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Ali Zán And True Love
(In Hispania Order Here)

A scruffy Arabian colt of the mountains of Latin America is purchased by North American Tracer Montrose the morning his wife, Constance, angrily packs to leave him. The horse being a gift that Constance cannot check for her flight home, she delays her departure. She names him Ali Zán—and soon encounters a herd of his kin fleeing a highland inferno. Tracer unites equestrian club riders and dirt tough cowboys to save the animals. The social change this collaboration unleashes creates as many conflicts as the biases it frees - especially when the mismatched bunch form a trail riding and outback racing club. Meanwhile, the purchase of Napoleon and True Love causes a cramp in Ali Zán's stable space. These older horses are bright and abrasive, strong and fearless, and champion the outback equine during nerve-wracking cuts, jumps, and sprints. Tracer and Constance, rider novices who unknowingly live within the power of a Jungian mandala, persist upon the backs of their steeds within the club arena and along the outback abyss, as well. But their horses poorly manage long-pent demands to achieve maddened equine goals. Their competitive spirits turn upon them. They find that neither rider nor trail obstruct them; that their devils must be accosted elsewhere. The youthful Ali Zán interprets this heart-rending tale by which horse and human are ridden, driven, and, often, bound.

Cultural Changes Messengered

Cultural anthropology finds rich ground in Latin America where social issues relevant to the culture of Hispanics are introduced to two North Americans who encounter both horse slaughter and the taste of lost love in the outback - where the picaresque lives of Spanish literature arrive on stage, and Author Caló offers a new diet for literary criticism.

