"When the Dreams End"
-~-
Sequel to "When the Legends Die" by Hal Borland
When legends die, the dreams end. When the dreams end, there is no more greatness.
Tom Black Bull looked back to the direction of Horse Mountain and Bald Mountain. He promised himself he wasn't going to leave the shelter of his lodge. He broke his promise. He damned himself.
The walk to Pagosa sent ripples of pain into him. He thought after working as the sheepherder, his body would be back in order. But he was wrong, the pain stayed. It stayed and taunted him and his mistake. It laughed and cackled as it bought up memories from the accident. It laughed at Devil Tom, laughed as his inability to bring a horse to a stand still when he could have.
But not even the pain from the accident nor the memories stopped Tom. Winter was coming, and he needed a blanket. With four hand-made baskets and a pack on his back filled with smoked meet and dried berries, he walked into the small town of Pagosa. He wore tan leggings and moccasins with an old work shirt on. His black hair hung shoulder length and tied back low with a tin strap of leather. He just ignored the strange looks he got from people passing him by on the streets.
Finally he neared the familiar store owned by Jim Thatcher. As he walked inside he spotted an aged and withered Jim Thatcher behind the counter, sitting on a stool by the cash register. Tom walked up to the counter and placed the baskets on the counter, then walked over to where he saw the blankets. Looking through them, he finally stopped when he spotted a musky red one and took it over with him to the counter.
"Well I'll be damned," Thatcher spoke, "If it an't old Tom Black Bull. Last I heard of you, you were all dressed as fine as any rich man. Now look at you." He let his voice trail off, not wanting to upset his old time costumer. "Fine baskets, won't suspect any less from you." Tom picked out a hunting knife and put it on the counter as well. When Thatcher figured it all worked out as an even trade, he said his good bye to Tom. Tom put the folded blanket and knife in his pack and left the store.
He left with out any words. The sooner he got back to his lodge, the sooner he can go to back to the old days. A brisk wind wrapped around Tom. Gossiping woman and low talking man passed him up on the streets, all ignoring the odd stranger. But it didn't matter to Tom; he was almost out of Pagosa and into the forest that would take him back to his lodge. But he still had a two-day hike to go.
Dead, fallen leafs coated the forest floor and made a slight crunching sound under Tom's feet. As he made his way down the stream he stopped every now and then to rest his aching body and to take a drink. At the first night he camped where he had to leave the stream and waited for the sun to set. After it set he sang the song to the evening and then pulled some jerky out of his pack. He sat on the side of the stream and ate the dried meat, memories haunting his mind.
He went on this trip with his mother, before she passes away. He went down to the shop and watched as she tried in her baskets and got them supplies. That was the winter after his father was killed. That was also before the winter his mother died. He pulled the blanket out of his pack and wrapped it tightly around his body, as though trying to block out the cold, the memories. When the calm of night came and the blackness claimed the sky, he was lulled to sleep huddled away inside his blanket.
Morning's early light woke Tom as a bird sang its song off in the distance. He woke and washed himself in the stream. While the cold water dried from his shivering body, he sang the song to the morning. The words flowed from his mouth slurred and weary from the anguish that claimed Tom. He won't admit it, but his life of solitude and loneliness was starting to break him down.
A part of him still longed to be back in the arena, the hidden part. No, it was not hidden. it was Devil Tom. He was no longer that man; he no longer needed to take pain and frustration out on horses. But part of him still longed for it, still called out for the devil in him. Splashing his face with the chilled water one more time, Tom got out of the stream and prepared for the second day of travel. As he walked he idly chewed on some meat and limped slightly.
With mid day drawing near, Tom knew he was almost home. The long hike through the mountains paid its toll on his body. He just wanted to rest is his lodge. was that all he wanted? Something in the back of his mind screamed, it yelled no and trashed out. He just pushed it aside, shoved it into the far reaches of the shadows of his mind. There was nothing else he wanted. Nothing. It couldn't have been a lie.
Slowly Tom made his way to the first bench of Granite Peak, the place where he built his lodge. It blended perfectly in with the mountainside, one would not be able to see it if they did not know to look for it. He took out his blanket and knife from the pack and put them away. He then started a fire and sat it its warmth, sheepishly staring into the flames. Flames, the flames that burnt down his childhood home and the flames that consumed his old home where he learned to ride broncs.
No! Tom shook his head; he wont let the memories control him anymore. Not anymore! He killed his past. the hunt was over. All he had to live for now was survival; not to ride broncs or to herd sheep, but to just survive like his ancestors did in the old days. That was all that was left to his life now. or was it? Stop it! Tom yelled at himself. Stop thinking like that! He fueled the fire as mid-day died away and the sun started to hide behind the western horizon.
He ate the last of meet and dried berries and sang the song to the evening, not even thinking about why he sang anymore, not even caring anymore. Dullness lingered in the small pine lodge as the fire died down as Tom fell to sleep.
He dreamt he was in the rodeo. A bronc ran out of an open gate and charged at him. It bucked and its hooves were about to fall upon Tom until they fell in front of him and stood still. On it's bareback sat a shadowed person, a woman. The strange woman patted its sweating neck and cooed the horse. She offered a hand to Tom, who took it and jumped onto the horse behind the woman. The arena disappeared and they were in a meadow, the horse gazing on some grass. The woman started to sing the song about the roundness of life. Tom found himself singing along as everything started to swirl into blackness. He woke, cold and shivering.
