novemberseas-novemberskies
Borrowing Freedom
By my blood. I will ride. A continuing journey through the Scorpio Races Festival
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Week 4
Brilliance
“Someone’s looking chipper,” John observes when I meet him for training the next morning. “Had a good night then?”
“Excellent,” I reply, rubbing my hands together both in excitement and to try to get some feeling back into them. The weather has taken an even icier turn of late, and it’s made the capaill even more restless than usual. I know how they feel.
“Glad to hear it.” I can tell that John is bemused by my uncharacteristic chipper attitude, but he does not say anything further, just grins and leads the way down to the beach.
We make quite the odd pair, John Goveny and I. He’s older than I by seven or eight years, and has seen more in his lifetime than I ever shall. I was just a girl when the war was on, and my awareness of it was fleeting if best, despite father’s role in the Royal Navy. Wealth can shield you from the nastier bits of war, as it turns out. He carries himself with such ease, a calm confidence that I cannot even imagine possessing. I feel as though if I were to even let my shoulders relax, I would completely unravel, like a tightly wound spool of thread. He’s quick with a smile, quick with a laugh, quick with a kind word. It’s not that I’m an unkind person. But I am not his sort of kind, the sort that is for everyone. Perhaps there is more I can learn from him than how to do better than just finish this year’s Race.
“All right. Today, I want you to lead our training session. It’s our last before Race day, and I want to see what you’ve learned. We can put a final polish on anything that needs it, and after that, it’s all you and Nyx.”
“Hear that Nyx?” I ask, leaning closer to the one ear she has flicked back my way. “It’ll just be me and you soon. So let us show what we’ve learned.” Nerves threaten to bubble up in my stomach, but I force them down with a deep breath of the bracing morning air and turn our sights down the beach.
To say I’ve learned much these past weeks under Gwen and John’s tutelage would be a gross understatement. To be with them every day, to have two more sets of eyes on us, to be the recipient of their breadth and depth of knowledge has turned me into a different rider and Nyx into a different horse. Last year Gwen had done what she could with what she had, which, truthfully, was not much. It takes more than a handful of sessions to turn a prim and proper young lady used to fine boned hunters and gentle carriage horses into a rider with even the ghost of a chance of winning the Races. Now I do not claim to have much of chance this year either, but perhaps the ghost of one is now within my reach. I seize this spark of possibility, of confidence, and I force all my belief into it. What do I have to lose? And so, with one glance back at John, who gives me an encouraging nod, I ask Nyx to help me show him all that we’ve learned.
It is not Nyx’s speed that takes my breath away as we surge down the sand, but the control, the connection. While I still feel the pull of the sea to our left, I also feel the way she responds to the pressure of my leg, shifting almost imperceptibly to keep us on track. I feel the way her energy is focused up on me, on my direction. We are not perfect, far from it. There are moments when I am forced to press the iron rod in my hand against her neck as a reminder that I am still a part of the equation, but there is not a single moment when I feel that the situation is out of my control, or that either of us are in any real danger one from the other. It is as though every lesson that Gwen and John have put us both through over and over have snapped into place. For the first time perhaps ever, I allow myself to enjoy the sensation of being one with Nyx, strong and fast and in control.
I am loath to pull her up, feel as though we could simply go on forever until we reach the limits of the island and just continue on. But of course that is madness and would amount to suicide. So I ask and then tell her to ease up until we come to a collected stop in front of Gwen and John, who are applauding and grinning. I imagine my own smile matches theirs as I give Nyx a firm pat on her shoulder before swinging down out of the saddle.
“Weren’t sure you were coming back!” John exclaims, his arm now around Gwen’s shoulders.
“I very nearly didn’t,” I reply. “She was absolutely brilliant.”
“You were brilliant.” Gwen reaches out and squeezes my hand warmly. “Worlds away from where you were when we started.”
“It’s thanks to you both. So… thank you. Truly I would not be here were it not for you.” And I know that it’s true. If I’d attempted this all on my own again, I would have either given up after that first week of frustration, or found myself on the receiving end of either a capall or a fellow rider. There is still time for that to happen on race day, of course, but at least they have gotten me this far in one piece.
“I made you a promise, didn’t?” Gwen asks. “And I always keep my promises.”
“No matter how misguided,” John adds good-naturedly. And then he turns to me, now serious as the grave. “Be smart tomorrow. You know as well as we do that it’s a completely different beast on race day. Hell, Nyx could be a completely different beast on race day. You never know who or what is going to show up. If the choice is between a win and a loss, where the loss keeps you sound in mind and body, take the loss. I know the saying is ‘high risk, high reward’, but in this case, just make it to the finish line. Please.”
“Please,” Gwen echoes.
I appreciate their concern, but an irritating voice in the back of my mind tells me that they are just like Mother, warning me not to be a stupid, mad, selfish girl on race day. It’s not a promise I can make, but I reassure them all the same. I owe them this at the very least. And so we head up to the McAvoy farm for one more cup of tea together (it will be coffee when I meet them in the morning), and hope for a clear day.
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Week 3
Stupid, Mad, Selfish
This year, Mother and Lottie do not join me at the Riders’ Parade. If she quietly disapproved of my riding last year when our situation was significantly more dire, this year she is vocally against it, telling me so at every opportunity.
“You are putting not only your career at risk, but your life.”
“You are setting a very poor example for Charlotte.”
“Stupid girl.”
“Mad girl.”
“Selfish girl.”
It is this last barb that bites the deepest, and I believe she knows it. She poisons those words with the sense of duty to family that has been at times literally beaten into me; with my love for my sister; with the guilt that she has seen written on my face when she watches me leave before dawn wrapped in her dressing gown. I want to hate her for it, but I know with startling clarity that she is right.
I am selfish. My family does not need me to ride this year. I am a less attentive teacher since my training has begun, tired and distracted as I’ve become. I am showing Lottie that defiance is acceptable. But… perhaps selfish is not always the worst thing one might be. Because I have been nothing but selfless since we moved to Thisby after father’s accident: leaving behind my former life, working myself ragged, risking my life in the Races last year, giving up piece after piece of myself to become the woman my family needed until I scarcely recognized myself in the mirror.
But tonight, as I slip through the Skarmouth crowds, having spilled my blood and declared my intentions (sans clumsy moment and mouthful of blood this year), I catch my reflection in a shop window, and I grin. My hair is unruly with sea salt and ocean wind, my eyes, sunken by early mornings and late nights, glitter with bonfire light, and the bruise across my cheek from a recent fall on the beach is an ugly purple-green. And I look radiant.
