The Scorpio Races (18 page)

I keep feeling I’ve forgotten to do something, until I realize that I’m disconcerted by leaving with two horses and returning with one. I’ve no horse to un-tack, no saddle to put away.

George Holly finds me just as I’m walking back into the yard, a blood-streaked bucket in my hand from feeding the
capaill uisce.
He’s found a brilliant red flat cap to hold his hair down and a smile to hold his face on. “Hullo, Mr. Kendrick,” he greets me brightly, falling into step with me across the cobbles of the yard. “You look in fine spirits.” “Do I?”

“Well, your face looks like it remembers a smile,” Holly says. He looks down at my clothing; I’m wearing the island all over my left side.

I kick on the hose pump with my knee and begin to rinse the bucket over the top of the drain. “I lost a horse today.”

“That sounds careless. What happened?”

“She jumped off a cliff.”

“A cliff! Is that normal?”

In the barn, Edana lets out a keening, impatient wail, hungry for the sea. This time last year, Mutt was already pounding the hell out of his chosen mount on the beach. Right now, the yard seems quiet without him: the blue sky before a storm. I think about the Scorpio Festival tomorrow, how the riders’ parade this year will be me and Mutt and insane Kate Connolly.

I shut off the water pump and regard him. “Mr. Holly, nothing about this month is turning out to be normal.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PUCK

So tonight is the night of the great Scorpio Festival.

I’ve only been to the Scorpio Festival once; Mum took us one year while Dad was out on the boat. Dad didn’t approve of the festival or the races in general. He said that one bred hooligans and that the other gave those hooligans two more legs than they could steer. We’d always thought Mum didn’t approve, either. But still, that year, when it became clear that Dad wasn’t going to be back that evening, Mum told us to fetch our hats and coats and told Gabe to kick the Morris into life (it was dodgy, even back then). With illicit fervor, we piled in: Gabe took the coveted passenger seat while Finn and I fought and slapped each other in the backseat. Mum shouted at us and tore along the little road to Skarmouth, bent over the steering wheel like it was a troublesome horse.

And then, Skarmouth! Everywhere there were costumes and the Scorpio drummers and the wail of the singers. Mum bought us bells and ribbons and November cakes, which made my hands sticky for days. Everywhere, noise, noise, noise, until Finn, who was just a little urchin then, had started to cry from it. Dory Maud whirled over from nowhere with one of the terrifying curse masks and put it on Finn. Hidden behind the flat-toothed monster mask, he became as fierce as my mother.

Over the years that I knew Mum, I more often saw her mucking Dove’s lean-to or cleaning pots or painting pottery or leaning up against the roof to smack a shingle back on with a hammer. But for some reason, now, when I call up thoughts of Mum, I remember that night at the festival, her dancing wildly in a circle with us, a mouth full of glinting teeth, face strange in the firelight, singing the November songs.

And now it’s years later, and it’s the day of the festival, and we can go if we want to because there’s no one alive to tell us otherwise. It’s a strange and hollow feeling.

“I got the Morris running,” Finn says now, coming into the house. He regards my dish washing with more interest than dish washing warrants. “It took awhile.” I believe him. He’s grubby and black.

“You look like homemade sin,” I tell him. “What are you doing?”

Instead of heading to the bathroom to clean up, he’s fetching his coat, which has fallen onto the floor behind Dad’s sitting chair by the fire.

Finn rubs his forehead, leaving a black smear. “I’m afraid to turn the Morris off or it might not start again.”

“You can’t let it run all night.”

My brother puts on his lumpy hat. “I can’t believe Mum called you the clever one.”

“She didn’t. She called Gabe that,” I say. As he puts his hand on the door, I realize where he thinks he’s going. “Wait — you think you’re going to the festival?”

Finn just turns and gives me a look.

“Gabe’s not even here. Why do you think we’re going? I have to be up early.”

“Because you have to go finalize your registration,” Finn says. “That’s what
your
rule sheet says.”

Of course he’s right. I feel foolish for not remembering it, and then I feel my stomach drop to my feet. Before, I had a few yards of seawater between me and everyone who might say something about me being in the races. Now the only thing between me and everyone else will be a few pints of beer.

