Beyond the Horizon by Ryan Ireland Page B

straightened his back. He stroked his sideburns. ‘I am a well-traveled man,’ he said. ‘Been to many strange lands—been to a place where two men were born of one backbone; their faces looking in opposite directions. Ive sat at the head of a table—if you could call it that—and eaten a dog. Birthed a baby in a barren place.’ The father began to interrupt, but the doctor continued. ‘I know more than most men will ever know. If you collected all the seafarers, magicians, priests and teachers in the world, they have only heard of a fraction of what I know, what Ive witnessed. The world is a goddamned beautiful place, friends. And what I say now, I say with certainty: you are meant to wander, boy.’
    â€˜What about me?’ the father asked. ‘Am I meant to do anything?’
    â€˜What does wander mean?’ the boy asked.
    â€˜It’s what you will spend the rest of your life doing,’ the doctor said. He shifted his focus to the father. ‘If you had purpose, it’s done now.’
    He stood and shifted his hat on his head. ‘No ones going to lynch you. I cant say what happens will be any worse.’
    With that he left. Together in the dankness of the cellar, the shadowed space, the father and son contemplated what the witch doctor said.
    â€˜They just gonna turn us loose,’ the father said. ‘We’ll be on our own again.’
    â€˜But he said that was worse than dyin.’
    â€˜Hes right. What we gone through is already worse than whatever the next life holds.’
    The hatch in the floor opened, a pair of boots visible. ‘Come on up outta there, you dirty redskinned niggers,’ a man called. ‘That witch doctor says hes done with you.’
    Again the man came to in the Indian village. One eye was swollen shut. A splintering pain gnawed at the side of his face. He tried to lift himself off the ground, but his vision began to blacken and he let himself collapse back to the ground. It was daylight now. The logs from last night had long burned down to coals. The coals, now cooled, were little more than ash and char.
    The man lay on the smooth stone. The cold rock felt good on his skin. He tried to shut his good eye, but that made him dizzy. Each time he inhaled, his head mushroomed with pain. His body felt like it was pulsating. If he died here, years from now some good Samaritan would come along and insist this miscreant had perished without a proper burial. They would dig a shallow grave somewhere and, assuming these bones were those of an Indian, wrap them in cloth and leave the resting place unmarked. But these were not his thoughts.
    Instead, he thought of his woman. He tried to imagine what she might be doing at this very moment. It’s a common thought of those who are separated. And like most of the departed, he did not actually imagine what she would be doing. He simply recapitulated the things he had seen her do.
    He sat up more slowly this time. He leaned against the wall of the kiva. From above, at the kiva’s edge, there was a noise. His mule stood, tethered to a rock. A gourd with a lanyard sat by the rock. Unbemused as ever, the mule swished his tail. The man used his legs to push his back against the wall of the pit. With considerable difficulty he pulled himself from the kiva. He lay on his stomach for a moment, anticipating an ambush. He would not have fought. After a minute or more of silence, he rolled over, reached for the gourd.
    A trail at the mouth of the alcove climbed the plateau. The Indian had pointed up, as if that was the trail he should take. He cared not if this was a path into perdition. Life, he imagined, would either continue or cease; there isnt anything between the two. The trail was steep as no other man had taken his mule on it. He knew it was a practical thing to guide the mule by the reins, guide him up the slope. Doing otherwise meant risking both their lives. He resolved to ride the