedding; a casualty of the most insidious effects of war. Before being released, Gardner had killed more men that claimed allegiance to the Union side than he did of his sworn southern enemies, for any man who dare cross his path would become an amalgamation of those who cowardly killed his young cousin that particular night. On more than one occasion Gardner woke to find himself covered in another man’s blood, with nary any recollection of the night before. An unfamiliar rage had somehow tainted his blood, hiding in his veins like a dormant virus. Only to present itself when under the throes of anger; as if Gardner would momentarily step out of his body and let his fury take over, only to be allowed back in when the last breath of the offending man hit his face. Never again would he allow himself to endure such weakness. Soon word spread within the prison walls that Gardner Able was a man to be avoided. After serving his time in prison, Gardner wrote a letter home informing his aunt and uncle of their young son’s passing, avoiding the horrible truth and writing only that his death was one met with dignity and honor. Gardner Able was done being a soldier; he quickly headed out west, eager to put some space between himself and his memories. It was the great State of Texas that he found himself in now and he wandered through the cow trails, picking up odd jobs along the boundaries of the American West, free to pick up and move on his own accord. The only time he set upon those forested hills and warm humid nights of his youth were in the fitful moments of sleep. Otherwise, he pushed any notions of home and family far away from his waking thoughts. Gardner Able had made his choices clear in life and as such he found himself a bit of a rambler now, a drifter. Living the life of a cowboy, who adhered to a new set of rules. He became a soldier of the land whose inclinations were to follow the rushing stream of herded cattle, the desert winds. Crossing the peaks and valleys that were sewn along the rugged landscape and creased against the earth like mismatched seams upon the desert floor. Noticing smoke off into the distance, Gardner sighed and decided that perhaps someone around these plains might know of a place to get decent horse tack. He tucked the remaining rope edge in his hand and quickly mounted his horse, wanting to reach the highest point and survey the land. His horse climbed precariously across the loose gravel, leaving dust clouds and stones that spilled off the nearest escarpment, but once at the summit, Gardner’s eyes followed the rolling hummocks of shinoak and mesquite that crashed into crested buttes. He scanned the landscape, where silver gray sage stippled and poked their way through the yellow grasses, decreasing in size until they near disappeared from sight all together as they clung to the very edge of the horizon. Studying the infinite sweep set before him, he was able to finally spy a small cluster of buildings far off in the great distance. His eyes squinted to take in the scenery and as he often did while in the depths of contemplation, he lifted his left hand towards his face in a downward motion, smoothing the stunted whiskers that tried in vain to cover the scarred skin along his face. Gardner knew he was considered lucky by most to even be walking the earth after his bout in prison, but when his fingers felt the familiar, furrowed lines of damaged skin, luck would hardly be the word he would use to describe himself. His cousin might have been of that notion, of course, that was if he had survived. But Gardner Able had survived, taking with him the only thing he could carry; his wounded face and soul, wanting to discard those old memories as much as a snake sheds its skin. Gardner and these boys had spent the last few years running cattle up and down from Oklahoma through to the former Kansas Territory but now he watched as one of them was swinging a dead snake around his head, lariat-style and amidst encouraging cheers from the rest of crew, was whooping like a brave off to battle. Yep, Gardner mused, it was time to make a change. This next job was to be working for a wealthy Texas landowner whose head of cattle was supposed to number in the thousands. But, first things first—he needed a new horse lead. ***** Beneath the wide brim of his hat, Estrella could see the older man had hard eyes. Tufts of white hair framed his weathered face and he stared unblinking, his stooped shoulders were filled with impatience and disgust at what he considered a lack of common respect by the young woman who stood in front of him. “Senorita, I must speak with your father.” The man repeated. His good manners had quickly disappeared after Estrella explained for the third time that her father was not available and would be gone for the next few weeks. Estrella was beginning to wonder if the man understood English. She decided to switch to Spanish, relaying