Not only do I look radiant, but I feel radiant. I feel as though I am lit from the inside by a thousand bonfires, and my heart pounds out a tattoo louder and wilder than the drummers in the streets. It is difficult to remember the last time I felt so positively alive, so positively myself. And as I stand on the cliffs, the riotous noise of celebration merely suggestion on the wind, I feel nearly invincible. Below me, the waves crash and rage, beating their foaming fists against the sand as though they might one day finally bully it into submission. I feared these waves once. I feared these waves this very morning, despite my earlier declarations that I was not afraid. I feared these waves when my heart leapt into my mouth as Nyx’s front hooves splashed through the ebbing waves, knowing full well that even the best trained capaill have been known to drag their riders into the depths at this kiss of death from the sea. But tonight, I throw my arms wide, as though I could embrace this whole island, the whole sea, the whole bloody world, and I laugh.
Mother is right. I am stupid. I am mad. I am selfish. But I am also brilliant and brave and stubborn. I am messy and lost and doing all I can to muddle through the madness that life has provided me. But no one may say that I have simply allowed life to happen to me. I have been an active participant in the madness from the very start, and if that makes me stupid and mad and selfish, so be it. I will take those accusations with pride and I will continue on. Flaws are only obstacles until you find a way to make them strengths, and I am doing just that. The sea rages. The wind whips. And I laugh. This is where I am meant to be. This is who I am meant to be. And I intend to embrace it all with arms thrown wide in welcome.
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Week 3
Patience
We do not risk much that first evening. Eager as I am to begin the rea, process of training, Gwen and John rein my enthusiasm in with the gentle but firm practice of reining in many a charging capall. An embarrassed flush rises to my cheeks as Gwen reminds me that I cannot expect to take to the saddle without first building our mutual trust once more. She’s right of course, but I can’t help but feel like a chastised child being scolded for a transgression I should have known better than to have allowed to occur. I now know how my young students feel. Though Lettie a year ago would have rankled at such correction, no matter how kind, I remind myself that is I who has come crawling back to Gwen and her husband asking for help, and I humble myself to their knowledge.
“If you want to earn her patience, you have to have patience with her,” Gwen reminds me when Nyx goes reeling away from me for the fourth time after I move just a bit too quickly toward her. I marvel at Gwen’s ability to maintain her patience with me when I’ve given her every reason to throw her hands into the air in exasperation of my ability to follow the simplest instructions.
“She’s a wild creature no matter how many months she’s lived out of the sea,” John reminds me as he stands strong and solid having just had Nyx tear the lead rope through his hands, leaving them raw and red. He’d borne it all so stoically with nary a flinch that I wonder at what parts of his story I am not privy to that have made him so unfazed by such pain.
You are doing this to reclaim what is yours, I remind myself as I hazard a slow approach with a peace offering of precious lamb shank that Gwen has been kind enough to donate from her pantry. My hands shake and I question for the millionth time that night whether I am making the right choice. What good would I do my family should I return with one fewer hand than before? But she takes it without taking even a fingertip with it, so we label this a victory.
It is a long, frustrating evening, and by the time night has fallen in earnest, both Nyx and I are tired but comfortable in each other’s presence. She has allowed me to stroke her flank and carefully lay a rug across her back with not much more than an annoyed ear flicked back toward me, and we all agree that this is a good result and a good place in which to end our first attempt at training. Because I do still have my duties to attend to at the schoolhouse, we settle on pre-dawn meetings every morning to continue my training. Not only will this allow me time to prepare for my day of teaching, but it also ensures that we will be off the beach before the crowds of men and horses flood the sand. I do not relish the idea of the icy, pre-dawn rain we’re so wont to see on these autumn mornings, nor the lack of sleep paired with the sore and bruised muscles that will no doubt plague the whole experience but I cannot help feeling the way my heart seems to beat stronger at the thought of beginning this wild pilgrimage anew.
Those first few early mornings are spent with both my feet squarely on the sand with Nyx’s red rope lead gripped loosely in my hand. It is a stark difference from our first acquaintance in which I leapt onto her back with little thought for either of our safety and took off down the beach. So stupidly brave now that I think back on it. We walk up and down that beach for hours, learning to listen to each other as Gwen or John watches from a safe but shoutable distance. This is the most time I have spent with the two, and I marvel at how their similarities and differences fit together so neatly. Where she is a firm word of direction, he is a gentle suggestion of guidance. Where she is a reassuring smile even when I make the most absurd of mistakes, he is a jolly laugh. Where she prefers to stand back and observe, he is hands-on in his approach. I like it best when they come to the beach together to help me train. The calm confidence that they exude makes me believe anything is possible, and each is even quicker to smile or laugh as Nyx and I work under their watchful gaze. The part of my mind that is not preoccupied with staying alive and in control wonders if I will ever know a partnership so steady and sure.
It is on our fifth day by the sea that Gwen finally gives me her approval to attempt to saddle and bridle Nyx. I’d left my tack with John a few days previously, assuming he simply wanted to look it over and ensure it was still structurally strong enough to hold a capall uisce. But the saddle and bridle he hoists drops off his shoulder onto the sand are at once my tack, and not. It appears that the stitching along the edge of my saddle has been replaced with blood red thread, and symbols that are vaguely familiar from my time on the island have been embossed into the knee rolls. My reins have been twisted and tied into complicated knots grouped in threes along their length, while a red tassel hangs from either side of the bridle. The strong of charms that Gwen had passed onto me the year before is secured to the back of my saddle, and it jingles musically in the wind. It takes quite a bit of self-restraint not to ask him what in the world he has done to my tack, made specially for me of the finest Cordovan leather. But I hold my tongue, knowing that I must give over all my trust into Gwen and John’s hands should I want any hope this year.
Nyx is more receptive to her new restraints than I had expected, though she certainly lets me know how displeased she is with the situation as she snorts and paws and dances away. But even in the dark I am able to get her tacked with only one or two moments that I feared for the safety of my limbs, and another one or two in which Gwen had to step in to assist. Even in the cold, grey dawn, both Nyx and I are slick with sweat by the time the sun rises and I am ready to finally, finally ride.
“Now,” John starts to say as I place my hands on the saddle, the sea roaring to my left and Nyx wound tight under my touch.
