STORIES. POEMS. VISUAL ART

last shinning
illustrated poem by l.j. borges

Journey with Margaret

By Katherine W. Sterling

And the saddle was shifting, loosening and making its way up the horse's neck as the steep decline of the trail took a switchback. Gosh, why was the horse's neck getting shorter, when all of a sudden the saddle slipped over to the side? He must have held his breath when I cinched him up.
Horses play that trick on you, and I guess I fell for it because I found myself falling out of the saddle onto my shoulder on the rocky trail. He no doubt thought me an idiot because he stopped in mid-step and rather lackadaisically turned to look at what I'd gotten myself into. He probably thought, and she's going to ride me on the cattle drive? Once I'd got the saddle back on and cinched up tightly we were back on the trail. The hired hands made sure I wasn't going to "meet ground" again. It was expected that I saddle up my horse by myself, but they made sure to give the gelding a bit of a kick in the ribs to be certain he let out all the air in his lungs. The hand kicked while I yanked on the cinch. When we got the problem fixed, we continued the long winding journey to the bottom of the mountain where Hidden Lake lay secreted among pine and fir forests. It was deep, and somebody told the story of the man who decided to swim it on horseback. They never discovered the bodies because the lake was so deep they never could find the bottom of it. The light that glinted off the blue reflection of the bright mid-day sky gave the impression that nothing bad could happen here. The lake lay wide and round and on one side rocky cliffs jutted from the water's edge. Shale once slid down the mountainside like a kid on a park slide. It was the kind of rock that made for great chase scenes in cowboy movies, robbers running from the law shooting from behind rocks and sliding, moving rock as they tried desperately to get to safety.

The afternoon was hot and dry, and the horseflies that tortured the horses mistook us for them and took great chunks out of our legs and necks and arms. The only relief was to take our mounts, get rid of the saddle and ride them into the water. My twelve-year old frame and weight were mere as it was, but as the buoyancy of the water lifted my horse in the weightlessness he made no notice at all that somebody was riding him. At first he felt the cool water as a large branch to scoop off those damn flies when all of a sudden he'd walked out far enough to not see the fallen log lying in the mud at the bottom of the lake. His front foot caught on the log. He fell forward putting his head underwater. Panicking he came up as if shocked with electricity. There was nothing but a little piece of his mane that let me grip but soon that was like grasping at seaweed. I was in the water thrashing to get away from the frightened horse. Once he found his footing he backed toward the bank that had by now turned to a muddy pit of horse imprints. I crawled out of the water onto the mud bank. Both my horse and I were dripping with realization that as gorgeous as this hidden lake was it held some secret darkness. We cared no longer that the flies were back and nipping.

We rode Brownie. I was in front and Margaret in back. We rode bareback and had decided to ride with a hackamore because we were on a very special mission. We planned to journey to the underworld and we knew that Brownie, in order for him to take us would need all the freedom he could be allowed. He was a good horse, strong, honest, and true. My sister and I had ridden him throughout our lives and knew that we could not make this journey on any other horse. Brownie was a chestnut gelding. He was stocky like a wild mustang, and for all we knew think he was once born wild on the plains of Wyoming. He put up with a lot from us, as we always wanted to ride double, and took him into some tight situations like the time we rode down the cow shoot at the Bar 9 ranch. He protected us when we were being foolish by not proceeding down a trail that showed fresh bear scat, and then there was the time that he refused to be coaxed to take the trail around the cliff. When we ran him full out he flared his nostrils, raised his head, and charged forward in the expectation that a wild herd was just over the next hill.

Today, we would be asking much of him for our journey to the underworld would take us to the bottom of Hidden Lake. I knew how to journey to the underworld because I had learned how in a shamanism class where I had taken numerous journeys. First, a question must be asked before you were to find a place to descend. I had chosen a gopher hole once. As I jumped into the tight little hole in the middle of a great field, the hole began to get larger and steeper as my body picked up speed as I descended. I was sort of sliding uncontrollably to the bottom. I tumbled out of the hole, helter-skelter and landed rather dazed at the feet of a beautiful grazing white mare. So, I had journeyed before this day. Margie had not.

