When I saw the First Chapter Challenge writing contest by @thewritersblock I got giddy, but it took a while to decide which manuscript to pull from. I have quite a few of them, all in various stages of editing, all of which invoke the writer yin/yang of feelings where I fluctuate between the elation of thinking my story is the awesomest thing ever, and being horrified at how much work it is to write something truly great.
This story has the feel of Elizabeth Gilbert’s EAT, PRAY, LOVE, but wilder, with small-town crime and a paranormal sub-plot. As with almost all of my writing, there’s a hot romance involved, but that starts in chapter two. ;)
ABANDONING RUMI
Chapter 1
I’m past delighting in the thick red and the clear white.
I’m thirsty for my own blood as it moves into a field of action.
~
(From Rumi’s poem, The Center of the Fire)
THE LOVE SOAKED WORDS OF RUMI lay comfortless on the tattered page. I stared at them, knowing I should’ve left fifteen minutes ago. With a whispered curse, I dropped the book of poetry, grabbed my stuff, and hauled ass out of my cabin.
I’d been looking to Rumi for a shred of inspiration, but the words that always softened my cynicism now intensified my confusion. Their sacred essence eluded me.
My yoga bag made a dull thud as I tossed it into my truck. Gripping the handle above the driver’s seat, I hopped up. Four inches of lift was handy in the bush, but didn’t make for an easy entrance. Clutch in. Engine revved. I hit the gas, shifted into second as I drove up the long dirt drive of my best-friend’s ranch, and wished I could hang out with the horses instead of going to teach yoga.
I hung a left at the pavement, and sped through the tiny community of Mount Logan with a reckless fire in my belly.
Ten minutes down the road to town, I came up behind a logging truck creeping towards a sketchy corner. He’d take forever on the next stretch of highway. I gunned it and passed him, solid yellow line be damned.
The punk music wasn’t loud enough to drown out the blaring honk of displeasure, so I turned it up, laid my foot on the accelerator, and pushed my rusty red Toyota around the curve at top speed, leaving the logging truck behind.
My mind fumed on.
I didn’t want to face another yoga student. Didn’t want to teach another class. How many times had I called the bastard “my teacher” and expounded his virtues to my students?
Victor Patron—Patrón, like the tequila. He’d packed workshops and trainings worldwide selling his revolutionary system of yoga, complete with a line of accessories.
The system had been brilliant, damn him. In the past five years I’d spent fifteen thousand dollars to train with Patron and his top teachers, determined to be one of those top teachers. Now I questioned every bit of what I’d learned.
Downshift. Easy on the brakes. The weathered cross with its silk flowers loomed ahead, a reminder to slow for the switchbacks. Thick trunks of fir and spruce lined the hill on either side of the road. Another curve and the forest began to thin, giving way to grassland. Rain-scented wind rushed through my open window.
Wolff Ranch stretched for kilometers on the right side of the narrow highway, with a creek that snaked through wide fields, tree-covered hills, and Mount Logan towering behind. Elk territory. Red and white signs repeated their warning on every third post of the eight-foot high fence that ran along the perimeter.
No Trespassing. No Shooting.
No Hunting. No Wood Cutting.
KEEP OUT!
Like always, I stole glances through the trees to the rugged beauty of the property, but I kept my eyes on the road, going way too fast to let down my guard. If I hustled, I’d make it to the studio fifteen minutes before my class would start. If I showed up late, the studio owner would shoot me dirty looks.
I came across the creek with my foot heavy on the gas, but as the road straightened, I saw what was ahead and hit the brakes. Hard.
Ten horses stood on the highway. Stunningly gorgeous horses—the ones from Wolff Ranch. My heart jumped as I thought about the logging truck behind me.
Hazard lights flashing, I almost put my truck in the ditch pulling over near the fence. My tires dipped halfway down the trench. The horses shied away.
I opened my door, put one foot on the side bar and swung around to the bed of the truck. Dust smeared my black yoga pants as I leaned to grab the leather handle of my horse training stick before jumping down to the still-wet road.
A quick study of the fence showed the hole where the animals had escaped. They eyed me as I approached.
“Hi beauties,” I cooed. “What are you doing on the road? It’s okay. I’m gonna help you.” I moved as slow as I dared, heading away from the hole in the fence. The animals watched me, some of them shuffling, but I pointed my shoulders past them. Behind them.