“I’m not afraid,” I tell him before he can provide whatever wisdom I’m sure is on the tip of his tongue. I believe I surprise myself most of all by how true those words feel and sound as I manifest them in a puff of misty breath that rises golden in the sunrise.
“I’m not afraid,” I say again, and I mount up.
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Week 2
A Reacquaintance
The day I purchased Nyx, I must admit that I’d been more concerned with her beauty and my crass treatment by her seller than I’d been about whether or not the two of us would be an ideal match. What did I know of water horses then, when I’d spent my life around steeple chasers and polo ponies? What did I know of what made a capall a strong contender? What did I know of how to evaluate her potential, particularly considering I barely knew my own potential? But I’d been brash and naïve then, a few mocking comments making me hot enough under the collar that I’d removed my jackets and skirts and ridden in my bloomers that first day on the beach. I do believe people still tell that story, much to my chagrin. It all feels a world away now. My brashness and naivete have been tamped down by practicality and necessity, though perhaps my determination to race again this year says otherwise.
But as we approach the expansive paddock, I feel the same thrill of excitement as I see Nyx’s lithe shape moving through the boundary between sunset and twilight like a graceful shadow. She really is a striking creature. Though slighter than other water horses, muscles ripple strong and smooth as she races toward the fence. Though she’s been out of the sea for a year now, her black coat still gleams wetly in the dying light of the sun. A wide white blaze running the length of her face makes her eyes stand out all the more, a blue the same shade as a perfect November sky. She is beautiful and awe-inspiring and terrifying, white teeth flashing as she tosses her head and screams toward the clouds. She comes streaking toward me, and I feel something between joy and fear that sends my heart into my throat. If I had been naïve enough to believe myself fully capable of mastering her wildness the first time I saw her, I am no longer under such illusions.
John and Gwen’s capaill are not far behind her, and they kick and nip at each other, squealing and hissing. The first time I watched this display, I’d been alarmed, sure that they were going to kill or at the very least gravely maim each other. But then, as now, Gwen and John had laughed at the violent display, assuring me that the two fight like and old married couple almost constantly, but there is no true malice in it. Taisce and Vala are their names, two powerful, beautiful creatures who pitch and rear and glare, who seem at such odds with the calm, reassuring people beside me. Gwen and John simply stand at the fence, watching and waiting, and after much fuss the dappled bay and the flaxen chestnut approach the fence, clucking softly. I watch, entranced. Turning back to Nyx, I attempt to silently communicate the same calm reassurance, but it seems I am not blessed with the same magic Gwen and John are. Nyx simply dances along the fence line a few yards away from me, eyeing me distrustfully all the while.
“Don’t worry. We’ll soon get you two reacquainted,” Gwen tells me, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. She means it kindly, of course, and I nod, but I still feel a tug of guilt in my gut as I watch Nyx keep her distance from me, knowing that it is my own fault that we have become such strangers over this past year.
Following the Races, I’d been burning with determination to do better, to be better, to prove to my family that I was more than this failure by training all the year long with Gwen so that no one could possibly challenge me on the beach. And for a short time, I acted upon this determination, riding out several times a week to hone our partnership, my control, and her speed. Pushing my disappointment into resolve, I’d trained hard, coming home with blisters on my hands, grit in my teeth, and satisfaction in my heart knowing that I was one day closer to my victory. But, as you well know, reality soon intervened in the form of my current gainful employment. I tried my best to keep up with my training those first few weeks, but it soon became very apparent that no amount of determination could magically provide me with more hours in the day. I had to choose, and though I still rode out ever now and again, my training very quickly feel to the wayside. I could count on one hand how many times I’d even been out to see Nyx since the most recent school year had begun. With such an atrocious track record, I could not blame Nyx for her distrust.
As I stand at the fence and watch her nervous display, I gather up all the guilt and regret that has been collecting dust in the back of my mind all these months, and I force their energy into determination. Into resolve. Into courage. There is no use in dwelling on what I could or should have done. There is only here and now, and this opportunity in front of me to begin again. We all deserve that, don’t we? A second chance? It is this gift that I can give to both myself and to Nyx, and I must seize it with both hands. I have not done all I can in the past. That changes tonight. It will not be easy, and I will need all the strength I can manage, but this is our chance. This is our year. I cannot guarantee that we will win, but I can guarantee that when I cross the finish line, I will have done all I can, and that will be enough.
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Week 2
A Pair of Helping Hands
As I approach the McAvoy farm (always the McAvoy farm, never the Goveny or the McAvoy-Goveny Farm), my determination begins to flag, overtaken by a creeping apprehension. I have not done right by Nyx of late, leaving her in Gwen’s capable hands and telling myself that it is better for us both that way. After all, Gwen and John are Thisby’s golden couple, conquerors of the Races. Surely they knew better than I. I’d ridden out with Gwen over the summer, more infrequently than I’d have liked, and not nearly as frequently as Nyx’s hot-blooded temper demanded. Come the start of the school year and infrequent rides became rare, which became non-existent. I pay Gwen what I can when I can for Nyx’s boarding and feeding, though more often than not it’s returned to me in an unmarked envelope the next morning. We’re the both of us far too proud to either accept or reject money face to face, and so the same envelope of coins and flimsy paper makes its way across Thisby every few weeks. Silly and proud, two qualities that have carried over from my time at St. Marciana’s, despite the nuns’ best efforts to beat them out of me with a switch or scare them out of me with ominous Bible verses. I never gave either much mind.
And as I stand at Gwen’s front door in a moment so reminiscent of our first meeting not quite a year ago, I must swallow my pride. It does not go down smoothly, sticking in my throat as Gwen opens the door with a surprised smile, and I can only manage a small, strangled sound of greeting. But Gwen just steps aside and welcomes me into her home with a knowing shake of her head.
“I wondered how long it would be before you came knocking,” she says, gesturing for me to sit down at the kitchen table. “John! Lettie’s here!” she calls, before setting the kettle on for tea.
“You… you knew I’d come?” How can she possibly, when I myself had not known half an hour ago that I would find myself at Gwen McAvoy’s kitchen table once more?
“I knew.”
“We both did,” John adds, making his quiet way into the room, kissing Gwen on the cheek. “Hello Lettie.”
“You’ve felt the change in the air. We have too.” Gwen places a mug in front of me, mint-scented steam curling into the air. “It’s something you’ll learn as the years go on. Once you ride in the Races, the cooler weather tugs at your heart something fierce, almost as strongly as it pulls at the capaill. So yes, we knew you’d come.”
