Keeper'n Me
Page 26
He felt the hand against his back. He felt the man’s bulk pinned to that point and the greater part of his weight leaned toward it. Left. The bull understood the direction intuitively and knew that the man would struggle to maintain his position, the rest of his body, toward the hand. He twisted violently the opposite way.
See Four spun, once, twice, three times, four times in a delirious circle, kicking, bucking, head and shoulder rolling away from the strength of the hand on his back. Just at the height of the spin’s energy he halted it, kicked twice, arched his back and bucked before spinning back to the hand side. The clank of the bell spiked into the centre of his head, frenzied him, enraged him further, and he knew when the man was gone the sound would disappear. So he spun. He spun and kicked and bucked against the bright whirl of the lights, the roar of the people far away across the ocean of dirt and the splash of colour of the other men bounding and leaping around his mad tear. He rolled his great head at them, bawled loudly and thrashed his horns from side to side while kicking and throwing his rear the opposite direction.
That’s when he felt it. The slip, the loss of contact. The feel of air between the slamming buttocks of the man and his spine. He began to work the air. He ignored the man and focused his rage on that pocket of air, trying to increase it, stretch it, enlarge it, use it to separate the man from the rope around his shoulders. He drove all four hooves clear of the ground in a wild, hurtling leap that drew screams from those faraway people and a deep grunt from the man on his back. When his hooves slammed back into the earth he spun again and as he did, he kicked out, leaned away from the glove and felt the air pop open and he knew he’d won.
He spun twice then reversed it. When he did he felt the man float free, felt him take to the air except for the hand that stayed tight to the rope. This confused the bull. The weight was suddenly gone from his back but presented itself now, unpredictably, at his side with a hard knock in the ribs as the man slammed into his flank, the pressure of the hand pulling fiercely to that side. He kicked and spun the other way, determined to end this. He felt the man dragged along. There were others now. The brightly coloured men were racing about screaming in man talk and waving at the bull and others yelling and running and flailing their hats in his face.
The ancient scent was high in the air and the bull knew that this moment was the moment of challenge, of change, of fate and destiny. Every kick, every rise and fall of shoulders and haunches and torso was reduced to a silent roll, a trickle of motion, and even the terrible bawl that erupted from his throat spread across the air like the wave of tall grass in a light breeze. He felt the man’s feet slump along through the dirt, dragged, hauled, torn along, and still the pressure of the hand in the rope around his shoulders stayed where it was. He felt blood in his nostrils, behind his eyes, and he kicked as never before to free himself, then rose and fell in silent time and the bull felt the body twist around the arm, felt the back of the man’s head thump against its shoulder, felt a tearing, a separation somewhere above the hand and it worked that separation like it had worked the pocket of air before. It rolled its back toward the man and then away and it felt the hand give, felt the rope slip and the horrible clank drop away to be smothered in the dirt.
The bull kicked and spun in celebration of its freedom and the men raced around it trying to get to the man who lay in a heap on the ground. They disconcerted him. He wanted the quiet of the chute that led out of the arena now but the men darting around his head made it hard for him to find it. He speared his horns at them to clear them from his way. He kicked. The crowd roared and he saw the man he’d flung from his back try to stand. A hat was waved in his face and he charged at it. When his vision cleared all the bull could see was the man he’d thrown and the chute he wanted into beyond him. He charged toward it. He felt the puffy give of flesh and the snap of bone as he charged over the man and he kicked backwards once when he was past it and felt the dull thunk of contact. The crowd noise was shrill and hard on his ears and See Four trotted heavily into the chute to escape. As he moved deeper into the shadowed recess he felt time regain itself, reassert itself, and he calmed gradually, glad of the escape.
In the arena time was still in disarray.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Wagamese is an Ojibway whose early life bears some resemblance to that of Garnet Raven. An award-winning author, Wagamese has also lectured and worked extensively in both radio and television news and documentary. He lives outside Kamloops, British Columbia.