But there’s no way around it. And maybe, just maybe, Gabe will be there. The rest of the island will be.

Unreluctantly, I abandon the dish washing, and reluctantly, I find my ratty green coat and get my hat as Finn flings open the door. Now that I know to look for it, I can see that he’s crawling out of his skin with excitement. Finn never looks more excited — he just gets faster. Finns are generally slow-moving creatures.

The Morris looks ominous under the darkening pink sky, the widening black hands of clouds stretching across the sunset, but Finn’s face is a shining beacon in the driver’s seat as he waits for me. I think of him behind Dory Maud’s fearsome curse mask and imagine him that happy again, his fingers sticky for days.

“Wait —” I say, and run back inside to pull a few slender coins from the increasingly shallow collection in the biscuit tin on the counter. I will find a way to earn it back. Even if we eat nothing but November cakes for this week. I run back out into the car and sit. Finn’s repair of the seat digs into my thigh. “Is this thing going to stop on us? I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of some field after dark with a horse looking in.”

“Just don’t turn on the heater,” Finn says.

I don’t want to know how he got it started. Last time it required two men pushing it at a run while Finn steered. As we bump along the roads, he adds, “I’ll bet that’s where Gabe is. I’ll bet he’s at the festival.”

And at that, I get an even more severe prickle of nerves, because the idea of confronting Gabe over Malvern’s eviction threat is one that has been dogging me. If he’s at the festival, he won’t be able to avoid me.

“Ho!”

At first I think it’s Finn who’s said it, even though it’s not his voice and I don’t think Finn has ever said “Ho!” in his life. Then I see that it’s the Carroll brothers. They’re both stumping along like black guillemots in the twilight, and Jonathan’s shouted to get our attention.

Finn lets the Morris sway to a halt. I slide the window open.

“Give us a ride into town?” Jonathan asks.

In response, Finn drags up the parking brake. I’m shocked, somewhat, by his boldness. I would’ve let the Carrolls ride with us, of course, but in my head, Finn is more shy than that. He keeps getting older while I’m not paying attention.

I have to get out to let the two boys in. Jonathan climbs in first and kicks the back of Finn’s seat, and Finn looks affably in the rearview mirror. Brian says thanks to me. Whether for the ride or for getting out to let him in, I don’t know. The car feels full of people, like we’ve increased our number by five instead of two.

As we pull off again, Jonathan leans forward and clutches the shoulders of the driver’s seat to ask, “When’s the bonfire go up, do you know?”

“I dunno,” Finn replies.

I twitch as a hand grips the back of my seat. A fishy smell accompanies it. I hear, “Evening, Kate.”

I glance back at the hand; it’s a nice, square hand, even if it smells like fish. “Evening.”

Jonathan shakes Finn’s seat. “I think I’m legit to bet this year. Do you know if it’s sixteen or seventeen? The age to bet?”

“I dunno,” Finn replies.

“Well,” Jonathan says cheerfully, “you’re useless as tits on a boar. Saw you setting up Dory Maud’s booth yesterday morning, Puck. What’s she selling these days? Stuff.”

I don’t know why he asked the question if he was just going to answer it for himself anyway.

Brian leans toward the window and me and his voice gets a little closer. It’s nice and square, like his hand, one of those old island accents that sounds good talking about the weather or how many gannets there were on the rocks the other day. When I was younger, I used to stand in the bath where it was echoey and try to mimic it. It’s something about the r’s that’s quite different from how my parents spoke. “I hear you’re going to ride. Is that true?”

Finn flicks on the headlights as Jonathan keeps chattering at him. Night’s coming fast under the thin gauze of clouds. Something smells of burning. I hope it’s not the Morris.

I say, “It’s true.”

He doesn’t say anything, just makes this sort of low, tuneless whistle to indicate surprise or awe, and then leans back in his seat. Meanwhile, Jonathan Carroll keeps up a running commentary with himself. He only needs to see Finn’s head incline slightly to encourage him to start up again. I’m not sure Finn’s even nodding his head; I think it’s just the pits in the road. As we come along the high part of the road, though, even Jonathan falls silent. From here, you can see the ocean for just a few moments. It’s gray and vast under an equally vast sky and even from this distance, I can see how the waves tear each other apart. We get plenty of rain, and storms often enough, but our weather is not given to extremes. Still, something about the white churning against the rocks is not comforting.