-~-
Sequel to "When the Legends Die" by Hal Borland
When legends die, the dreams end. When the dreams end, there is no more greatness.
Tom Black Bull looked back to the direction of Horse Mountain and Bald Mountain. He promised himself he wasn't going to leave the shelter of his lodge. He broke his promise. He damned himself.
The walk to Pagosa sent ripples of pain into him. He thought after working as the sheepherder, his body would be back in order. But he was wrong, the pain stayed. It stayed and taunted him and his mistake. It laughed and cackled as it bought up memories from the accident. It laughed at Devil Tom, laughed as his inability to bring a horse to a stand still when he could have.
But not even the pain from the accident nor the memories stopped Tom. Winter was coming, and he needed a blanket. With four hand-made baskets and a pack on his back filled with smoked meet and dried berries, he walked into the small town of Pagosa. He wore tan leggings and moccasins with an old work shirt on. His black hair hung shoulder length and tied back low with a tin strap of leather. He just ignored the strange looks he got from people passing him by on the streets.
Finally he neared the familiar store owned by Jim Thatcher. As he walked inside he spotted an aged and withered Jim Thatcher behind the counter, sitting on a stool by the cash register. Tom walked up to the counter and placed the baskets on the counter, then walked over to where he saw the blankets. Looking through them, he finally stopped when he spotted a musky red one and took it over with him to the counter.
"Well I'll be damned," Thatcher spoke, "If it an't old Tom Black Bull. Last I heard of you, you were all dressed as fine as any rich man. Now look at you." He let his voice trail off, not wanting to upset his old time costumer. "Fine baskets, won't suspect any less from you." Tom picked out a hunting knife and put it on the counter as well. When Thatcher figured it all worked out as an even trade, he said his good bye to Tom. Tom put the folded blanket and knife in his pack and left the store.
He left with out any words. The sooner he got back to his lodge, the sooner he can go to back to the old days. A brisk wind wrapped around Tom. Gossiping woman and low talking man passed him up on the streets, all ignoring the odd stranger. But it didn't matter to Tom; he was almost out of Pagosa and into the forest that would take him back to his lodge. But he still had a two-day hike to go.
Dead, fallen leafs coated the forest floor and made a slight crunching sound under Tom's feet. As he made his way down the stream he stopped every now and then to rest his aching body and to take a drink. At the first night he camped where he had to leave the stream and waited for the sun to set. After it set he sang the song to the evening and then pulled some jerky out of his pack. He sat on the side of the stream and ate the dried meat, memories haunting his mind.
He went on this trip with his mother, before she passes away. He went down to the shop and watched as she tried in her baskets and got them supplies. That was the winter after his father was killed. That was also before the winter his mother died. He pulled the blanket out of his pack and wrapped it tightly around his body, as though trying to block out the cold, the memories. When the calm of night came and the blackness claimed the sky, he was lulled to sleep huddled away inside his blanket.
Morning's early light woke Tom as a bird sang its song off in the distance. He woke and washed himself in the stream. While the cold water dried from his shivering body, he sang the song to the morning. The words flowed from his mouth slurred and weary from the anguish that claimed Tom. He won't admit it, but his life of solitude and loneliness was starting to break him down.
A part of him still longed to be back in the arena, the hidden part. No, it was not hidden. it was Devil Tom. He was no longer that man; he no longer needed to take pain and frustration out on horses. But part of him still longed for it, still called out for the devil in him. Splashing his face with the chilled water one more time, Tom got out of the stream and prepared for the second day of travel. As he walked he idly chewed on some meat and limped slightly.
With mid day drawing near, Tom knew he was almost home. The long hike through the mountains paid its toll on his body. He just wanted to rest is his lodge. was that all he wanted? Something in the back of his mind screamed, it yelled no and trashed out. He just pushed it aside, shoved it into the far reaches of the shadows of his mind. There was nothing else he wanted. Nothing. It couldn't have been a lie.
Slowly Tom made his way to the first bench of Granite Peak, the place where he built his lodge. It blended perfectly in with the mountainside, one would not be able to see it if they did not know to look for it. He took out his blanket and knife from the pack and put them away. He then started a fire and sat it its warmth, sheepishly staring into the flames. Flames, the flames that burnt down his childhood home and the flames that consumed his old home where he learned to ride broncs.
No! Tom shook his head; he wont let the memories control him anymore. Not anymore! He killed his past. the hunt was over. All he had to live for now was survival; not to ride broncs or to herd sheep, but to just survive like his ancestors did in the old days. That was all that was left to his life now. or was it? Stop it! Tom yelled at himself. Stop thinking like that! He fueled the fire as mid-day died away and the sun started to hide behind the western horizon.
He ate the last of meet and dried berries and sang the song to the evening, not even thinking about why he sang anymore, not even caring anymore. Dullness lingered in the small pine lodge as the fire died down as Tom fell to sleep.
He dreamt he was in the rodeo. A bronc ran out of an open gate and charged at him. It bucked and its hooves were about to fall upon Tom until they fell in front of him and stood still. On it's bareback sat a shadowed person, a woman. The strange woman patted its sweating neck and cooed the horse. She offered a hand to Tom, who took it and jumped onto the horse behind the woman. The arena disappeared and they were in a meadow, the horse gazing on some grass. The woman started to sing the song about the roundness of life. Tom found himself singing along as everything started to swirl into blackness. He woke, cold and shivering.