That question we were to ask had to be agreed upon as we were to be unified, as one person on this mission for...an answer to our question? Or, some direction from our animal helper, whom I was convinced we were going to meet? Margaret had been suffering with ovarian cancer for six years, and she was weary with the horror that trip takes you on. Surgery after surgery, chemotherapies, procedures, pain killers, meds for this and for that, and of course the loss and dread, anxiety, and depression.

Brownie got a good talking too before we rode him to the twenty foot cliff overlooking the east side of Hidden Lake. This is where we decided to jump from, and Brownie needed to know what we would ask him to do. There were those times that he protected us from doing anything "foolish," but today he must raise himself to a mystical mustang and shed all responsibility to our safety. He must listen to our call, as we would not, could not proceed without his consent. I knew, he, nor we, would die, but would be given supernatural powers to endure the dive and swim through the depths of the lake that is said to have no bottom.

What lies ahead? Is this our question spirit animal? Is it too simple of a question, or is it too complex? Is it about living or dying, what mystery can you reveal to us? We are sisters, children, one dark, and one fair. She wears her jeans with the cowboy belt and a pretty green cotton shirt. Her Buster Brown hair cut frames her petite features and gives her that tom-boy look, one of sheer adventure for she lacks fear and is daring and brave. No matter what she faces she is always bold even when she's scared to death. Giving up, giving up, always giving in to that thrust that makes her rush off the cliff to dive headlong into the coldness of that high mountain lake. Me, I'm with her so I can't be afraid, even though I have journeyed before, and I'm riding in front today, but it's because she is with me and we're doing it together, today, like we have all of our lives. My honey-blond hair lies softly curled to the nape of my neck. I too have a pair of wranglers on and I'm wearing an old pair of cowboy boots that I got second hand from some boy that had outgrown them. I loved them, even if they pinched my little toe on my left foot. But never mind, they were real cowboy boots, and I loved them. My little yellow blouse was accented with a cowboy scarf that had Dale Evans riding Buttermilk on it. Here we are we're riding Brownie to the cliff. We've already had our conference with him and he seems to understand that it is only he that can take us to the underworld at the bottom of Hidden Lake. He picks his steps precisely as he walks the narrow trail through the woods to the cliff. It is an extraordinary day. The sky is impenetrate blue, and the summer temperatures are in the lower seventies. No wind is blowing as the still leaves on the aspen and mountain elders whisper nothing to us. We step into a silence of beauty. Call it a peace. As Brownie reaches the summit of the cliff the three of us look down to the surface of the lake. It is dark and deep at this point. We see the light rocks along the edge, and then they seem to fall away as the water quickly turns dark green into black only a few feet out from the cliff. We are not afraid. There is no catching of breath or squeezing waste or mane. What is the question again? "What lies ahead?" Is this our question? We linger only a moment and then agree, yes, this is the question? We gave Brownie a nudge in his sides he turned and looked back at us with a light in his eyes that I had never seen before. Without further hesitation, he backed up against the sheer cliff wall and then thrust forward, half running half jumping over the narrow edge.

His body angled straight out parallel to the water far down below us. He then, tucked his head down and we began to fall in a perpendicular position. Margaret and I were laid out flat against his back as the dive was executed perfectly. We hit the water with great force, but the very second we submerged it was as if the impact was absorbed by the softest cushion of airy water. The sunlight penetrated at the surface and as we opened our eyes we saw shafts of sunbeams streaking through the green water. Bubbles surrounded us as we fell deeper and deeper. Brownie began to swim with strong persistent strokes. The light at the surface was quickly disappearing behind us, but we noticed that the air bubbles never left Brownie's hooves. They looked like strokes of crystal in a sea of green.

My hand holding his mane felt how cold the lake was. The darkening waters began turning to indigo as we swam deeper and deeper. Brownie gave great thrusts in his stride as he pushed the depths away. I could feel Margaret holding me around my waist. Or was it I being held in her arms? It appeared that there was no life here in the lake, but darkness, actualized by more darkness. We couldn't see so well, except for the silvery bubbles that continued to accompany us at Brownie's hooves. We had ridden for a long time when we saw a form ahead. It looked like a man riding a horse. He and the horse were skeletons. Could this be the man and the horse that drowned in the story? If it were shouldn't they be dissolved in the lake, or imbedded somewhere in its bottom? But no, this horse and rider were still coupled together, even in death. Or, at least it seemed that they should be dead, until I saw the rider give a kick to the animal's ribs and they both galloped off, bubbles pouring out from behind hooves. As they disappeared, the rider shot his hand up and made a "follow me gesture." Brownie turned his powerful chest toward the mere shadow of the man and his horse and continued to descend.