The logging truck rumbled in the distance. Maybe a few turns up the hill.
I picked up my stick, extending it shoulder height behind the group of horses. The rope on the end uncoiled to the ground, making several of them jump. They edged towards the gap in the fence. “That’s right,” I said. “Go on.”
A flick of the rope and wave of the stick got them moving. Most of them bolted through the fence, but a black horse spun around and trotted towards my truck. Young. Spooked.
The semi rounded the corner—a loud monster with trees in its cradle—and the horse reared, his hoof grazing the door of my truck. It left a curved dent I didn’t have time to care about.
I hustled wide, away from the animal, and waved towards the truck in case the driver was completely blind and didn’t see us in the middle of the road. The semi whined as it slowed. I kept my eyes on the horse, positioning myself to herd him towards the hole in the fence.
“Come on, love. Let’s go.” I kept my voice low.
The black horse started towards the opposite side of the road.
I stretched to my full height, flicked the rope wide, brought it back, then sent it to the ground a few feet from the horse’s tail.
With a snort and a buck, the gelding took off. He jumped the ditch, streaked through the hole in the fence, and caught up with his friends who were already halfway across the field.
The logger let off his brakes and rolled forward, his window down. “You could’ve killed someone with that pass you pulled back there,” he grumbled.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” I said. “Got the horses off the road for ya, though.”
The man eyed the gash in the fence and pulled away with a sneer. Like he would’ve rather hit them.
“Asshole.” I stared after the retreating claw-like trailer, filled with trees that should’ve been left in the forest to grow.
Back at my truck, I shook my head. The horse had done a fair bit of damage. The dent on my door came with a scrape that exposed the metal beneath the paint.
Great. Now that would rust, too.
Sigh. I lived on a farm. But the dent added to my frazzled nerves, added to all the things that nagged at me as I tossed my horse stick in the bed and began rummaging through my tool bag for pliers.
“Shit!” I remembered why I was going to town in the first place and leaned into the front to retrieve my phone. I hopped to the road to pace as I dialed. The studio owner answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Carly. It’s Emma.”
“Emma, where are you? Your class starts in eighteen minutes.” She spoke in a hushed voice, strained behind a smile I knew was for the clients already arriving, rolling out their mats and getting their props.
“Yeah, well, there was a herd of horses on the road and my truck is in the ditch.” It wasn’t actually stuck in the ditch, but she didn’t need to know that. “I was hoping you could find subs for me.”
“That’s the second time this week.” Her disapproval came through clear.
“Sorry about that,” I said, but I wasn’t. I knew she could do it. She’d teach the first class and pocket my commission, then have instructors fresh from the latest teacher training cover my other two classes for a fraction of what I would’ve earned. I gladly gave up the money for the luxury of avoiding a room full of students, and said goodbye to Carly.
A fence needed fixing. Horses on a road were bad news.
Inside the truck, I slid into a pair of jeans and traded my tight spandex tank for by a faded purple t-shirt with a tribal raven design. Boots and jacket on, I climbed out of the cab and tipped myself over the black plastic liner of the truck bed. I’d been fixing fences with Bronwyn—my landlord and best friend—a couple of days ago. Sure enough, I had a roll of wire.
Vooosh. A car sped by. The sagebrush rustled, fragrant after the recent rain. I pushed strands of hair out of my face and went to see what I was dealing with.
When I got close, it was clear the hole had been cut intentionally. Heavy gauge wire fencing hung from the nearest posts, sharp on the ground. Cut straight through.
Who would’ve cut a fence like this? Bronwyn’s fence had once been snipped by snowmobilers who tore through her field on a booze-inspired full-moon joyride, but that was only three wires. Putting a hole in this monster of a fence would’ve taken serious effort—or a power tool.
I’d heard rumors about trouble at Wolff Ranch. Now I had proof.
Damn. The horses eyed me warily from where they grazed, maybe a hundred metres away. I needed to sew up that hole.
With leather gloves on my hands and pliers in my back pocket, I went to one of the fence ends and tried to pick it up one-handed. Fail. Even with two hands, I struggled with its unwieldy weight and eight-foot height. Accompanied by a good deal of grunting and cursing, I battled to bring the two sides into a reasonably straight position. I could’ve used a hand, but the sparse traffic whipped by on the road. No one stopped.
