On The 7th Day

by Zack Murphy

  *****

  The dust whirled and kicked up as a gust of wind rushed through the stables of the Vier Bylae Ranch about two hundred miles southeast of Dire Dawa, Ethiopia in the Ogaden Desert. Onaiwu Iyare stroked and patted the horses; they had been unusually jumpy these past few days.

  Onaiwu had taken to sleeping in the stables to keep a keen watch over his trusted wards. For ninety-six generations the Iyare family had been entrusted with the safety and grooming of four horses for a small business named CWF&D Inc.

  No one had ever met any representative from the firm but implicit directions for the care and breeding of the horses were carefully laid out and monthly checks to cover all the costs were delivered very promptly.

  One white Arabian horse, one black stallion, a red Clydesdale, and a pale Akhal-Teke were to be housed in a black and gold stable separate from all the other horses. When one of the secluded died another pure bred from the same lineage would take its place, the horses were well kept and fed, and above all else to be respected.

  This is how it had happened for ninety six generations and Onaiwu was very skilled at keeping the family business humming along with the precision of a Swiss watch.

  It was hot and dry and the sun was directly overhead. Ethiopia was a natural oven and the long hours on the ranch made for some unpleasant times around the heaps baking horse manure. The heat was one thing, the smell made for a lifetime of wondering why all your meals tasted a bit like a sick badger.

  Onaiwu called for another rancher, his cousin Abebe, a skilled horse whisperer. Adebe headed over to the black and gold stable to give Onaiwu a second opinion on the Clydesdale named Selam.

  Selam was big, beautiful and powerful, who until the last few days had been genial and temperate. Recently it had seemed to get more and more temperamental as each hour under the Ethiopian sun slipped by.

  “I do not know what is wrong is Selam, cousin. She has become the horse of a warrior and demands to be taken into battle.” Worried Onaiwu.

  Abebe put his head to hers and closed his eyes. A river of silence echoed through the stable as the man and beast became one thought.

  “This is not Selam.”

  “Of course it is Selam; I was with her all night. I would know my horses anywhere.”

  “I mean, it is not the Selam we know. She has changed her spirit. She is not what she always was.”

  “What is she now?”

  “War,” said Abebe.

  The two cousins looked at each other with confused stares. Onaiwu gently brushed the horse’s long red mane and it gave a mighty neigh. He peered into its eyes and could see only blackness in what had been the gentlest of horse’s soul. He scanned the rest of the stable, his gaze affixing to each horse individually. There had been a change, but it was getting to the full moon and many animals were apt to show a change in personality. This was different.

  A clamor came from outside the stables and Onaiwu and Abebe rushed out to see. a helicopter circled overhead and landed a few hundred feet from the entrance to the ranch.

  Onaiwu shielded the sun from his eyes with his hand as he watched a man climb out from inside and start towards him. The man was out of place in the African dessert; he wore a very expensive Italian suit made of cloths Onaiwu had never seen before and was carrying a leather briefcase he wore shackled to his wrist by handcuffs. Abebe ran to meet up with his cousin and the stranger, but stopped when without looking, Onaiwu put up his hand to yield his cousin from coming any closer.

  With the whirr of the helicopter’s blades coming to a rest the man removed his sunglasses, revealing the most magnificent crystal blue eyes. He was pale-skinned and fair-haired and, even with being dressed in exquisite garments, and reasonably never having met a sun ray he liked, he somehow didn’t seem out of place.

  “Mr. Iyare?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m from the firm.”

  “Yes”

  “CWF&D.”

  “Yes?” Onaiwu had never expected this day to happen. It wasn’t a good omen. And the steeds he had been entrusted with weren’t exactly visitor ready.

  “We need to talk.”

  Onaiwu nodded in acceptance and motioned for the man to follow him as he led him towards the stables. He grabbed a handful of oats and fed them to Selam; as it nibbled the treats from his palm he stroked her glorious red coat and smiled.

  “This is Selam; she is very good.”