The Mountains Above Tegucigalpa, Honduras

     The first thing I remember is Father and fire. And it was with Father that I would come to know much, much more about fire in all of its forms and with all of its untamed aftermaths. To this day, I rank the two equal in power—though certainly not in sentiment.
     It was the dry season in Jardin de Los Santos, high in the mountains of Honduras, the afternoon that something, somehow happened, and I stepped fully into consciousness.
     Criáda and I walked alongside the road behind Don Justo. We tried to avoid the ditch and still elude the dust that occasional passing vehicles threw upon us. As we walked, Criáda explained the smoke which rose from the horizon to the north; how the smoke came as a product of fire, and how fire worked to refresh pasture and field.
     During Criáda’s lecture we heard a truck approach from behind. Its metal body banged against itself as it negotiated the ruts of the roadway. We squeezed more tightly onto the shoulder and awaited an onslaught of dust.
     But no dust came. The vehicle—a pickup truck—slowed. It lingered beside us as we walked. The driver eyed us curiously. We eyed him the same. After a few more steps, we guessed he might want to speak to us, so we stopped. Sure enough, he drove to the shoulder and halted, too.
     The driver was Father—known locally as Tracer Montrose—a North American, a strongly built man with dark hair, grayish eyes, and skin five times lighter than the Honduran cowboys with whom I was familiar. Somehow, from his gait and the way he held his mouth, I sensed him to be a determined man—not quite broken.
     He stepped from his truck, leaned upon the opened door, and looked at me. Then he looked at Criáda; then back at me. Mostly he looked at me.
     He tossed the door closed and approached.
     "That’s a pretty little colt you have there," he said in awkward Spanish to Don Justo.
     He pointed at me.
     "Yep," Don Justo replied.
     He smiled proudly at me, took up my rope, and delivered the first pat on my head I ever remembered him to give me.
     "She’s the dam?" Father asked and nodded toward Criáda.
     "Yep," Don Justo answered.
     "But she’s white and he’s . . . well . . . " He squinted at me. "Unnatural. Really unnatural."
     "I call the color Castilian clay, señor—a little silver, a little gold. But he’ll turn white like the dam when he grows older."
     "But I don’t like white horses," Father said.
     "Actually, he probably won’t change color. They usually don’t." Don Justo frowned at Father. "Why do you ask? Do you study horses for your gringo bank nowadays?"
     Father shrugged. He petted my head, put a real serious look on his face, and walked around me like he inspected a machine.
     "You’d think my bank work tedious, señor. Why don’t we talk instead about my purchase of this handsome colt." He dropped his serious look and chuckled. I liked the way his eyes twinkled along with his laugh—full of life, eager about living. "My wife and I had a particularly harsh argument last night—one of those once-every-three-year kinds."
     "Hmm. Serious."
     "Yes. She pulled out her suitcases. She has packed all day. She said she intends to leave me—to return to the United States."
     "I’m sorry to hear that, señor. But how does that relate to this beast?"
     "I need to buy her a gift. A horse would be the perfect thing."
     Don Justo grinned.
     "I understand, señor. She’ll need to stay and care for it . . . along with you."
     "Exactly."
     The North American rubbed his hand along my shoulder and back, then ran his thumb through a patch of my coat as if he counted each hair.
     "So, he won’t change color?"
     "Absolutely not," Don Justo said.
     "What about his blood? Is it good?"
     "The best in Jardin de Los Santos, señor."
     Father peered at Criáda, who, by then bored, picked at grass around the base of a fence post. He frowned. Criáda did not make a pretty picture of a horse, even though I loved her. She carried scars from the nips and kicks of the uncultured equines with whom we shared life along the roadside, and from old fly and tick bites, the infections of which garnished her coat with hairless blemishes and knotty cysts.
     "What blood would that be?" Father asked.
     "Various. The best of mixed breeds."
     "And the stallion . . . the sire?"
     "A fine horse, señor. Large. Er . . . Castilian clay, like the colt. Always agleam like a new coin in noonday light."
     "You stable him at your house? Could I see him?"
     Don Justo chuckled with embarrassment.
     "I’m sorry, señor, but no. The sire travels in other parts. The last time I saw him was a week ago—behind the church. He trimmed the plots in the cemetery."
     Father groaned. He petted me again. I sensed a powerful hand.
     "Well, this is a healthy one. How much do you want for him?"
     Don Justo wrinkled his face. I wrinkled mine, too.
     "Four-hundred fifty Lempiras."
     I gasped. Four-hundred fifty Lempiras was four-hundred Lempiras over my value in even the best horse market.
     "That makes forty-five dollars!" Father replied.
     "Yes, señor. This stallion carries a value of at least one-thousand Lempiras in any market on earth."
     He spoke with a straight face. I gave up on logic. I expanded my chest proudly and tucked my chin in classic pose.
     Father thought a moment. His eyes moved as he did so. I could tell he counted. Then he stepped back and concentrated upon my aesthetics.
     "Can my wife ride him right away?"
     Don Justo peered at me and lied straight into my face.
     "Certainly."
     I knew he lied because my cousin Baby was nine months old just like me, and Criáda told me they wouldn’t put a full load of produce on her until she reached two years old. I figured maybe that was because she was a filly. Still, I looked at the size of Father and hoped like hell his wife was a midget—especially if she might think to ride me.
     Father made a guttural sound.
     "Four-hundred fifty Lempiras sounds too high. I’ll give you four-hundred—no more. And you deliver."
     "To Arcos Iris—the old tannery?" Don Justo asked.
     "That’s right."
     "Good. I’ll deliver him now."
     "Now, immediately? Or now, later?"
     I knew my new master would understand me. He showed a native Honduran intelligence.
     "Now. Immediately. After my last stop at Don Menúdo’s store."
     "It will be nightfall in three hours."
     "I know, señor. But today you are lucky. We came up from the market early today, which allows me to say ‘yes’ without a doubt."
     Father opened his wallet. He handed Don Justo a wad of bills plus a receipt he scribbled upon a remnant of paper bag he found near the fence. Don Justo signed the receipt, transferred the document back to Father, and stuffed the money into his pocket. He grinned the entire time. Once, he looked at me and winked.
     The deal done, Father returned to his pickup and opened the door. He paused and called back.
     "And what do they call him?"
     "Petunia," Don Justo replied.
     "Petunia?"
     "Yes. A flower."
     I heard Father sigh across the distance.
     "Yes. I know," he whispered.
     He got into his truck and drove away. Don Justo eyed me with satisfaction.
     "Indeed you are a pretty little petunia with that unnatural coat of yours. I knew you’d bring me a bag full of Lempiras some day."
     He gave me the second pat he’d ever given me, took Criáda by her rope, and led us on up the mountain toward Jardin de Los Santos.