Spirit

Words by Gina L. Grandi

Art by Sandra Eckert

Everything here was brown, more shades of brown than David had known existed. The gritty brown that clung to the canvas walls. The faded brown of the dead grass trampled flat between tents and lean-tos. The brown of campfire smoke and the brown of skin that tanned and sweat and dried under this unfamiliar California sun. The yellow-brown glint of gold that hung so heavy on every man’s mind that you could see it through his eyes. The horses were brown too, from the dust and sweat that coated their flanks.

He knew Catherine longed for color. For green, for red, for respite from brown and yellow and beige. When they first arrived, she would stand by the doorframe and stare at the sky, trying to burn the blue into her eyes. But she had stopped going outside. She didn’t like the town, she said. Too much noise from too many desperate men. She stayed in, rocking in the chair she had insisted they bring, that was all she had left of their mother.

David loved the noise. He loved the rough talk in gambling parlors and saloons. He loved the hardened hands and deep lines of the men who had been there longest. And he loved the horses.

The track was makeshift, the animals as skinny and weather-beaten as their men. But David couldn’t get enough of their movement, their power, their potential to change a life in one length.

Today it would change.

Catherine didn’t know about the horses. She wouldn’t have understood. She didn’t know he had stopped leaving with the other miners at daybreak. She didn’t know he had lost his tools, one by one, caught up in the beauty and hope of the horses, because she didn’t know the surface gold was all but gone, that no one was left here but the wealthy and the desperate. She didn’t know everyone with options had struck out to look for unclaimed land further north. How could she know? She just rocked, and faded into the woodwork. She had stopped looking at the sky.

Each night, she would ask. Any luck? Maybe tomorrow, he would say. We’re feeling good about a spot downriver. Her eyes would harden. He didn’t know how to lie to his sister.

This morning he had seen something in the turn of her mouth. “I’ve been thinking,” she had said. “Thinking and thinking about what we will do.” David had taken his hat and left. He would come up with something. He would.

But his feet had taken him to the track. For the last time, he promised himself. Then he saw the horse and his heart stopped. A thoroughbred, she had to be. She was so tall, so bright a red.

Talton leaned casually on a rail beside him. Talton was among the lucky. His new hotel was lining his pockets too quickly for him to move on. David wondered how he kept those gloves so clean, in this dust and wind.

“From the same line as Peytona, they say,” Talton said, as they watched the animal.

David nodded. “Pride of the north.”

“Name’s Spirit. Came in from New York,” Talton picked a speck of something from his sleeve. “Owner’s looking to breed her in a couple of years.”

“Here?”

The other horses danced in place but Spirit stood quietly, save a flank as she shuddered off a fly. Did she wonder where she was? Where the carriages and cobbled streets had gone? What did she think of this dusty wasteland, of these men so full of hope and fear?

Talton raised an eyebrow. “Following the money.”

David snorted.

“Speculating, like all of us.” Talton looked at David. “Betting today?”

David shrugged.

“He’s going to race her. Just today, before moving on to Sacramento.” Talton leaned in. “A sure thing, that one. With her blood.”

“What are the odds?” David asked.

“Not high, she’s too good. But enough. Man could pay off his debts, a chance like this.”

David flushed and looked at his feet.

“Your sister,” Talton said, finally. “I imagine I’m not the first to ask.”

David knew he should walk away.

“She’s pretty,” Talton said. “She’s quiet. I’d do right by her.”

David’s feet wouldn’t move.

“I’ll put down a hundred,” Talton said. “You win, you pay me back, and I’ve done a good deed. You lose, I have a wife to come home to.” His eyes drifted back to the horse. “Like a rocking chair,” he said.

David stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“The horse,” Talton waved his gloved hand. “Her stride is that long. Effortless. Like a rocker.”

David swallowed. “Ok,” he said. “Ok.”

Talton grinned, and turned into the crowd. David watched him go and tried to breathe.

Now the crowd was surging around David, like waves. Men pushed past, getting closer to the action. David stood, braced, where he was. She can’t lose, he thought. It’s going to be all right. There was a shot and a yell and scores of men cheering and stamping. Hooves thundered. The horses flashed past, the shouts and cheers and pounding of hooves building a wall of noise so solid it was almost silence. David’s hands, with nothing to hold onto, clenched and unclenched. Spirit was a flash of red cutting through the cloud of brown dust. David closed his eyes.

Then the crowd erupted and his eyes sprang open. At first he could see nothing but limbs and backs and the dust that swirled thick and brown around him, then, through a gap between shoulders, he saw. Spirit had stumbled.

She had fallen.

She was down.

It was hours before David found his way home. Talton had been discreet, merely catching David’s eye and nodding. He would wait. David had stood, unmoving. The crowd ebbed and flowed. Races were run. Men shouted. David stayed. Finally, finally he turned and walked home.

He stopped at the threshold. The canvas flap was still warm and he leaned his forehead into it. “This is for the best,” he imagined saying. And “I want you to be taken care of.” He imagined the hard look in her eye. He pushed his way inside and raised his head to her corner, defiance and shame fighting in his throat.

The chair was empty. She was already gone.

About the author

Gina L. Grandi (she/her) is a professor in the theatre and dance department at Appalachian State University. In her former life, she was a public school teacher in San Francisco and a teaching artist and arts administrator in New York. She is currently the co-founder and artistic director of The Bechdel Group, a theatre company dedicated to fostering writers writing for women. Her writing has appeared in Cicada, 100 Word Story, and Apex Magazine. Gina has a BA from Vassar College, a PhD from New York University, and an extensive finger puppet collection. She can be found on twitter at @yonderpaw, lurking about in a middle-aged way.

About the illustrator

Sandra Eckert is a doodler, a dabbler, and a messy and restless individual. An avid naturopath and off-the-road walker, she finds inspiration in the unscenic vistas and hidden places. While her interests currently lie in the world of art, she has been known to tend goats, whitewater kayak, fish for piranha, and teach teenaged humans. She is fascinated by the lessons of the natural world, both seen and unseen. Sandra holds a BFA with certification, and has continued her education both formally and informally, though she is too distracted to gather up her credits. She lives in Allentown with her husband, Peter, and her dogs, Jack and Tobi. Additional works are available here.