  “She’s a beautiful horse Mr. Iyare,” said Mr. Reed. An Italian, Onaiwau deducted by his accent. Mr. Reed spoke slowly and clearly, he spoke not as if to a child, but like a man whose job it was diffusing bombs while the Russian mob stood over him threatening to cut off his thumbs if they all blew up. He was well educated and better bred, much like Onaiwu’s horses. He could tell if Mr. Reed had papers they’d all be in order.

  “Fikre,” said Onaiwu pointing to the White Arabian, “he’s a handsome horse, well taken care of. Very nice and well behaved.”

  “I’m sure she is, but--”

  “Desta,” Onaiwu racing over and grabbing the bridle of the Black Stallion, “he’s a very good worker, very strong, very fast.”

  “Mr. Iyare--”

  “This-- this is Brehane; she is the best of all. Never tires, never gets upset, she is the perfect horse.

  “They are beautiful creatures. A fine legacy for you and your family.” Mr. Reed said serendipitously.

  “I am getting the impression that this is not merely the once every two thousand years inspection, Mr. Reed?” said Onaiwu, hoping that this wasn’t the day Mr. Reed came to close the ranch he and his family had run for 96 generations.

  “You know that CWF&D have greatly appreciated all the work your family has put into the business these past few thousand years. But the time has come that we must close up shop and bring the ranch to an end.”

  “We have worked very hard here for you, my family and I for many years,” he begged. “We have no place to go. This is our home.”

  “And I understand, but the time is nigh for us to go in our separate directions. We need these four. The other horses are yours and your men to keep.”

  “Thank you, but--”

  “Also,” said Mr. Reed setting the briefcase down on a bale of hay and opening it up, pulling out a slip of paper, “this is for your generations of loyalty to the firm.”

  Onaiwu took it and looked it over. He looked it over some more. He looked at Mr. Reed, who smiled. He looked at the paper again to double check that what he was reading was not a hallucination, and decided that even it was a hallucination he would take it. Because twenty million dollars was a whole lot of money where he was from.

  “That’s to be divided up between your men; I believe you have thirteen at last count, so that comes to roughly a little over 1.5 million each.”

  “Thank you.” Onaiwu wanted to say more. ‘Thank you’ just doesn’t seem the proper response for a certified check for twenty million dollars. He concluded there was probably no real way to respectably thank him and Mr. Reed didn’t seem like the type of guy who needed extra reassurance.

  “I do need your men to be out of the ranch by dark today if that’s all right with you.”

  “Yes.” Nodded Onaiwu.

  “And one other thing Mr. Iyare?”

  “Yes, anything.”

  “My firm will be sending out some people to collect these four horses in the next couple days. It would much appreciated if you, and only you, would stay and look after them until they arrive?”

  “Yes, yes.” Nodded Onaiwu.

  “Very good. It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Iyare. I wish you luck in your future endeavors, whatever those may entail.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And oh, Mr. Iyare?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wouldn’t invest the money; it would just go to waste sitting in some bank. Go out and have a good time Do things you have always dreamed on doing. Remember, money doesn’t last forever,” said Mr. Reed putting his
sunglasses back on. “And neither do we.”

  And with that Mr. Reed disappeared into the helicopter. He watched the happy faces of the men as they crowded around Onaiwu who was waving the check wildly and jumping for joy.

  *****

  Ketty emerged from the bedroom of Barnaby’s penthouse suite. She was wearing one of the hotel’s plush terrycloth bathrobes and a look of pained anguish on her face. Her feet stumbled as they hit the seam in the carpet dividing the two rooms.

  She looked pale and disoriented, using her outstretched arms to try and feel the world around her. The deep purple bags under her eyes and the pattern of the hotel pillow creases lining her face told the story of one woman’s alcohol-fueled bout of trying to keep a pace that would eventually lead to a lifetime of doubts about really happened that night.

  “What time is it?” the words bounced and echoed in her head like tiny jackhammers tearing up a road through her eyeballs.

  “Ten.”

  Barnaby, who was reading the morning paper in a large leather chair by the window, attempted to give a warm and sympathetic smile to his guest, but warm and sympathetic just weren’t his thing.

