This story started with a name. It was a game played at another forum - here is a name, write a story. Somehow I thought it has been my Western Submission here and it was not in my writings folder, so I assumed it was gone. This story was written in one go.

Old and New


The setting sun made his hair glow an even deeper red and his freckles stand out on his pale skin like the spots on a ladybug. Angus McTwist was not cut out to be a cowboy. He knew it. Everyone knew it. He was not big enough, strong enough, hard enough. But he never lacked for work. The word was out. Hire Angus. You will not regret it. Because, for some reason, the cows loved him. They would turn when he did, stop when he did, follow him anywhere. A cattle drive with Angus in front never lost a cow, or had a stampede. This, however, was the time of day when Angus's popularity became a bit of a nuisance. Angus could not camp with the other cowboys. He could not sit at the campfire telling lies and stories and bawdy jokes. He had to be out with the cows. Someplace a bit higher than them, so he would not get trod on. Usually he ended up sleeping on his horse in the middle of the herd. Once he tried to camp next to the fire and the cows stamped the fire out trying to be near him. Worse, they flattened the coffeepot. It was a full week before they were able to get a replacement. All the cowboys took to chewing coffee beans, and glaring at Angus, to stay awake.

So, Angus and the cows communed under the stars. It was quiet, dusty and warm in the middle of the herd. All those bodies whuffling and shifting muffled the outside noises so he was surprised to hear a voice at his hip. Even more so as the cows usually got alarmed when anyone other than Angus walked through them, yet they were calm and kept on whuffling and shifting. He could not understand the words she spoke, but assumed she was a local Indian. It was odd for anyone to be out at this time of night, even odder for a woman, and odder still as he did not think they were near any villages. The moonlight reflected off her eyes like a cat's in a dark room lit by a candle. Her hair hung down past her shoulders and he had the fleeting impression that she wore no clothes. Then he realized he must be dreaming. There was no way that a beautiful Indian woman would be talking to him in the middle of a herd of cattle in the middle of the night. She spoke again and put her hand on his thigh. "What a real dream!" Angus thought. "I can feel her hand as sure as day!" Then he realized that now he could understand her.

"What is your name, Spirit?" she said to him. "I have not seen your kind before."

"I am not a spirit, I am a man." Angus replied. "Why do you think I am a spirit?"

"I can see you. You are a spirit. You have an animal soul, but are man shaped. You are not Coyote. I know his smell. You are not Crow or Turtle or Deer. I have never seen horns so large on any spirit."

Angus did not know how to reply. This was the strangest dream. But as she said "horns" he had felt a weight on his head, as though large horns were there. As he turned his head he could feel them cutting the air.

He dismounted from his horse so as to get a better look at this strange woman. But his height did not change. He still towered over her and had the feeling of four legs instead of two. She took his hand in her hand that was not human, but fur and feather and scale. A word came to his mind, ancient and lost. Auroch. He was Auroch. How had he forgotten? The plains became woods, cold and brittle and far away. He was far from home, but this was his new home. He bellowed in his spirit voice. The cows shifted and went back to sleep.

The next morning Angus's horse, with empty saddle, was still in the middle of the herd. Hoof prints, as large as dinner plates, cut deeply into the turf, headed towards the mountains and then faded away. Smaller, lighter footprints that could not be quite identified accompanied them. Angus became a story told late at night, at the campfire that he had never been able to enjoy.

And another story that started with a name. This one is for the Beaches.

Suzette LeBlanc was the kind of mulatto that made men cross the line. Her hips were wide, her waist delicate without benefit of corset and her bosom swelled delicately under the plain muslim shift she wore when when cleaning the floors. Mamon watched her with an eagle eye, for of all her daughters and granddaughters, Suzette was the one she had hopes for. Mamon would find her some young gent, with a fine restaurant or a haberdashery, who could keep her safe from the rousties that invaded New Orleans every night looking for a bit of sport and to be gone in the morning.