the same message to him. “I understood you the first time!” The man interrupted, now his pride had been wounded as well, for Señor Alvarez considered himself fluent in not only English and Spanish, but spoke many dialects from the neighboring pueblos as well, “I was told your father was the only one who could help me!” The man’s breath sputtered in exasperation as he tried to contain his rage, “It is imperative that I speak with him!” “Señor,” Estrella tried to placate him, she placed her hand along his trembling forearm, “If you will show me then I can let my father know exactly what needs to be done. I would hate to have you make the long trip out here and wait any longer than necessary, now let’s take a look.” Estrella gave the man a warm smile, directing her green eyes in his until he finally acquiesced and looked away, his anger melted as quickly as it had erupted and as was the usual course that anytime someone of the opposite sex became ensnared in Estrella’s gaze, she soon achieved the outcome of her desired effect. “Follow me” The man stepped outside to the high desert heat in the front of the adobe where his horse had been tied and pointed to the splintered remains of its bridle. “Sí, sí, Señor. My father just finished one!” Estrella gave the man a reassuring smile, “Come back inside and take a look at what we have. Venga.” Estrella pulled out a tightly braided piece from a hook on one of the wooden beams that crossed the low ceiling and held it out for the man to examine. “Yes, this will do!” The man exclaimed, scrutinizing the fine workmanship in its tight and even weaves, “Tell your father I am very pleased with his work”. Senor Alvarez tipped his hat after she gave him change from the ten dollar eagle head gold coin he tossed on the counter. “Buenos Dias, señorita” Estrella watched through the open window as he rode off, pulling the reins to turn his horse’s head in an easterly direction. Men! She thought scornfully. They were such a funny breed; ridiculous in most ways with their need to control and demand but once cornered became as soft as the masa her mother kneaded for tortilla’s each morning. With only her mother and sisters living in their hacienda, Estrella had grown up more like a cloistered nun with very little exposure to the ebb and flow of such things as the fanciful temperaments of men. Her father had been dead five years now, but Estrella had stepped in and taken over the raw hiding in order to keep food on their table and her sisters dressed in fine, respectable clothing. No one in the valley knew of their father’s passing. To those who had business dealings with him, his absence became a series of endless travels that he would seemingly never return from. His death was their secret, for what self-respecting cattlemen and landowner, would travel thousands of miles and spend good money on reatas made by a mere girl. Despite the loss of their patriarchic head, the Montega business was thriving with Estrella’s unique designs and precise craftsmanship. Evening was approaching when Estrella first heard the clatter of horse hooves followed by a clink of metal scraping against the dirt, cowboys no doubt, she thought, though it was getting late in the day to serve customers. She had been sweeping the dirt floors when the man approached the doorway. Although tall, his rangy frame somehow failed to fill the space between the doorframes and his oiled canvas jacket fell about his shoulders as though cocked side to side by an ill-fitting hanger. Estrella had yet to see the man’s face as he wore a wide-brimmed hat and kept his face angled, downwards. When Gardner finally looked up, he found himself unable to take his gaze off at the young girl. She was tall and thin, her light brown hair had been twisted into a long intricate braid and a piece of leather with a silver rosette was tied off at the ends. Her unnaturally green eyes stared unwavering until he looked away. Estrella lit a lantern to help illuminate the inside of the small building as there was little light left from the waning sunset, but Gardner was able to discern the products that she carried; braids and ropes of every description coiled like anxious rattlesnakes and were hung on hooks from the plastered walls and wooden rafters. The other men must have finished tying up their horses and now clamored through the doorway in an imposing mob, bumping into Gardner who stood immobile. Dustin whistled in appreciation at the young girl and then whispered loudly into Gardner’s ear even though he stood mere inches away, “Did ya ever see someone as pretty as she is!” “Outside! You bunch of fools. Get!” Gardner yelled at the men who had been staring at Estrella in shock and awe as if she were some new, undiscovered breed of horse. The men decided something was in order to help assuage these fresh wounds administered by their leader and slunk back through the doorway, off to search