  For a man who had drunk her under the table he was remarkably lucid and aware of his surroundings. A tray of food sat in the middle of the room and just the sight of the half eaten plate of eggs made Ketty’s stomach curl up in a tsunami of nausea.

  “I can’t believe I slept until ten. I haven’t slept this late since college. Why didn’t you try and wake me up before this?”

  “Oh I’m just kidding you, it’s not ten.”

  “Oh good. So, what time is it?”

  “Noon.”

  “Noon?”

  “Well, twelve fifteen, but I rounded down, seeing that you felt ten was too late to rise and greet the day. Not that by the look of you, the day wanted to be greeted by you. Besides, you had a lot to drink last night.”

  “How did I get here?” she took a good look around and for the first time noticed she wasn’t in her own apartment.” And where the hell am I?”

  “My hotel room.”

  “Your hotel-- oh God.”

  Ketty finally noticed that she was wearing a bathrobe. She pulled back one of the lapels cautiously inquiring to see if what she feared she was wearing beneath the robe was in fact what she was wearing. She saw skin and nothing else. Another wave of nausea filled the pit of her gut.

  “Why am I naked?” she tried to yell, but her head just wouldn’t let her do it. “Wait-- don’t answer that. Wait-- answer that and answer it now, buddy. Wait-- don’t.” if she could she would have slapped him, but the sound of hand slapping face would have sent shockwaves through her brain. “I don’t want to know what happened. I was drunk and things take on a life of their own. But man, I had to be really drunk. I didn’t mean that. You seem like a real nice person or whatever you are, but I just don’t go around--okay, I can’t take it. Why am I naked?”

  “I got you undressed last night when we got back here. It’s not like I haven’t seen a naked person before, you’d be surprised how many people die naked. Thirty-nine percent; that’s a fact you can amuse your friends with at your next dinner party.”

  “What gives you the right to take off my clothes?”

  “Well, I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. You basically started the whole act, going on and on about having to be comfortable, but couldn’t get your shirt over your big head.” He was so nonchalant about the whole experience “It was really quite cute, the way you were trying help me while pawing at me to try to get me to make sweet, sweet love to your body.”

  “I what--?!?” yelled Ketty with a mix of horror and bewilderment.

  “I’m kidding again.” He gave a huge guffaw at his Oscar Wilde type wit. “You passed out, then woke up to throw up all over yourself, then passed out again. I sent your clothes downstairs to get dry cleaned, though I’m not sure what they’ll be able to do. What did you eat yesterday, anyway?”

  “Thank you?” She didn’t feel like on commenting on his query about the food; just the thought of eating anything besides an aspirin and a glass of water made her wish she was dead. “But that still doesn’t give you the right to see me naked.”

  “I’ll remember that the next time you’re laying face down in your own vomit.”

  Ketty wanted to argue the finer points of etiquette but was either too hung over or too embarrassed to delve deeper into the subject matter. She made her way, barely, over to the sofa and lay down, covered her throbbing head with a pillow and inaudibly moaned.

  Barnaby sipped the last few drops of coffee and went back to the paper, where he was learning all about the fascinating world of cat shows. There was one happening that weekend in Orange County where kitties from all over the world would compete to be the best kitty in the world. A title that puzzled someone who had seen cats and had never noticed them to be particularly vain.

  Ketty moaned again under her pillow. He would never understand the intricacies of the human spirit and their inconceivable seeming lack of being able withstand a night of binge drinking. He tossed the paper on the table and walked over to the window, throwing the curtains open, spilling radiant sunlight into the room.

  Ketty felt the warm soft glow on her feet and lowered the pillow from her clenched embrace; the light seeped into her every pore of her body. It then raced to her head, permeating it with the intensity of a balloon being exploded by overfilling it with helium.

  “Time to get up and face the day, Sunshine.” He was really enjoying himself at Ketty’s nauseated expense. “We’ve got a lot to do today and we can’t spend it moping around here like you’ve been continually beaten by a ball peen hammer.”