“Now, the question is: Are you here for company, or for training?” Leaning his elbows on the table, John leans forward curiously. Coming from anyone else, it might have felt accusatory, but from John it is nothing but a gentle question that really asks, ‘How can we help?’ Not for the first or last time, I am reminded that I do not deserve their kindness. A deep breath steadies my nerves, and I look up from my tea.
“I’m here for training.”
John nods, and Gwen sighs. Both reactions strike me with a combination of understanding and resignation. I suspect it is what they expected, but it still stings to disappoint them in this way.
“Well Nyx will be pleased to hear that,” Gwen says finally. “I know she was half-tamed when you purchased her last season, but, well three capiall uisce plus the few we’ve already promised to take on for the season, are more than a handful even between John and I.” She unconsciously pulls at the sleeve of her sweater, but I can still see the bandages on her arm.
“I am… so sorry.” Guilt roils in my stomach, thinking of the burden I’ve left them with all this time. “I-I want to do better. I want to train. Seriously,” I add quickly as I catch the look that passes between John and Gwen. “I know I’ve been less than committed. I know that Nyx needs me more often than just when it’s most convenient for me. I know… I know I haven’t done right by her, or by you. But I want to train.”
“Are you sure? Because…” Another glance between the two. “Because if you decided that the Races are not for you, that the upkeep of a capall uisce is not feasible, we could set her free, let her go back to the sea.”
“Or, well, honestly we’ve had offers for her from interested riders, good riders with good offers. She’s halfway to rideable already and fast, and you could get a pretty penny for her.” John shifts in his chair, and I know that speaking about my financial situation has made him rather uncomfortable. “We’d hand pick the rider of course, ensure she’s in good, capable hands.”
“It’s up to you.”
I must admit that both options have crossed my mind many times. A decent amount of money to bring home to my family along with release from the constant guilt that I am not doing enough, and Nyx taken care of. I am still tempted tonight as I sit here across from Gwen and John, but then I remember the way my heart has been singing these past weeks, how deeply and beautifully it has ached in a way that I know in my soul will not be filled until I ride again.
“I appreciate your looking out for both myself and Nyx. But I’m really quite sure that I want to train. I want to ride. If you’ll still have me.”
“You did promise,” John prompts Gwen, nudges her gently in the ribs with his elbow, and she sighs again, though this time it sounds more good-natured, more determined.
“That I did. All right then.” She tosses back the rest of her tea as though it’s a fiery shot of whiskey and pushes back from the table. “Let’s go. You too,” she adds, tugging on John’s sleeve. “I think these two ladies could use all the help we can give them.”
She grins at me as John rolls his eyes and chuckles, and a strange warmth spreads through my chest. I feel more settled somehow, as though I’ve been standing on the rocking deck of a ship and have just now stepped back onto dry land. I’ve far to go on this journey, but I have taken the first, hardest step, and I am not going alone. And so together we go to face our next challenge as she waits and wails in the barn.
#TSRF2020#Lettie and Nyx#not quite following the prompts but still trying to hit on the important stuff
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I’ve participated in The Scorpio Races Festival every year for the past 5 years, and I was really hoping to throw myself into it again this year. I look forward to it every single year and it’s been one of the only things that keeps me writing. But this year I find myself in the middle of a hectic work situation and a huge move. So my entries may be shorter than usual and not totally on schedule, but I’m going to try!
I love my characters and this story and the beautiful community we’ve built around Maggie’s incredible world. So Lettie’s story continues as best as I can continue it, and I look forward to reading all of your wonderful imaginings as well!
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Rising up to my full height and holding the hot, salty blood in my mouth, I take the final few steps up to the top of the rock. And then I turn, even as the woman reaches for my hand to slice my finger, and I spit that mouthful of blood onto the red-spattered stone below with as much force as I can muster.
“I will ride. Collette Darling. Nyx. By my blood.”
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Week 1: Sign Up
Collette Darling
I would be lying through my teeth if I said that riding in the Races last year had changed my life significantly. After my spectacular failure to place or even show, I returned home with my proverbial tail between my legs, the taste of disappointment and fear the most bitter of medicines. Mother was kind enough to hold her tongue, though I could see every sharp “I told you so” written plainly on her face as she placed a hot mug of tea in front of me and left me to burn my tongue and mull over what came next. My evenings playing the piano at the Black Eyed Girl didn’t bring in nearly enough to keep us afloat, and with my days suddenly clear of any other commitments involving bloodthirsty water horses, I turned my efforts toward finding a more lucrative trade. It came in the form of a solution so obvious and serendipitous, I could scarcely believe I’d managed to stumble upon it. Due to a lovely island lady being swept off her feet to the mainland by a handsome tourist with a heavy coin purse, I joined a small and respected subset of Thisby’s population: I became a schoolmarm.
Now before you conjure up visions of a bent and wizened old crone creaking about a drafty room or a tightly buttoned up nun rapping knuckles with a switch, I must assure you that I am far from the hapless spinster I may very well have allowed myself to become after my defeat. It took some time for the parents of Thisby to become accustomed to a teacher who rides a bloodthirsty water horse and teaches her students swordplay with wooden staves to put on the best of Shakespeare’s plays. Truthfully, there were several complaints against me and my unconventional methods in those first weeks, and my teaching career was almost quite short-lived. But I persevered, and I do believe I’ve done quite well at it. The parents have yet to chase me out of town with pitchforks and torches, and they pay me. Not as much as my education should demand, but enough. We are comfortable again, stable, slowly becoming accustomed to the fact that a good life can be had here in our little home with the little money that Mother and I bring in.
And so it is that I am now pouring over children’s ledgers, correcting grammar and spelling, and praying to the old gods and the new that they might give me the necessary knowledge to confront the terror that is teaching mathematics to a roomful of children giddy with the scent of autumn blowing in on the cool air. I can’t blame them. Propping my chin on my hand, I gaze out the small window of my bedroom-turned-study for the evening. The trees are already tipped with fiery finery, and I can hear the waves crashing against the cliffs. An insistent reminder that it won’t be long before the beaches are teeming with men and capail uisce vying for dominance. And, despite my better judgment, I envy them.
Over the past year, I’ve pushed down every thought of the Races as they’ve risen to the surface, dismissing them as distractions, flights of fancy. What need have I of suicidal tendencies when life by all accounts has improved? But, much like the children, I can smell and taste the change in the air. The draw to the sea becomes stronger with every passing day, as does my restlessness, as though the more fervently I try to ignore them the more bewitching the sea’s call becomes.