As if by announcement we saw a great gate, an entry into a place that had been hidden from human eyes. The gate was open and Brownie instinctively took us through it. We must have penetrated the lake's bottom because the water above hung over us like it was suspended and it held us as if we were in a cocoon. Brownie slowed to a trot and then abruptly stopped all together. Margaret slid off his rump and stepped under his belly. She wasn't afraid, but had seen something on the bottom that shone and glistened in the mud. She picked it up and raised her hand to show us. It was an oyster with a pearl that was huge and carried the polish of years and years of making. The oyster wasn't all that large. How could such a small oyster make such a priceless pearl? Margaret sat down on a rock. She held the oyster with the pearl in her outstretched hand. I jumped off of Brownie and scanned the bottom for another possible treasure. I found nothing so I went to sit beside Margaret. Together, we surveyed the pearl. I began to reach for it, to feel it when she said "No, not yet." I held back when we heard a voice that came from the oyster. It told Margaret that the pearl was hers, and that the oyster had grown it for her. She had worked for centuries on the pearl. Through all the years of grinding sand she made that pearl, spinning, spinning that wonderful mucous around it to protect herself from its brash pain. The constant sands from boulders collapsing, breaking forth from, and crumbling into tiny grains of sand that still hurt were the oyster's life. She fought the boulders when they became sand. She mucoused herself away from the pain, surrounding herself with other oysters, but those could not take the sand away, for they had sand of their own. Many died from the sand, but not this oyster, Margaret's oyster. Here it had lain for eons working to protect herself to ease the pain of her existence. She knew she had a work to do, but did not know for what or for whom. She did complain, don't get her wrong, and she told us that if we hadn't made this journey to the lake's bottom she would have given up and probably died. Then her work would be in vain because who else would ever journey to the bottom of Hidden Lake for an answer, no one except Margaret, her sister Kathy and Brownie.

The relief of the oyster was so great that she began to weep and her tears were a royal blue that poured out of her around the pearl. This crying caused the pearl to be dislodged from her soft body. It began to float upward just a millimeter off the soft pallet. She told Margaret to take her pearl as a gift for what lies ahead. She told her that all of her exhausting and hard work to cope with the pain of the sand was indeed worth her life. She said it wasn't sacrifice, but I think pain is always sacrifice, unless, of course it is turned into something of great price.

Margaret reached down to the little oyster and took the pearl between her index finger and thumb. She turned to show it to me. As I looked upon it, I saw into it. I saw that it was another world with the beauty of light I had never seen before. It beckoned both of us, as it was so incredibly beautiful. In it, I saw a figure sweep its perimeter, and then disappeared into its heart. It wasn't so much what I felt I saw, but rather how I felt when I saw it. My curiosity mixed with jubilation. Margaret held the pearl in front of her eyes and moved it back and forth, back and forth. She motioned that I untie my scarf with Dale Evans on it, which I did. I handed it to her and she placed the pearl of great price into the scarf, twisted it up to form a little bag, and then tied it around her neck.

We both stood up and knew we could ascend now from Hidden Lake. Brownie looked back at us as I first helped Margaret up on Brownie's back, then she pulled me up. This time it was she who took the front. I sat snuggly behind her as Brownie turned toward the surface. His powerful gallop through the water had our hair flowing straight out behind us. As I looked back that great gate was closed. It disappeared into black. Up we rode through layers of freezing water. We saw nothing for a long time, until as we approached the surface, fish of all sizes and shapes appeared. The lake seemed to be teeming with life now, but Margie and I didn't say a word. We just ascended together with Brownie. He broke surface into a star specked night. When he swam to the shore we saw that we were old women.

Katherine Sterling, M.A. lives in Moscow, Idaho where she attends St. Mark's parish. She works for the Center on Disabilities and Human Development, University of Idaho. She presently is the project manager for the Indian Education Outreach Project. She is also a writer, mother, grandmother, and lover of horses.