“Ho!” Jonathan says again. “Look! Look there! A head!”

And despite ourselves, we all look. The water shifts, black then gray-blue then black again, the froth a white ruffled collar, and then, out of the froth, we all see it. A dark horse’s head surges above the water, jaw wide open. And then, before the sea swallows the first, we see a chestnut mane break the surface, along with a brief glimpse of a brown spine curving in the water alongside it. Then they’re all gone beneath the water and I have goose bumps creeping up my arms.

“Good night to be on land,” Brian Carroll says. Not lightly, like his brother would have said it. I think of the smell of fish he brought with him and think of the plain way that he asked me if I was riding. Riding in the races might not seem so impossibly brave to someone who fishes the November sea for a living.

“If I were catching one, I’d catch that chestnut,” Jonathan says. “The red ones always win.”

Brian says, “You mean Sean Kendrick always wins.”

Jonathan shuffles in his seat. “I reckon chestnuts look faster.”

“I reckon,” Brian says, “Sean Kendrick makes them look that way. Have you met him, Kate?”

Finn looks amused at the “Kate,” probably because when Brian says it, it sounds like I’m more responsible than I really am.

“Yes,” I mutter. I’ve seen him twice since we raced, but nothing about him suggested that he wanted to speak to me. In fact, sort of the opposite. He’s not the kind to say “Ho!” either.

“Queer sort,” Jonathan says.

“Only a water horse knows the
capaill uisce
better than him.” Brian Carroll’s voice is admiring. “You could make worse friends than him, Kate, right now. Though I ’spect you know that already.”

All I know is that Sean Kendrick rode that bay mare and waited until he was nearly over the cliff edge before saving himself, and that the dead speak more than he does.

“I’d bet on you,” Jonathan says generously, “if I wasn’t betting on him.”

“Jonathan.” This is Brian, warningly. As if I care who his dim brother is betting on.

“Or Ian Privett,” Jonathan concedes. “He’s got that wicked fast gray from last year.” He slaps a Scorpio drumbeat on the back of Finn’s seat and then leans forward to speak to me. “Betting’s crazy on you down at the pub. On whether you’ll show up tonight for the parade. Gerry Old says that you haven’t been on the beach for days and you’ve given up. Whatshisface says that you’re dead, but obviously that’s not true. So what do you think, Kate, are you a good bet?”

Brian sighs noisily.

I say, “If it was my horse against your mouth, not a chance.”

Brian and Finn laugh. Jonathan tells me I’m made of piss. I think it’s a compliment.

I look out the window. The sky’s turning black quickly under the stripes of clouds. There’s a red glow in the distance where Skarmouth crouches, but the rest of the island is black and mysterious. In the dark, there’s no difference between the sea and land. I remember riding Dove on the cliff top this morning. The way the air bit my cheeks and the smell of the sea set my heart pounding. I know I should be terrified of tonight and of tomorrow and of the next day, and I am, but I can feel something else, too: excitement.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PUCK

“The riders’ parade will be at eleven,” Brian Carroll says. “I suppose you know that already.”

I didn’t, but now I do. Eleven seems like a long way away, hours filled with the noise of the festival. “I need to find my brother,” I tell Brian. “My other brother.”

In reality, what I need to find is my footing. I’m standing in this festival of Mum’s, but I don’t have Mum. Finn and Jonathan Carroll have vanished off into the crowds, leaving me with Brian, whose lungs I know better than the rest of him, and a pit of snaky nerves in my stomach.

I thought my statement was a good-bye, but Brian says, “All right. Where do you think he’ll be?”

If I knew the answer to that, I would’ve spoken to him three days ago. The truth is I don’t know anything about my older brother these days. Brian cranes his neck to look over the crowd, scanning faces for Gabe. We’re standing at the head of the main street of Skarmouth, and I can see clear down to the pier. There’s people filling every inch. The only bare bit is where the Scorpio drummers make their way through, far down near the water. Something smells delicious, and my stomach growls.

I say, “Someplace I won’t think to look, probably. Do you have any other brothers?”