Questions whisper at the back of my mind, soft but demanding. Is this all I am meant for? Life as an island teacher, living only for the promise of steady payment? Where has my ambition, once so strong and vibrant, gone? Who I am now if I have forgotten who I was? Where is the young woman who spat blood on the stone and declared her right to ride? Selfish though it may be, I have begun to miss the woman I once was. The Lettie of years past would not be satisfied with simple comfort. She would strive for more, for better. Truthfully, I’ve begun to see myself less and less in the mirror, unruly curls tamed into a proper bun, skin softened by days indoors, fiery eyes dulled by the dull mundanity of life. It is a feeling borne of discontent and autumn air, and it has begun to worm its way deeply into my very soul. And tonight, with the promise of November not far off, the pull upon my heart is simply too strong to ignore.
Rubbing at my eyes, I sigh and snap the ledger shut. I am not making any more progress today, and besides that, my classroom will soon be sparsely filled as children are kept from school to help their parents usher in the tourists to island life and, far more importantly, island businesses. There is sunlight left yet before the island is plunged into night, so I wrap myself in a coat and scarf, kiss Charlotte on the top of her head in passing, making her giggle into her hot cocoa, and set out across the cliffs toward Gwen McAvoy’s little farm. Yes, we are comfortable. No, we do not need the money simply to survive any longer. But I do believe there is magic on this island, and it is calling to me once again. Mother will not be happy, of course, but neither will I until I am galloping down the sand on Nyx’s back, the possibilities spread out before me, endless as the sea.
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Collette Darling, riding Nyx
(@novemberseas-novemberskies.tumblr.com)
The Scorpio Races Festival 2020
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Week 4: Character Challenge 4
I’ve never been one to believe in “signs” or “portents” or “harbingers”. They are nonsense ideas that belong in the pages of Shakespeare and the like and have no place in the reality of the world. Or so I had firmly believed up until the day of the race. From the moment I open my eyes, something does not feel right. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, attempting to pinpoint the exact source of my discomfort, but it remains elusive. So, knowing I’ve no other choice, I chalk it up to nerves, and force myself to start the day. Rain lashes the windows and wind shakes the roof, making me fear for the structural integrity of the house.
I feel too sick to eat anything, so I choke down the cup of tea that Mother forces into my shaking hands, and leave as quickly as I possibly can. I only stop for a moment to kiss Lottie on the head, smooth her golden curls, and promise I’ll be home in time for supper. She’d begged and cried all last night to be allowed to come to the beach and watch the Races, and Mother almost acquiesced, tired and worn as she was, but she must have seen the sharpness in my look, because she expressly forbid it. Lottie pouted for the rest of the night, of course, but I would not be complicit in the fresh traumatization of my younger sister. And then I pull my scarf up over my head, and let the rain carry the tears down my face.
I am soaked to the bone and freezing by the time I make it the starting line, and Nyx is shivering violently under me. Ears pinned tight to her skull, blue eyes reflecting the dark clouds above, she pitches and dances, and it takes all the strength in my legs and hands to keep her from bolting. Sitting there, ice cold, muscles straining, I have never been more terrified. Any and all confidence I’ve accumulated over the past weeks on the beach have fled to warmer, safer places, leaving me alone on a beach full of horses and men. Fighting back nausea, I work the reins back and forth until we find our way to the center of the pack as officials with long poles corral the riders into a semblance of order.
“Riders up!”
I lean over Nyx’s side and vomit onto the sand. I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not ready. I can’t do this. I have to get away. I glance desperately from side to side, looking for any opening through which I might slip to safety, tail tucked between my legs but alive. But there are no options. Trapped between a leggy palomino and a muscular chestnut with a grey to either side, I must accept that the only way out is through. I only have time to spit out the bitter bile and swipe a hand across my mouth before the gun goes off, the posts are raised, and we are surging forward.
Immediately the plan goes sideways. Eschewing all of her experience from years past and all of our careful training, Nyx lunges to the left, toward the water, with no regard for who or what is in her path. Teeth gnash, hooves fly, fasts pummel. The rain has made the beach a muddy, bloody mess, and flying sand obscures my vision and creates a thick, heavy layer on my coat, weighing me down. As slick as they are with water and blood from our adversaries advances, my hands are useless on the reins. The wet leather simply slides through them. It is all I can do to keep my seat as Nyx lunges and twists and I pray to the old gods and new that the John Goveny is as a good a leatherworker as he claims. I am no longer a rider. I am a passenger. I will go where Nyx goes, and as much as I would like to trust the tenuous bond we’ve developed, I do not believe she holds enough sentimentality inside her now sea-wild mind to consider my life’s preservation.
Again and again we clash with the capaill and riders around us. We are each bleeding from a dozen cuts, but I don’t feel a thing. All I feel is my heart pounding wildly in my chest as Nyx runs, runs, runs. The quietest thought registers that we have fallen far, far back from the front of the pack, but I hastily push it away. I do not have the capacity for distraction of any kind. I want nothing but for this terror to be over, for my feet to hit the sand, and for life to go on. In the moment, I cannot, will not believe that it will end. I have pitched headfirst into a hell of my own making.
And then… it’s over. We splash across the finish line in the shallows with the other final stragglers and I sob with relief. However, my relief is short-lived as Nyx tears the reins from my weak fingers and she lunges into the water. Slumping in my saddle, I wail on her sides with my heels and press holly berries to the side of her neck and scream the ancient nonsense Gwen had taught me. All the things I’d forgotten the moment we crossed the start line. And it works. Nyx goes stiff-legged and whips her head back toward the cliffs. I am able to take up the reins again and I work her mouth until we are back on dry land where I push her painful step by painful step away from the crowds to where I can see Gwen McAvoy watching wrapped her blue coat. By the time she takes Nyx’s head, I am weeping like a child.
“Come on now,” Gwen tells me firmly but not unkindly. “We need to get you both somewhere warm. Come on.”
Wounds stinging from saltwater and pride stinging from my spectacular failure, I can only follow behind her meekly as she taps Nyx’s shoulder with an iron rod and asks her to walk on. John is waiting for us when we reach the cottage, and he takes Nyx’s reins, promising to give her a good rub down and some of the hot, bloody stew they’ve had cooking on the stove. I receive a similar treatment, a towel and warm clothes, and tea that’s mostly whiskey. When she is sufficiently reassured that I am no longer in danger of hypothermia, she fixes herself a cup of tea, and sits down beside me.
