On the wooden bench. My husband’s already mounted. Next to me sits a man in cargo shorts and a tank, shoes beat up and worn. A sharp, sour stench prickles the back of my throat.
This one’s a lot, I think.
He gets on his horse. Rides toward the forming group. I’m still waiting. Two other people are waiting nearby. The heavy haze of decay clings to the humid air. I put my nose to my shoulder.
Wait a minute. Is it me?
I sniff again. Nah.
Someone calls my name. I mount Timatatu. She’s sweet, kind, musty. Her body shifts beneath mine as I settle into the saddle.
The horses plunge into the dense canopy. Forest leaves pressing close, emerald light filtering through thick, damp air as branches crowd the trail and foliage brush my shoulders. The stirrups bite my ankles. Horse flies all around. They seem to find my face despite the bug spray, and repellant bands. The sun hammers down.
Timatatu keeps moving. That same rancid air clings to every stride. I glance at the riders ahead of me. I can’t place the smell.
The trees finally break. We emerge onto the beach. The sand stretches golden brown and endless. The water gleams beneath the sun. Waves collapse against the shore in white ribbons.
Everything is more beautiful than I imagined.
We stop.
For a moment, silence hangs heavy over the surf.
Then one of the horses jerks its head. Another backs away. Timatatu stiffens beneath me. That’s when I see him.
The guide.
Keeled over in the golden-brown sand, his body folded strangely beneath the horse.
He doesn’t get up.
Someone screams.
The horses scatter.
And through the salt spray, sweat, and churned-up sand, that sickening stench surges thick and unmistakable.
Stronger now.
I know what it is.