EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJanuary 14, 1999
Huerta Santa Maria
Near Galaroza
The Black Horse
He stands very still in that orchard across the way. I can see him in
the afternoon light. He stands like a sculpture – that’s how still he stands.
His head tilts down. He contemplates the acorn husks.
I know how to get to that orchard because Javier took me there once. He
took me through the gate, behind the laundry line and up the road a bit. The road is made
of red clay.
There’s another gate, and another gate, and the red clay sticks to
my shoes. The trees – cork oaks, olives, hollow spongy types – bad for burning
– too porous. The path goes in many directions. You can get to Galaroza from here,
two ways. You can go the other way and get to Fuenteheridos. You can follow the path that
takes you to the highest peak in the Sierra de Aracena.
Javier says the house by the orchard is ugly. It’s nothing like Santa
Maria, and I can see this clearly because Santa Maria is down the hill, glowing
orange, resting over there. This house is owned by a man who lives in Seville. Javier says
the man is a doctor. He has something to do with Jerez – the sherry industry.
His house is new and barracked with barbed wire and a big metal gate with a padlock. His
house is empty and his orchard is very still.
I’m looking for that black horse. He’s in this orchard, way
down there at the edge. He’s in clear view from Santa Maria. That black horse
has a clear view of Santa Maria.
I’m going to jump this big metal gate. I’m going to walk
beside this ugly house and up to the fenced orchard. I’ve got something in my hand
for that black horse.
He sees me right away but doesn’t move. "Why aren’t you
moving? What’s wrong with you? You’re a horse, aren’t you?"
He sees me right away but hesitates. He takes a tiny, tiny step. He
takes a humiliating, tiny step. That black horse is in handcuffs.
A rope ties the front hooves together. The front hooves are a foot
apart. The front hooves take a humiliating, tiny step towards the apple in my hand.
It’s a painful eternity. This black horse walks in his handcuffs and tiny steps, a
few metres away from me, in the orchard. It’s an agonizing eternity.
He breaks this torture with a two-footed leap. He leaps with the two
front hooves. He leaps in his handcuffs. He leaps as high as the orchard’s barbed
fence. He wants this apple.
His big black nostrils are warm against my hand. Whiskers. Nostrils. He
chews his apple and sniffs for more. We look at one another. I am looking into his black
eyes. I am scratching his black forehead. I am looking at his handcuffs.
He gets really close. He comes as close to me as he can. This black
horse is putting his face right up to my face and his face is much bigger. He’s
sniffing and looking and checking things out. From Santa Maria, I’ve never
seen another visitor to this orchard.
This apple is finished. Helpless. Must get more apples. Must get a bag
of apples.
If I cut that rope this black horse will be free. I will ride him on
the paths, to Galaroza, to Fuenteheridos. I will ride him to the highest peak in the
Sierra de Aracena.
If I cut that rope this black horse will jump that fence. That man from
Seville will come back and shoot that horse for running away.
If I cut that rope this black horse will jump that fence and run
through the cities and no one will like him. This black horse is a prisoner in that
orchard cell.
I’m hopping the big gate, back to the clay road, away from the
orchard and the ugly house and the black horse in the rope-handcuffs. Will ask Javier
about handcuffs. Does Javier know why that black horse stands like a statue in that
orchard across the way?
The black horse watches me jump the big gate. He jumps. He leaps and
hops and follows me a few, tiny steps. He follows me a few humiliating, tiny steps.
I walk this road around, past the stream, back to Santa Maria,
where I can see the black horse in the orchard across the way. He stands very still. That
black horse stands like a statue in that orchard, with his head tilted down, contemplating
his prison.