“You’ll be all right,” she tells me softly. “There is life to be had here, and there is life beyond this Race. Don’t you give up, all right?” She shakes me gently, and I look up at her for the first time, no more tears left.
“I won’t give up. I can’t.” I rub a palm across my eyes. “I’ve- I’ve got to get come. I promised Lottie I’d be home for supper.” Standing slowly, I test my body’s ability to carry my weight. I am shaky, but sound. I take a couple steps toward the door, thanking her for her profound kindness. Then, pausing in the doorway, the rain still lashing the water-logged island, I take a deep breath. “Next year… will you train me?”
Sighing, Gwen gnaws her lip, looks to the ceiling as though looking for guidance, and then meets my gaze again.
“Next year, I will train you.”
And so I stride out into the rain, chin tucked low against the rain that is turning to icy needles. Today, I am defeated and desperate and despairing. Tomorrow, I will begin again. And next year, I will win.
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Week 4: Character Challenge 3
Up until the day before the Races, I don’t give much thought to what I will do after they are over. All of my mental and physical effort has gone toward preparing for that one final, fateful ride with only a vague, cloudy vision of what life will look like should the Races go well, and an even murkier vision of what it will look like should they go poorly. No use dreaming of fairytales or dreading nightmares. But as I lie here in my bed, listening to Lottie sleeping deeply across the room and willing sleep to pull me into unconsciousness, the “what ifs” begin to flood my mind.
Perhaps not surprisingly, it is the fears that first creep in, anxiety clutching at my heart and running cold fingers up and down my spine. This Race is a desperate effort to take the burden from my parents’ shoulders and place it upon my own in hopes to drop it all together upon crossing the finish line. To lose, or at the very least not even to place, is to accept that this life is the one I will always know. I will join my mother in her chapped-skinned, bent-backed labor of necessity to simply keep ourselves from drowning. Perhaps I’ll be forced to accept the position at Gratton’s, finding a way to inoculate myself against the revulsion that rises in my throat at the sight and smell of the bleeding carcasses. Perhaps I’ll purchase a ticket to the mainland and become a domestic servant, my not-so-glorious return to high society dusting china and serving tea, and sending what money I can back home. Odd that Thisby is now home.
But worse than these bleak thoughts of my own fate, are the thoughts of what my failure will mean for Lottie. Mother is determined to give her a childhood, to keep her in school, to provide as much hope and stability as possible. But for how long can that innocence be maintained in a situation such as ours? There will come a day when she will realize that far more has changed than the location of our home, and I know that her heart will break. I know that I will watch my little sister, carefree young thing that she is, fade away. Her bright eyes will dull and her exuberance will dim. And perhaps my anguish at this fact is naïve. After all, there are children here on Thisby with families in situations not so different from ours who play and laugh and grow up to be happy, well-adjusted adults. But all the same, this was never the life I wanted for her. The Races are my chance to shield her from the harsher truths of life for just a bit longer, and I am desperate to do so. And Father… I do not want to even think of the hopelessness that will wear him away like so many on the shore, eroding his will to nothingness.
But, a small and hesitant voice murmurs in the back of my mind, what if you win? I almost laugh at the prospect. It feels so far away. But even the smallest possibility that I might cross that line ahead of the rest feels like a fire being lit in my heart. After all, someone has to win, don’t they? Why not me? There a million reasons why not that flash through my head but I grab onto that kite string of hope and hang onto it for dear life. Because if I win, life will change. It will not be a magic spell that will erase the last six months. I’m not as blinded by hope as all that. Father will still be a cripple. We will still live on Thisby. Mother and I will still have to work. But it will create space for us to breathe again. It will open doors that had been slammed in our faces the moment we received the devastating news of Father’s accident. Lottie will be able to stay in school. And with luck and some hard work, perhaps, just perhaps, I will be able to return to school.
I’d had my lofty sights set on Cambridge once upon a time, a Classics study that would take me across the world in search of the places I’d only read about and imagined. I’d been discouraged by teachers and families, of course. They were far more interested in my marriage prospects than my brain. But if I can prove my independence, my ability, my determination… perhaps I can manage it. And God, just the thought of it makes my heart ache with longing. I’ve had a taste of freedom these last few weeks, and I will crave it forever after. The Races are my chance, as slim as it might be, to live a life that will bring me true joy. Clearly that type of joy exists for some here on the island. Gwen and John are proof of that. But not for me.
It is with these thoughts of fear and glory chasing each other around my mind that I finally drift off into a fitful sleep. In a short number of hours I will know. And life will go on.
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Week 4: Character Challenges 1 & 2
I’m reluctant to take Gwen McAvoy up on her offer, even more so when I mention our meeting on the beach to Bridget that night. As it turns out, I’ve received a cordial invitation to the home of Scorpio Races royalty.
“They’re charmed, those ones,” she tells me as she wipes down the bar. “Must be touched by some of the old magic. She’s a runner-up and he’s a winner, and they both coached another winner last year. He died of course, poor blighter, dragged under the waves, but he did win. Finest people you’ll ever meet, too,” she adds, pouring my cider. “Sad and kind, they are. War hit them hard. But so kind after it all. You should go. Never know what you might learn, and at the very least you’ll get a nice cuppa out of it.”
And so, the next afternoon following a long but productive morning on the beach, I find myself making the climb up to the pretty little cottage on the cliffs that Gwen had pointed out the day before, threadbare girth slung over one shoulder. As I approach, I watch two capaill uisce racing about the expansive fields surrounding the home, one the dappled bay Gwen had ridden yesterday, the other a golden palomino. As they rear and plunge and frolic, I can almost believe that they are just normal horses. Only the spine-tingling noises they emit betray their true provenance. Coats glossy and sleek, muscles smooth and strong, they are clearly well taken care of, and I’m further reassured that Gwen and her John must be quite knowledgeable about these creatures. I don’t realize how long I’ve been watching until I hear someone hailing me from the front door. Turning, I see Gwen smiling and inviting me in Too late to make a silent and graceful exit now, I tell myself, and follow her inside.
