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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Sabroso
Maureen Gilmer
Ishmael shoveled manure all day, every day. He awoke at sunrise to feed all the boarded horses, then go back to the rake and wheelbarrow for the rest of the day. He'd work his way down the pipe corrals slowly lifting every road apple out of the sandy ground.
He knew every horse, their behaviors and personality. He named one stall-kicker Bruce Lee. Another big bone black quarter horse became Oso Negro. His quiet observations during the eleven PM check revealed where each horse preferred to lie down in its paddock.
Ishmael was illegal. He was brought across the border by coyotes in a van. He quickly learned that those who survived to work in El Norte were small and quiet and lived under the radar of most Californios. His job kept him away from his family for years, linked only by Western Union and a phone card. What he earned was wired home to his family, much of that for his oldest son through the university.
Ishmael couldn't read, he didn't have a cell phone, he slept in a broken down camper and lived on tortillas and watermelon in the summer and Cup O Noodles with fiery chile sauce to warm himself on cold winter days. He spoke only five words of English and his Indian dialect made it hard for anyone to understand his rapid fire Spanish. He rarely conversed directly with anyone except his boss and the occasional bilingual visitor. Among the boarders Ishmael was a non-person, dismissed until they needed his help feeding supplements or turning out their horse while on vacation.
The stable gradually became more and more dependent on the quiet little Mexicano who closely observed every day's events from the end of his manure fork. He'd watch incompetent riders undo good horses. He'd see them feed so many treats that even quiet ones became pushy and dangerous. He knew who rode the arena, too afraid to go out into the open desert. And Ishmael gave special attention to those who were good horsemen, the few who rode as they did in his home in Jalisco, where he was introduced to Charreada as a boy.
There was just one horse in the stable that he admired. It was an Andalusian gelding owned by a woman named Francine. She rode the gray in the arena, poorly executing first level dressage exercises. She was not much taller than Ishmael and cared for the horse with a surprisingly competent hand. Francine had bought the Andalusian cheap because he had a broken crest, which is a genetic deformity of the normally arched topline. This gelding's neck flopped over much like the upright fin of a killer whale becomes inexplicably flaccid in captivity. The gray was a horse like those of Ishmael's childhood, the Spanish breed of the haciendado's blood horses that he had cared for as a boy, giving birth to his destiny of shoveling manure every day. In the hacienda stable he came to know the working charros, and that is where he learned to ride.
It was off season at the desert stable, many of the paddocks empty of horses moved to milder climes. There were far fewer stalls to clean and twice a day feeding took a fraction of the time. Summer was Ishmael's time to rest, each day ending at noon with meal and siesta that gave him respite from the sweltering heat. By sunset he was energized once again and would come out under a clear night sky that twinkled with stars. The few year-round boarders came to wash down their overheated animals after sunset, talking animatedly over beer that emerged cold and frosty from tack room refrigerators. Although Ishmael didn't understand most of what was said, he could discern with a keen eye the strengths and weaknesses of every man and woman, and he knew exactly how these things influenced their horses.
It was during the August meteor showers that the moon rose over the mountain casting its bright light across the desert floor. Ishmael came out after midnight when the neighborhood was silent, traffic thin. The horses were finally sleeping, the flies had retired to the tamarisk trees after their perpetual blood fest on tender cannon bones and hocks.
The Mexican walked silently down the breezeway to the paddock of the Andalusian he named Sabroso, which roughly translated to delicious, for Ishmael found his relationship with the horse the sweetest thing in his limited life. The gray was waiting for him, stamping with anticipation. Ishmael opened the gate and the horse silently lowered its head and followed the Indian back down the breezeway to stand obediently in front of the battered camper.
From behind the camper's flat tires Ishmael pulled a trunk, dusty and battered. He lifted the top and from inside he hauled out an old Mexican saddle that had seen better days. The exposed wood tree was chipped and stained, the leather dry, threatening to crack with the slightest pressure. It had been a gift from a former boarder, a Mexican immigrant who rode a beautiful little chestnut from Guadalajara. With great effort he hoisted the saddle onto the grey's back and tightened the cinch. Then he lifted out a bridle he'd made from tack left behind by boarders long gone for a dozen different reasons. It was not like the gear he knew from the hacienda, but the bit was well made, shanks long and the port very high.
