Ali Zán and True Love

The Mountains above Tegucigalpa, Honduras

     The first thing I remember is Father and fire. And it was with Father that I would come to know much, much more about fire in all of its forms and with all of its untamed aftermaths. To this day, I rank the two equal in power—though certainly not in sentiment.
     It was the dry season in Jardin de Los Santos, high in the mountains of Honduras, the afternoon that something, somehow happened, and I stepped fully into consciousness.
     Criáda and I walked alongside the road behind Don Justo. We tried to avoid the ditch and still elude the dust that occasional passing vehicles threw upon us. As we walked, Criáda explained the smoke which rose from the horizon to the north; how the smoke came as a product of fire, and how fire worked to refresh pasture and field.
     During Criáda’s lecture we heard a truck approach from behind. Its metal body banged against itself as it negotiated the ruts of the roadway. We squeezed more tightly onto the shoulder and awaited an onslaught of dust.
     But no dust came. The vehicle—a pickup truck—slowed. It lingered beside us as we walked. The driver eyed us curiously. We eyed him the same. After a few more steps, we guessed he might want to speak to us, so we stopped. Sure enough, he drove to the shoulder and halted, too.
     The driver was Father—known locally as Tracer Montrose—a North American, a strongly built man with dark hair, grayish eyes, and skin five times lighter than the Honduran cowboys with whom I was familiar. Somehow, from his gait and the way he held his mouth, I sensed him to be a determined man—not quite broken.
     He stepped from his truck, leaned upon the opened door, and looked at me. Then he looked at Criáda; then back at me. Mostly he looked at me.
     He tossed the door closed and approached.
     "That’s a pretty little colt you have there," he said in awkward Spanish to Don Justo.
     He pointed at me.
     "Yep," Don Justo replied.
     He smiled proudly at me, took up my rope, and delivered the first pat on my head I ever remembered him to give me.
     "She’s the dam?" Father asked and nodded toward Criáda.
     "Yep," Don Justo answered.
     "But she’s white and he’s . . . well . . . " He squinted at me. "Unnatural. Really unnatural."
     "I call the color Castilian clay, señor—a little silver, a little gold. But he’ll turn white like the dam when he grows older."
     "But I don’t like white horses," Father said.
     "Actually, he probably won’t change color. They usually don’t." Don Justo frowned at Father. "Why do you ask? Do you study horses for your gringo bank nowadays?"
     Father shrugged. He petted my head, put a real serious look on his face, and walked around me like he inspected a machine.
     "You’d think my bank work tedious, señor. Why don’t we talk instead about my purchase of this handsome colt." He dropped his serious look and chuckled. I liked the way his eyes twinkled along with his laugh—full of life, eager about living. "My wife and I had a particularly harsh argument last night—one of those once-every-three-year kinds."
     "Hmm. Serious."
     "Yes. She pulled out her suitcases. She has packed all day. She said she intends to leave me—to return to the United States."
     "I’m sorry to hear that, señor. But how does that relate to this beast?"
     "I need to buy her a gift—specifically a gift she can’t take with her. A horse would be the perfect thing."
     Don Justo grinned.
     "I understand, señor. She’ll need to stay and care for it . . . along with you."
     "Exactly."
     The North American grinned toothily and ran his thumb through a patch of my coat as if he counted each hair.