Suzette, however, had other plans. She watched the comings and goings, boats, wagons, even those on foot, and knew in her heart that there was more to the world than this soggy city. Her chance came unexpectedly. Mamon was down with the fever or it never would have happened. Suzette packed her bag and waited for the young man to return. One week. Two weeks. Two months and Suzette knew that now she had to go.
Suzette had never made wages working for Mamon, but she knew where the egg money was kept. She took only as much as she figured would get her to St. Louis. She had figured carefully. Fare for the riverboat, and the barest amount of food. At St. Louis she could get a job. Maybe watching children or cooking. Once she made a stake she could head west.

It was easier than she thought it would be. Mamon was still ailing and was not up at the crack of dawn as was her wont. Suzette made it to the boat in plenty of time and found a quiet place on the deck facing away from the city that had been all she knew. When the big wheels started to turn and the whistle blasted it was like the world had been made anew.

Suzette had seen many families on board and gotten friendly with them. One father with four children under the age of five had gratefully hired her on the spot. When the fever taken his wife, he had decided to sell everything and head back up the river to Minnesota to meet up with family. Suzette took on rocking the babies and changing them and told them stories for most of the trip. She had never heard of Minnesota, but when the father asked her to continue on with them she said yes. Minnesota sounded to be as far away from New Orleans as you could get. He paid her fare to stay on the boat and up the river she went. Past cities and towns and miles of nothing. As it got colder and colder she found an Indian blanket and stayed wrapped in it all the time. Partly to stay warm. Partly to hide the truth.

Minnesota was wooded and wild, full of farmers, hunters and trappers. The journey there had worn away her old identity, just as it had those who came before. No one was from Minnesota, save the few sad Indians who begged for whiskey and pennies. Most people assumed she was also Indian and she did nothing to dissuade the notion. She took the new name of Suzy Blanket which somehow fit her much better than Suzette LaBlanc ever had. And so she became a Minnesotan. And eventually the bride of a Minnesotan. And the mother of many Minnesotans who later swore they were part Cherokee.

Gots to like stories about Aurochs. I enjoyed that for other reasons, though. In general, liked
the idea that cows liked the guy and cowboys not so much. Heh, chewing coffee beans.

Suzy Blanket was nice, too. I did get a little confused in the second to last paragraph, though.
Thought we had shifted from Suzy to the fever wife in the fourth sentence. Then I went back
and figured out the wife had died. Replace "So she rocked the babies" with "So Suzette rocked
his babies" That would've helped me, but the original might not throw anyone else.

Is fixed now. Spruced up.

Yes, I really like the Auroch story. It still calls to me.

I have tweaked the Auroch story, because I am going to be reading it this week to an audience who probably have no clue what Aurochs are.

I changed this paragraph:


He dismounted from his horse so as to get a better look at this strange woman. But his height barely changed. He still towered over her and had the feeling of four legs instead of two. She took his hand in her hand that was not human, but fur and feather and scale. A word came to his mind, ancient and lost. Auroch. He was Auroch. How had he forgotten? The plains became woods, cold and brittle and far away. The path on which he stood was as wide as the the spread of his horns. This was HIS forest! He was the ancient one, the god of the cattle, gone from this earth for many years. He was painted on the dim walls of caves. He was a fierce prey, with sharp horns aimed forward and a barrel chest. He was far from his old world, but this was his new one. He bellowed in his spirit voice and was on the praire once more. The cows shifted and went back to sleep. In this new world cattle were not hunted to extinction. Cattle was king. And he was their God.


What do you think?

I like it. Here's a few more details you might be able to work in:

Compared to modern cattle: long slender legs, higher shoulders, longer skulls for longer horns
likely inhabited wetter areas than normal cattle, grazing normal cattle food plus chewed twigs/acorns
Other traits: reddish brown cows, dark brown black bulls (with white spinal stripe)


Good luck with the reading.

Thanks! It is an unusual venue - a talent show for Short North employees and business owners. Most of the acts are just that - acts. Musicians, singers, dancers. Last year we had a stand up comic for the first time. (She did a rape joke which did not go over well.) No one has ever done spoken word. I hope I don't get pelted with rotten tomatoes.

Well… you'll likely be better than the rape joke, anyway.