The grey stood silently as Ishmael conversed with his only friend in soft, fluent Spanish, strangely tinged with a Huichole accent. Sabroso followed him to the arena now fully illuminated under the bright moon that had risen even higher overhead. Ishmael's shadow was long next to Sabroso's, giving the little Mexican a sense he was far larger, reminding him of the proud bearing of the Indian vaqueros who worked cattle at the hacienda and the fine mestizo charros who rode the Andalusians bred there.
Ishmael mounted easily, jumping up to catch his foot in the loose stirrup with its curiously boxy shape unique to Mexican saddles. He leaned forward over the giant saddle horn and whispered to the horse, it's bearing suddenly taking on a different stance, the head tucking under as the sagging topline magically rose up to stand erect in a crisp, clear arch.
Ishmael took his reins up and sat back in the saddle, his posture straight, his legs lightly pressed into Sabroso's barrel. The horse in turn gathered himself up, the head curled even tighter into an impossibly elegant symmetry. Ishmael clicked softly and the horse began to move, but not as he did under Francine's dressage exercises which Sabroso diligently executed. These were joyful steps as the little Mexican spoke silently now with his legs and fingers.
After taking him through the three gaits to warm up around the large arena rail, Ishmael pressed Sabroso invisibly into the rhythmic dance. Inside Ishmael's head played sentimentos of Mexico, the age old songs he loved and missed desperately. Hearing them on the radio was nothing like how they were sung by Frederico and the mariachis, and these Ishmael held as memories of symphonic beauty in the recesses of his mind. The small dark man moved with the horse, one hip slightly dropped then the other to bring Sabroso's steps to the exact tempo of his mental orchestra. There in the moonlight he and the grey danced together like lovers, the link between man and horse seamless and perfect.
Together they worked through these and other movements that had descended to the Mexican charro from the war horses of Medieval Europe. These were born of necessity, as combat in the eras of sword and pike demanded a horse be light and flexible, able to take on any kind of pace or move to protect itself and its rider in the melee of battle. The charros had learned all of these steps which took years to master by both man and horse. The horsemen of Spain inherited the ancient techniques, and rode them into the New World where charreada kept them alive after horsemanship slipped from necessity to luxury. Ishmael could never afford such a horse as Sabroso, or any other horse for that matter. Nonetheless he did own the grey's spirit, for it did things for him the gringos would never believe. For the charro, humility was vital, and as an illegal alien in California, keeping his life secret was essential.
For an hour the two rode in the moonlight, Sabroso's coat becoming iridescent with sweat as the silver hairs reflected light while the white ones absorbed and intensified it. With Ishmael so small, his presence vanished, his mahogany skin and black hair fading into the gloom.
After they were through, Ishmael carefully washed the gray to ensure there was no sign of their night's ride. He returned his gear to the trunk and the horse to its pen, then went to bed for a few hours before it was time to rise at dawn to feed while the heat was still bearable. He would ride Sabroso the next night and the one after, so long as the moon shed enough light.
A week later Ishmael was surprised to see a police car in the parking lot just as he quit work to take his noon meal and siesta. Always wary, he detoured behind the shed row and walked down the far side of the tamarisk trees to his camper and quickly stepped inside. Concerned that it could be la migra, he opened a louvered window and listened to the part time overseer, Tony, talking with a uniformed officer, but it was English and he learned nothing.
Not long afterwards Tony knocked on his camper. "It's the same story as before," Tony said in his book learned Spanish marred by an appalling Anglo accent. "They called the police again because they don't know what else to do."
"The ghost horse?"
"I'd just chalk it up to a half blind old woman in the houses over there, but it's peculiar how many calls we've had and each one by a different person. Always in the summer too. Maybe it's just a reflection of traffic and the street lights."
Tony lifted his wide brim palm hat and wiped sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve, then smoothed back his thinning hair. It wasn't yet noon and the day had already broken 100 degrees. "I'm afraid we're getting a reputation around here. Can you believe they say our stables are haunted?"
Ishmael feigned surprise then chuckled. "Patron, there is no such thing as a ghost horse."
"Well duh, but get this. The lady said the horse was dancing! Dementia does that to people."
Ishmael gave the manager his best poker face "Do you think someone comes in here to ride at night when it is cool?"
"Impossible. Look, I'm only telling you this so you'll give me a call if you see anything. It's probably just those medical marijuana smokers who think you can't smell it over the horse shit."
"Yes, it must be the mariajuana," Ishmael agreed.