I pulled the single wire through each row of rigid, heavy gage wire rectangles, making metal stitches. My skin grew hot as I labored, trying to get as much tension as I could. The patch job would work to keep the animals in, but the jagged zigzag wasn’t going to be pretty.
As I worked, my brooding mind spun around the problem I’d been wrestling with for the past week: how the man I’d trusted the most turned out to be a fraud.
Last Monday afternoon, a colleague of my teacher, Victor Patron, had set up a website meant for revenge. The damning site was only up for a few hours, but that had been long enough to expose Patron as a shady businessman, and apparently a sex addict.
When I’d followed the link that had the yoga community in an uproar, my naive assumption that Patron lived the principles he taught was shattered. I’d scrolled in shock through the accusations and dropped my jaw at the X-rated photo gallery of his “ecstasy experiment.”
The orgasmic images looped through my mind even now. One after another. I didn’t know what part of it was more perverse: that I knew half the people in the pictures, or that some part of me felt left out. Everything I’d learned from those brave enough to talk about the experiment had been positive, but I was torn between wanting to know more and wanting to push anything connected with Patron as far away as possible.
Grappling with the fence helped. The task pulled me into the moment. I had to stand on my tiptoes to do the top, and I couldn’t reach the last two squares of fence, but whatever. It was better than a hole.
Pride surged through me, along with a dangerous sense of entitlement. Surely fixing the fence warranted a chance to hang out with the horses I’d herded to safety. I’d wanted to explore this land since moving here.
I stashed the wire and pliers in my truck, locked it, and returned to the fence. A red and white sign frowned from twelve feet away, but the post in front of me stood naked. Gloves on, I used the six-inch squares in the fence to scale up, hanging on as it wobbled. At the top, I placed my foot on the flat surface of the post, pivoted my body, and scrambled down the other side.
As my foot hit the ground, I heard a truck coming down the switchbacks.
Chest pounding, I sprinted towards the creek. This spooked the horses, who went cantering over the field. They crossed upstream while I ducked behind a tree, where the cackle of water became louder than the sound of the road. Screened from the highway, I found a downed log, stepped across, and pursued the animals at a slower pace.
I caught up to the horses near a copse of trees, but to walk among them I had to expose myself. I chanced it. The likelihood of someone seeing me was slim, and if I put the horses between my body and the road, I’d have more cover.
Blue-grey clouds loomed over the valley towards town, but the sun shone in the foreground, giving the mountains a golden glow that contrasted with the weather beyond. The horses and I stood in shadow, blending into the dull green-gold of the grass.
Or so I hoped.
An old brown gelding lifted his head in curiosity, ears forward. I eased my hand out, and he came up for a sniff. My first friend.
Walking in the herd. That was my thing. Most days I spent time with Bronwyn’s horses on Coyote Ranch, where I lived, but this herd had always tempted me.
The black horse approached—the one with flakes of red paint on his hoof. Again I noted the spry, inquisitive look about him. I guessed he was two, maybe three years old? Tall. He had a full mane and big bones. Possibly a draft breed.
The owner of Wolff Ranch seemed to like large horses. He had a pair of Clydesdales, a showy Gypsy Vanner, and a goliath beauty I guessed was a Shire horse.
I got so wrapped up sweet-talking the gelding that I forgot to watch my back. The animal tensed and looked over my shoulder towards the hill above, and my stomach dropped as I turned to look.
The driver of a silver pickup glared at me across the distance. The full-sized truck kicked up dust as it barrelled down the side of the hill. When the road curved away, the driver veered onto the field. Toward me.
I stood stone still.
Massive gratitude to anyone who took the time to read that whole chapter!
Good luck to all the writers entering the contest, and big love to all the readers! :)
Peace. @katrina-ariel
(Images mine unless otherwise credited.)
Author bio: Katrina Ariel is an old-soul rebel, musician, tree-hugging yogini, and mama bear to twins. Author of Yoga for Dragon Riders (non-fiction) and Wild Horse Heart (romance), she's another free-spirit swimming in the ocean of Steemit.
dragon art: Liiga Smilshkalne
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