The Scorpio Races

CHAPTER FORTY

As Finn predicted, the storm pounds Thisby for a night and a day, and by the end of that rainy day, we’re able to retreat back to our house. I’m relieved because I’d rather run barefoot in the Scorpio Races than try to sleep in Beech’s narrow ham-scented bed with Gabe again. Tommy’s eager to return home because he left his capall uisce in the care of his family across the island and he’s not certain how well they’re doing. I think that I’d like to meet Tommy’s family, if they are the sort who wouldn’t mind having a water horse left in their care while Tommy ventures out to save the neighbors. It’s not exactly like asking your mother to put out a tin of chopped meat for your cat while you’re gone. I know I must’ve met Tommy’s parents at some point – I must’ve met everyone on Thisby at some point – but I cannot accurately place them in my head. In my imagination Mr. and Mrs. Falk both have Tommy’s brilliant blue eyes and his lovely lips. I also grant him some siblings, while I’m at it. Two brothers and a sister. The sister is homely. The brothers are not.

By evening, we are ready to strike out. The boys are so manly that they have to ride in Tommy’s car again, but I make a hasty bridle by looping Dove’s lead line back through her halter, creating reins so that I can ride her bareback after them.

The door to the house slams, and a moment later, I realize Peg Gratton has come out to stand by me. Her arms crossed, she watches silently as I curry off Dove’s shoulders.

“Thank you again,” I say finally, because I need to say something.

She doesn’t reply, just lifts her eyebrows, like a nod without the head movement. “There’s still a lot of people who don’t want you on that beach.”

I try not to feel angry at her. “I told you I wasn’t going to be talked out of it.”

Peg laughs then, a sound like a crow cawing. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about men who don’t want a girl in their race.”

My mouth says “oh” but my voice doesn’t.

“You just watch yourself. Don’t let anyone tighten your girth for you. Don’t let anyone else feed your mare.”

I nod, but I’m thinking that it’s easy to imagine someone being annoyed by me riding, but harder to imagine someone being willing to do anything nefarious about it.

I ask, “What about Sean Kendrick?”

I look at Peg Gratton, and she is smiling a small, secret smile at me, as masked as she was beneath the bird headdress. “You sure don’t like to do anything the easy way, do you?”

“I didn’t know,” I start truthfully, “that it was the hard way when I started on it.”

Peg plucks a piece of straw out of Dove’s mane. “It’s easy to convince men to love you, Puck. All you have to do is be a mountain they have to climb or a poem they don’t understand. Something that makes them feel strong or clever. It’s why they love the ocean.”

I’m not sure that is why Sean Kendrick loves the ocean.

Peg continues, “When you’re too much like them, the mystery’s gone. No point seeking the grail if it looks like your teacup.”

“I’m not trying to be sought.”

She purses her lips. “All I’m saying is that you’re asking them to treat you like a man. And I’m not sure either of you want that.”

There’s something discomfiting about what she says, though I’m not sure if it’s because I disagree or agree with it. I think of Ake Palsson backing his horse away from me and the combination of her words and the memory sit uneasily in my chest.

“I just want to be left alone,” I say.

“Like I said,” Peg replies. “You’re asking to be treated like a man.”

She makes a step out of her fingers laced together to help me up. Then she pats Dove’s rump so that Dove’ll move to follow Tommy’s car as it leaves. I turn around as we go. Peg’s still standing there watching us, but she doesn’t wave.

My spirits slowly lift as we put distance between us and the Grattons’ white house. After so much time cooped up, the air feels clean and well washed. The island itself looks like our kitchen – too much stuff, not enough tidying. There’s bits of wooden fence thrown far away from fence lines, shingles and roof tiles resting in hedgerows, branches from faraway trees abandoned in the middle of fields. Sheep wander freely across the road, which isn’t so unusual, but I spot some glossy mares grazing outside of their fence as well. The watery evening light is like a cautious smile through tears.

There’s no sign of the capaill uisce that came up out of the storm, and I wonder if they’ve all climbed back into the sea again. For the moment, the island seems so utterly peaceful, unmarked by trouble and horses and weather. I think we’d have entirely different tourists if this were the face Thisby wore all the time.

Only I know this isn’t the real Thisby. The real Thisby starts again at sun-up tomorrow. Just a little over a week to go until the races. I don’t think I’m ready. It’s hard to imagine that our story will end the way I told Finn. Good luck doesn’t seem to be something that holds the hands of the Connollys these days.

But when I get home, Finn’s face is shining and joyful. Behind him in the kitchen is Puffin the barn cat. Her tail is bitten off and ugly, and she’s very indignant and sorry for herself, but she’s also very alive.

This island is a cunning and secretive thing. I can’t say what it has planned for me.