Francine arrived at the stables early in the morning with a trainer in tow. They tacked up Sabroso in that curious saddle of hers, then strapped on a bridle that wrapped tightly around his nose, which Ishmael thought was nothing more than unnecessary pain and pressure. If a horse trusted you, and if he knew what you wanted, there was no need for such things.
The trainer led him into the arena and mounted off the step-up block. She wore fancy knee high boots and stretch pants and a black helmet, carrying a long thin whip. Ishmael recognized her seat as similar to that of the charros, but her hands were in a state of tension that kept the bit pulled hard into his mouth. "On the bit," the charros called it, a sign of a fearful or inexperienced rider. Loose reins were the hallmark of the skilled caballero.
"He's still just first level but I have problems with him listening to me," Francine said as the trainer walked Sabroso in a small circle. The woman deftly used her legs to communicate with the horse, bending him at the barrel and turning on the front and rear. In an instant he was cantering in place, then she moved him with the same pace sideways across the arena in a flawless demonstration.
Ishmael watched them from the shade far across the stables, crouching a bit to peer through the maze of pipe corrals. A smile revealed pride in his work that had been sufficient to be recognized by an advanced trainer. He could see her face was relaxed and pleased, her stubby spurs gently coaxing Sabroso into one move then the other.
"I thought you said he was first level," the trainer said to Francine after returning to where she stood at the rail. "This horse is fantastic. Who trained him?"
Francine's face registered shock and confusion. "He's had a few sessions at a clinic, but I had no idea he could do all that."
"I'm sorry, but there's not much I can do for this horse, he's already there."
Francine was at a loss for words, realizing that her gelding was far better at dressage than she ever hoped to be. "I haven't had him to a trainer for the past seven years. There's no way to explain it."
The trainer dismounted in the arena and stood with the rains held loosely, Sabroso standing quietly behind her as he always did for Ishmael, his large dark eyes wandering until he found the little Mexican peering through the corrals. The grey ears went forward at seeing his friend, and the trainer instantly noticed his interest, turning to find the object of his focus. Finally Ishmael stepped through the corrals and walked to the arena in his soiled threadbare clothing, his posture transcending his status with old world dignity. Ishmael didn't say a word, just slipped through the arena gate and approached the horse.
"That's just our stable boy, you can ignore him," Francine said. "He's probably turning on the sprinklers because of the dust."
But the trainer could see there was a link between the small Mexican Indian and the grey Spanish horse. From ten feet away Ishmael moved his hand slightly and Sabroso turned on his haunches to present the perfect head set. The trainer watched as the Mexican approached further. When he was close enough she held out the reins.
"No, no, don't give them to him. He just works here."
"Ah, but I think there's a lot more than that between these two. Please Francine, let's just see what happens."
Ishmael's grimy fingers took the reins and he suddenly gripped the mane and swung up onto the saddle. He sat for a moment to get a feel for the dressage saddle, then proceeded to move Sabroso into the most complex cues he knew. The horse leapt and twisted light as the wind, its hoofs barely touching the ground. And then he cued Sabroso to dance, the Indian holding lightly to the reins, his back ram-rod-straight, his hips moving imperceptibly.
"He is a charro," the trainer said.
"Is that some kind of Mexican food?" Francine asked, clearly vexed at the fact that this dirty little Indian had worked miracles on her horse.
"They are the legacy of Spanish horsemen, and their techniques mirror ours. They use different bits but the foundation is exactly the same. Has he been training this gelding?"
Francine just shrugged and then her eyes opened wide and she pointed. "Look!"
"At what?"
"His crest. It's perfect and standing up like it should."
They stared amazed as the topline reached its zenith, the horse no longer looking like a cull with a failed crest. He frothed and arched, legs high and certain, the movements smooth, without hesitation.
"That man and this horse have achieved true unity. It's rare but I've seen it happen before only once. There is far more to your stable boy than anyone knows. He must have been trained in Mexico."
Francine instantly forgot Ishmael was illegal. She no longer believed he existed in life to clean up after her horse. His dark skin and Indian blood no longer suggested an underling. She saw the stable boy for who he really was, the caballero from Jalisco who sat a horse with so little effort it seemed miraculous.
"I think we know where the ghost horse comes from now," said a voice from behind her. Tony stood admiring the horse and rider, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. "It was that gray after all, and the smallest vaquero. You are one lucky lady, Francine. And I guess we got ourselves a new trainer.
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