for a place where better temperaments might be found rather than the more miserable one of Gardner Able. They simply followed the twangy notes of cantina music, heading towards a building that looked like it might provide that very prospect. “Pardon” Gardner began, searching through his very limited Spanish vocabulary, “Yo necessito uno….” Gardner shook his head, knowing how he must look in the eyes of this young lady, “Um…this….esè” he grabbed a rope that was hanging right above Estrella’s shoulders. “You need a rope?” Estrella replied quickly in English. “Yeah, a lead rope” Gardner kept returning his gaze to hers, though he could feel his cheeks flush with heat. He had intentionally chosen a vocation that was mostly scarce of women, wanting to avoid showing his damaged face to anyone of the female gender, but now under the scrutiny of this young woman, weakness filled his veins and just breathing was near unbearable. He had immediately lifted his left hand in a subconscious attempt to veil his scars, but it was too late. The young woman had already seen his face. Gardner cursed the war all over again, knowing that his scars erupted even whiter under the paint of his blushed skin. Estrella turned to pull out one of her favorites. This new rope had been made with her most current design, white horsehair dyed in shades of green. She had used extracts from the plants and flowers found in the small estuaries that popped up in the spring like lonely children and the overall effect was breathtaking. She noticed the cowboy must have thought as much as he pulled his finger along its chevron patterning. “You tie these ropes?” Gardner asked, bewildered that a young woman would be in such a profession “My father’s business.” Estrella answered, not wanting to explain too much. “So where is he?” Gardner asked again, wondering what kind of father would leave his beautiful young daughter stuck out in the middle of nowhere—and all alone. “He’s…. traveling…I help out when he’s not here.” She replied, for some reason she felt very hesitant to expand upon her father’s whereabouts. Normally, she wouldn’t have given it much thought. But tonight, she did. She was beautiful, this young woman. For when Gardner caught her gaze, her eyes flashed against her skin, briefly reminding him of the clear pools of water from the creek behind his families’ home, where as a child he watched young trout dart all the way to the graveled depths. He stepped closer to the girl. Despite his outwardly confident appearance, a rush of anxious excitement plagued his body. And though Gardner was trying to remain stoic, his hands betrayed his emotions. Estrella watched as the cowboy’s fingers trembled. He held the rope between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the texture in a distracted manner much as a man would with a string of holy beads. “It’s not safe….for you, to be left here, by yourself. Some man might walk in here one day and something might happen to you….” Instead of his fingers running along the braided length of rope, he lifted them and now cautiously grazed them across the sleeve of her dress. Behind the glints of green, Gardner saw what he perceived as fear and disgust in the girl’s eyes; and before he could stop himself, he felt that once familiar surge of anger rise again. It was as if that hidden rage that Gardner kept in check for many years had been awakened and was clawing and tearing at him to be released. “Cuantos? How much?” He dared to raise his gaze, this time he felt a sharp pull in his stomach when she returned it. Estrella wasn’t sure what the man was asking for. In her heart she feared he wanted much more than the rope. “How much?” he repeated. The gap of space had disappeared between them now, making Estrella’s breath quicken. Estrella charged the cowboy much less than what it was worth. “One dollar”, she whispered, wanting the man to leave. She could feel the mans’ breath upon her face and he felt dangerous, pursuing her like a wounded animal. He reached his hand under her chin and forced her to look up at him. “I’ll buy your rope and next time, maybe something else.” Seeing the revulsion in her eyes, Gardner’s anger smoldered under the pain of rejection. Who was she to look upon him in such a way! “Are ya done?” Dustin’s loud voice interrupted the two of them and Estrella quickly separated herself, seeking safer haven behind a table. From the outside of the adobe, she could hear the raucous sound of men’s voices. Voices burdened with a drunken edge, now. Without another word Gardner flashed one more look at her before he threw the coins on the counter, he grabbed the rope and turned to exit quickly through the door. Only in the safety of the outside, did he dare take a breath. Gardner Able had encountered painful incidences in his life; memories of smoke-laden battlefields and deadly shrapnel, the tragic loss of his cousin and others who succumbed