The Age of Water Lilies by Theresa Kishkan

that it shouldn’t be missed, the sight of them taking the huge fish from the water, the women expertly cleaning and splitting them to spread them out on pole racks constructed of willow and red osier to catch the currents of air. There were horses all around, the sturdy native ponies staked out or hobbled while children played among them, followed by dogs, a chorus of magpies in the wild cherry trees near the water adding to the sound of voices, shouts as fish were lifted in big nets; there was the smell of cook fires as meals were prepared to feed the huge numbers of people congregated and the medicinal odour of smudges fending off pests as the fish cured. And thunder as the ponies were raced on the flats, dust following them in clouds. Now and then a child cried out as a bare foot encountered a cactus in the dry grass.
    People from Walhachin had a fire of their own and, in the embers, roasted potatoes, some of them traded to Indians for the marvellous salmon, wind-dried and chewy. Someone played a fiddle, someone else an accordion, and others drifted over to listen or to stand with toes tapping while a few couples danced as the stars came out one by one. Flora felt a hand on her elbow.
    â€œMay I have this dance?” It was Gus, smiling his ironic smile.
    It was a Hesitation Waltz, sweetly plangent in the cooling air. Flora kept her hand lightly on her partner’s shoulder but felt his own hand tighten at her waist.
    â€œI hoped we might ride together again,” he was saying. “I know that might be difficult to arrange, but if I am able to do so, would you come?”
    Flora leaned back to look into his face. She thought of the beauty of his forearms with their golden hairs. It pleased her to think of them lightly touching her dress. He was still smiling, but there was something else, a look in his eyes; she felt it right down her spine and into her knees. She was suddenly a little weak.
    â€œOh, yes,” she replied. “Yes.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    It came about because her brother was busy. Too busy to think about a parcel that was waiting for him at a ranch near Savona. And Flora had been asking him if she might ride in that direction to explore a distant bench, to sketch aspens and late brown-eyed Susans. As it turned out, her brother told her, the reliable Gus Alexander had reason to ride to Savona, and she could accompany him, collect the parcel, and have some time to sketch. There was a brief argument about tacking up Vespa, the grey mare, with George saying with some irritation that he would do it and Flora insisting that she was capable of tacking up the horse she would be riding. George gave in, because he was so busy, and Flora put on her riding costume, caught Vespa easily, and led her to the stable, where she gave her a brushing and then slipped a bridle onto the horse’s willing head, fastening the buckles, then placing the numnah, then saddle, onto the mare’s back. She was fond of Vespa, who reminded her of the mare she’d left at Watermeadows, a dark bay Arabian, Seraphim, who had replaced the grey pony of her childhood. She’d ridden with her father; Seraphim was a strong-winded mount for hunting, bold enough to jump a watercourse. Vespa had something of the same ardent spirit. Flora buckled the girth loosely and led the mare out of the paddock to the shade at the front of the house to wait for Gus.
    He appeared almost immediately, coming from the direction of the labourers’ cottages, mounted on his calm gelding, Agate. Flora watched him approach, at ease in the saddle, almost like an extension of his horse. He jumped down and held both horses while Flora tightened the girth and mounted her mare.
    â€œAll set?” he smiled.
    â€œI think so. I have this small rucksack only and George insists on a canteen.”
    They were away, riding towards Savona. The day had not yet become as hot as it would and there was a breeze coming up off