It’s a lovely, warm little place. Quaint would be a good word, but tasteful, all white wood and wide windows and copper fixtures, nothing like the dark and drafty place I now call home. A fire pops and crackles merrily in the hearth, and fresh bread sits cooling on the counter. I feel immediately welcomed and at ease. Pressing a cup of hot, sweet tea into my hands and placing a plate of steaming November cakes on the table in front of me, Gwen positions herself across the table from me.
“I’m so glad you came,” she tells me. “I was afraid I might have scared you off. I know I came on a bit strong.” She smiles apologetically. “John and I, we’d tried to stay away from the Races this year, you see. We’ve seen…” Sucking in a contemplative breath, she releases it slowly before continuing. “We’ve seen the worst that the Races have to offer. But it’s a bit of an addiction I suppose.” A small shrug. “Or it’s the magic of the island. Or… whatever you want to call it, I wasn’t able to stay away. And, as clichéd as it sounds, I do see much of myself in you. The anger, the desperation, the wildness.”
I want to protest, want to defend myself as a proper, composed, and stoic young lady. A hundred different sharp retorts dance across my tongue, but she’s speaking far too much truth, so I just nod.
“And I want to give you as good a chance as you can get, far better than I ever could’ve gotten. So, we’re going to talk strategy.”
We sit there for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, drinking endless cups of tea. The November cakes are soon gone, and Gwen’s husband returns from a trip to the village with a paper bag of savory meat pies. John joins us at the table, and we all tuck into the flaky, greasy, delicious pasties, something I once would have turned my nose up at as food fit only for miners and farmhands. But then, Gwen and John are forcing me to confront so much of what I once thought. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve felt distain for the islanders since my arrival, so primitive and backward with their savage rituals and streets smelling of fish and seaweed. But the two people sitting in front of me are bright and witty and warm. Between serious discussions concerning Nyx’s strengths and weaknesses and my experience with racing (which amounts to sitting trackside at the Grand National every year), they trade quick-fire but good-natured barbs that leave us all laughing. It is one of the first times that I’ve felt truly comfortable on this island.
By the end of the evening we’ve decided that a simple approach is best. I am inexperienced and Nyx has run this Race before. She knows the path, knows the chaos. Of course this does not guarantee she will run straight or avoid being caught up in the bloody melee. But I must trust her, and trust myself. John’s more reluctant to discuss strategy, or the Races at all, and I remember what Bridget told me about the fate of their friend in last year’s Races. But he admires my girth with a low whistle when I hand it to him, and agrees to fix it for me if I provide him the name and information of its maker. Gwen shakes her head affectionately. It’s easy to forget in this neat but humble home that they may very well be some of the richest people on this island.
I leave with the loaf of bread that has now cooled, and a second bag of pasties and November cakes. Swallowing my pride, I accept them all as graciously as I can when Gwen hands them to me. There is no pity in her eyes, only encouragement. They know what it is like to live in uncertainty. They will not be watching the Races, Gwen tells me, wrapping an arm around John’s waist, but there is always a place for me in their home, and a place for Nyx in their fields should I want it. I walk home under the light of a full harvest moon with a full stomach and a full heart.
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Week 3: Character Challenges 3 & 4
The next morning we are down on the beach before the sun has even fully extracted itself from the sea. The day is cold and bright, and the sunrise sends blinding golden rays splintering off the waves, and I sit atop Nyx for a few moments simply watching the dazzling display. The whole beach is drenched in light so thick and golden I feel as though I could reach out and run a hand through it, or cup it in my hands and drink it. As the sun continues its climb, it warms the side of my face in spite of the chill in the air. I close my eyes, relishing the delicious heat seeping into my skin and bringing my tired body back to life. Despite myself, despite the ache in my chest for the beautiful simplicity of sun-drenched days at Saint Marciana’s that I suspect will always be there, I am slowly falling in love with the beauty of this wild place. Opening my eyes, I watch for a moment longer before gently turning Nyx’s nose down the wide stretch of sand. It’s then that I realize that I am not alone on the beach.
A few lengths away, sitting astride a gorgeous dappled bay capall uisce, is a young woman. She wears an oversized blue barn coat, a bit old fashioned, and a long golden braid falls over her shoulder. Upon first glance, I think she is simply enjoying the sunrise, as I am, but then she smiles, and I realize that her gaze has been fixed on me. Shifting uncomfortably in my saddle, I raise a hand in greeting, and she apparently takes this as an invitation, because she gently taps her mount’s sides and approaches with practiced caution. She, like Nyx, like her water horse, has clearly been on this beach in Novembers passed.
“Good morning,” I greet her with a polite nod, because it’s the proper thing to do, and decorum cannot be abandoned simply because we’re meeting on a blood-drenched beach. And also because women are few and far between here, and I would like to make as many allies as I can, if only to avoid one more dangerous interaction on Race day.
“Good morning,” she replies in kind. She seems so at ease in her saddle, relaxed and confident, as though she’s been doing this for years. She likely has. Maintaining a safe distance as the capaill eye each other suspiciously, she leans toward me. “I hope I’m not interrupting your training sessions, but I wanted to introduce myself before the masses descend in a few moments.” Her voice is pure Thisby, vowels round and smooth as a sea-softened pebble. “Gwen McAvoy. Or Gwen Goveny. Gwen Swift if you run into some of the more forgetful members of our little community.”
“Collette Darling. Or… Lettie.” It’s a name I usually resolve for family and friends, but something about this weatherworn woman makes me want to count her as a friend.
“Very pleased to meet you, Lettie.” Turning her restless mount in a tight circle, she hesitates before continuing. “I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds. I don’t want to be presumptuous or intrude but… I’ve seen you ride. Not watching you or anything. Not riding in the Races this year. Just spend a lot of time on the beach these days. And you’re good.” She laughs on this last word, and it’s not mocking or belittling, but rather impressed.
“Well thank you-” I start, but she’s digging in her saddlebags for something, and cuts me off.
“You’re good, but your equipment is not. I don’t mean any offense of course,” she adds, straightening up, something clutched in her hand, “but you’re making yourself an easy target out there. Fancy tack, no charms, clumsy knots.”
Toying self-consciously with the knots in Nyx’s mane that I’ve practiced so diligently, but still can’t quite get the hang of, I feel a defensive retort rising hot and fierce in my chest. But one glance at her kind eyes surrounded by their laugh lines makes me swallow it down.
“I’m not judging you,” she says gently, her face softening, and then holds out the object she’d retrieved from her saddlebags. It’s a collection of metal charms worked into a variety of whimsical shapes, most of which I can’t identify. She tosses it to me, little bells jangling sweetly between the charms on their red ribbon. “These should help.”