under the war’s unyielding hand. Even now, he encountered threats of freezing weather and the dull pains of starvation which had made themselves constant companions on his travels. But never did he recall a time in his life when he had felt so vulnerable. Estrella peered through the open doorway and watched in relief as the cowboys left in a flurried cloud of dust. As always, she wondered why men chose to be so complicated. **** Sleep had been unable to find Gardner Able, for even when he closed his eyes all he saw were those green, green eyes. She-devil eyes that taunted and teased. And try as he did to put the picture of her face away, he couldn’t. Against his better judgment, Gardner had allowed himself to consume a few drinks with the other men, hoping that the alcohol would ease some of the pain from the encounter with the young woman. And for a little while it helped, but those moments of drunken clarity turned dark in his mind; weakness and shame wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud and covered his skin as indelibly as his scars. He had seen his monstrous image reflected in her fearful eyes and the mere enormity of painful losses flooded through him. Wasted years of precious time gone, never to be recovered. Gardner shut his eyes tight, trying to prevent the tears that seemed ready to spill. His stomach and head pounded, but he was unable to stop the haunting phrases that went round in his head, go back, go back. Go back to the horsebraider’s daughter. **** Senora Montega was in a panic by the next morning. It was most unlike her youngest daughter to go missing. She had frantically searched the hacienda, the adobe and even sent some of the ranch hands on horseback to search the rugged countryside. But Estrella was nowhere to be found, it was as if she had receded into the endless waves of grasses, never to be seen again. Somehow, those first days of unsettled panic passed eventually turning into weeks of grief and despair. Estrella had vanished and the Montega women were left devastated and puzzled as to what could have possibly happened to their youngest. Yet, Estrella did leave them one gift; for tucked in a back corner of the adobe and hidden in boxes, her mother discovered stacks and stacks of prized ropes. Senora Montega cried in amazement at the bevy of braids crafted by her young daughter and wondered when her daughter would have had time to do such work. For the braids had been twisted with intricate buttons, some fastened with silver rosettes and others were wound with beads of precious stones, each piece woven seamlessly as well. These were not mere tools; for there was something beyond the scope of simple beauty in her work. Only a true master could create something so pure it bordered on the brink of near holiness. Perhaps there was a higher power at work; braiding and weaving its way through the young girl’s hands, for the unique and colorful ropes became something of a coveted treasure that only men who understood the purity of her craftsmanship sought to own and be revered as the work of a true artisan. The Montega’s would forever be known for their rawhide braids and the lovely young maiden who created them. Estrella’s exquisite work and her mysterious disappearance became something of legend in the vast lands of the Llano Estacado. And as often happens in the confines of small towns, it was the leaky trickle of gossip that refused to let Estrella Montega’s name be put to rest. For each generation whose lips whispered her name once again propelled Estrella into that realm of immortality. Stories were passed down of a beautiful young woman who could be seen braiding horsehair by moonlight along the hidden villas of northern Mexico. Others swore they had seen the young woman riding on horseback, holding on to the waist of a handsome vaquero before the desert swallowed them up; a green-eyed beauty whose smile would melt many a young man’s heart. There are those mysteries that still remain undiscovered beneath these desolate lands; clues whispered in the sand devils as they skim across the endless terrain, picking up hidden secrets between the distant arroyos. Or sometimes the earth coughs them up in the wake of violent weather or by happenstance. Years after Estrella disappeared there was a story of an oil prospector who found the buried remains of a skeleton. A bit odd, since there was no grave marker indicating who this person might have been, however, in one of the shovels of the dirt he also discovered a curious piece of tarnished metal and the remnants of an intricately woven piece of rope. It was thought to be the bones of a young woman, maybe one whose haunting beauty would be her undoing, her life taken as quickly as a desert bloom folds back into the parched earth. For the desert can be selfish with her treasures, she allows them out to be briefly admired only to be returned and kept close to her heart. **** |