  “Sledgehammer,” she mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I feel like I’ve been beaten by a sledgehammer.”

  Barnaby smiled from ear to ear and little bit farther around the hairline, “There you go. Now you’re getting in the spirit.”

  *****

  “I don’t know why we’re here. You should be at home resting. We have a plan, and you’re not doing a very good job of following said plan.”

  Dana Plough still wasn’t talking to Satan as they traveled the maze of hallways in the Hilton Hotel and Convention Center. She had been scheduled to give a speech to the Girls for Responsible Undertaking and Making Beloved Ladies Everywhere Society for six months and wasn’t planning on giving up being in the spotlight one last time. It was one of the few chances she got to talk to young women about the trials and hardships she had to endure everyday in the competitive world of national news under the ever-widening scrutiny of men.

  It was really a wonderful day of men-bashing and cookies. A leap back in time to a more innocent age when young girls wore petticoats and joined quilting bees whose greatest form of rebellion was to not use patterns.

  Dana Plough had spent her years from the ages of two to sixteen in a society simply called GRUMBLE, and she counted those days amongst her other GRUMBLE Girls as the only happy experience of her childhood. A young lady dressed in a torn shirt revealing a lacy black bra and velvet skirt, with black lipstick and piercings covering a third of her face came towards them.

  “Just give her room to pass and for God’s sake don’t make eye contact.” It was the first words she had spoken to Satan since the night before. He was happy for the interaction, even though he could tell a wannabe gothic ghoul from the real thing. Dana Plough moved him towards the wall to give the girl plenty of passing room. The girl slowed her pace as she neared the obviously frightened Dana Plough.

  “Dana Plough?’

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Rebecca; I’m here to show you to your dressing room.”

  “You’re with the hotel staff?”

  “No. I’m the secretary of GRUMBLE Girls.”

  “There must be some sort of mistake; I was supposed to speak to the Girls for Responsible Undertaking and Molding Beloved Ladies Everywhere.” Dana Plough did
not like this hussied bastardization of her childhood one bit. Not one little bit.

  “Yes.” Rebecca had a way to chill you with her eyes while melting you with her voice.

  “But--”

  “For some reason I pictured this whole fraternity of girlhood to be different. I was expecting an army of blonde Stepford cheerleaders gnawing through my bones with their high pitched squeals and constant upbeat perkiness,” said Satan with a new found respect for his betrothed.

  “But--”

  “That’s Missy,” stated Rebecca.

  “What’s a Missy?”

  “The president; she’s everything you’d expect and more.”

  “Oh thank the lord!” Dana Plough erupted.

  “I don’t know. I kind of liked Becky here,” replied Satan.

  “Rebecca,” she said as if he had taken her favorite pony and left its head in her bed.

  “I’m so happy to be here,” Dana Plough was starting to perk up at the revelation that this girl was an anomaly, not the norm, “You know I was the Northern California GRUMBLE treasurer three straight years, a record at the time, but I don’t like to toot my own horn.

  ‘But, I was in charge of the highest-grossing Peanut Butter Days in the history of the girls. It was really exciting to be there in the midst of making a great mark on society and outselling those little bitches from the Texas sect. You should have seen the looks on their smug little faces when it was announced we had won, but you probably know all about that. This is a lifelong dream of mine and I’m just so honored to have been asked to speak at your national convention.”

  “Don’t be. We wanted Diane Sawyer, but after what happened last year in New York she wouldn’t touch us with a ten foot pole.”

  “What happened last year?” Dana Plough dreaded the answer.

  “Yes, what did happen?” said Satan anxiously anticipating it.

  “I’ll let Missy tell you about it. It was really her riot and she is one who got hosed down by the cops with pepper spray after they pulled her half-naked and screaming bloody murder off the deputy mayor with a good sized chunk of his hair as a parting gift. But I’ve already said too much, I’ll spoil the story. Here’s your room, you’ve got about twenty five minutes before you’re on.”

  “Thank you Rebecca, this was a wonderful insight on a chapter of Ms. Plough’s history that had somehow escaped the files.”