Turning them in my hands, I recognize the symbols from my days on the beach, many riders’ tack laden down with enough metal to start a mine. I haven’t been able to afford any of my own, so this gift is quite literally invaluable.
“And, if you have a mind, stop by the house on the cliffs.” She gestures toward a neat little cottage high above the sea. “We’ll fix you some tea, share some strategies. And John, my husband John, can fix your girth. It’ll be in good hands.”
“Thank you. I-I will.” I don’t know what else to say to her kindness, really. It’s something I’ve come not to expect. I could use a friend and a cup of tea that hasn’t been made with a tea bag wrung out into three cups of tea already. And she’s right about my girth. My Cordovan leather tack, once a shiny oxblood masterpiece, was never meant for sand and salt and rain, and it’s quickly beginning to show its delicate nature.
Smiling, Gwen McAvoy… Goveny… Swift, nods and turns her capall uisce to leave me to my training.
“Why are you helping me?” I call after her, and she looks back at me quizzically, placing a hand on the back of her saddle.
“I know what it’s like to need something so desperately you’ll go toe to toe with death itself. I’ve seen it go well, and I’ve seen it go so tragically wrong.” Her eyes are sad even as she continues to smile. “And I want to see you win.” And then she turns back around, and takes off down the sand. Watching her horse’s retreating hooves spraying sand into the air, I thank whatever gods watch over the Races that I will not be lining up against her come Race day.
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Week 3: Character Challenges 1 & 2
When I return from the inn, I head straight to the little shed at the edge of a farmer’s property where I’ve been fortunate enough to rent a stall for Nyx, upon the condition that I’ll pay him twice again the worth of any livestock she consumes. Thankfully it hasn’t come to that. She’s surprisingly well-behaved, further enforcing my suspicion that this is not her first year being dragged from the sea, and I hear her chirruping at me before I see her. Sharp-eyed and even sharper-eared, she quickly learned the sound of my shoes on the gravel path, and waits impatiently for me, sleek head stretching out into the night. She cuts an eerie silhouette as I approach, narrow skull almost snake-like in the flickering light of the lantern I carry. Her blue eyes flash ghost-white, and a little shiver goes down my spine before I approach her.
“Hello there, gorgeous,” I say, tossing the salvaged off cuts and offal from Gratton’s into her feed bucket, and she makes a sound somewhere between a chirp and a banshee’s scream before tucking into the bloody mess. It is simultaneously terrifying and endearing. I’ve come to know and decipher a handful of her odd noises, many of which are nightmare-worthy, and know when she’s angry, hungry, relaxed. It’s certainly taken me some time to do so, but I assessed early on that a harsh hand or word was not going to going to place me in her good graces. It only took almost losing a capall-bite sized section of my thigh to learn that lesson. But I was uniquely equipped to confront the situation nonetheless.
Spending so many years at an all girls’ school taught me many skills, and the most valuable ones had very little to do with what was taught in the classroom. When confronted with a potential rival for either status or popularity, as I often was in an environment which so frequently breeds such competition, I was not catty. I was not vicious. I was not backstabbing. No. I was sweet. I was kind. I was collaborative. In sort, I killed them with kindness. With such a strategy, I was able to gain many allies, friends even, while disarming the perceived threat. And so it is with Nyx. After all, she is just as beautiful, blood thirsty, and mistrustful of me as those girls once were. I do my best to care for her with what little funds I have, feeding her with small kindnesses: a marrow-filled beef bone here, a cautious stroke to her slick there. I sing to her as I prepare her for our training sessions, trying out new material for my shifts at the inn. She prefers tragic love ballads above all else. A girl after my own heart. And I read to her when the weather or conditions on the beach are too severe to risk a ride. Greek and Latin have already begun to feel unfamiliar on my tongue, but she doesn’t mind. She listens contentedly as I stumble my way through the Iliad, her eyes half-lidded, relaxed.
I’ve surprised myself with the amount of affection I’ve developed for this monstrous horse. The capaill never enchanted me the way they seemed to the rest of the island the few times I encountered them. Why risk life, limb, and sanity to ride one of these beasts when there are perfectly regular and significantly safer horses available? But it’s different with Nyx. Perhaps it’s out of necessity, knowing that I hang my highest and most desperate hopes on her. Perhaps it’s by virtue of the fact that we spend so many hours together. Or perhaps I’ve truly come to create a bond with her. Having another living creature who is not judgmental, or pitying, or scornful has been such a relief. Nyx simply sees me for who I am, stripped bare of the trappings of wealth and status, or lack thereof. She expects nothing from me except a bucket of blood and a kind word. Our relationship certainly is complicated by the fact that she likely would drag me into the sea with no regard to my life or safety given just enough rein or complacency. But until that moment happens, and knowing that if it does there will be little to nothing I will be able to do about it, I have now embraced this odd friendship. I do not know if she truly feels any of the affection that I do, or if I am simply projecting longed-for human emotions.
Whatever the truth may be, I am thankful for Nyx. I am thankful for the order and discipline that she gives to my days, which prevent me from spiraling too quickly into the darkness that has seemingly overtaken the rest of my family. I am thankful for her warmth, damp and slippery as it may be, which reminds me that life goes on even when you almost wish it wouldn’t. And I am thankful for the hope of a future that rides alongside me, no matter how narrow and unlikely. All this and more placed on her narrow but strong withers. And I am so grateful.
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Week 2: Character Challenge 4
The day after the Parade I am tired deep in my bones, and I know that training is not in the cards today. I stay in bed far longer than I’ve allowed myself in days, luxuriating in the ability to drift in and out of sleep. Finally, when I feel that I’ve sufficiently indulged myself, I rise. My skinned and bruised knees are stiff, and my lips are dry and cracked. Stretching, I feel my joints creak, and for the first time in all my seventeen years, I know what it might feel like to age. I may not be riding today, but I still have duties to attend to, stiffness or no. Because, after my brash and, upon reflection, stupid decision to spend all my remaining money on purchasing my water horse, I’ve had to find a way to sustain this mad venture. Mother’s meager earnings from doing the washing and mending for families about town is only enough to sustain the four of us, and certainly not enough to feed a ravenous capall uisce. So I hike up my skirts (metaphorically), and get to work.
Unfortunately but certainly not surprisingly, there is little need on Thisby for the skills one learns at Saint Marciana’s School for Young Ladies. When I first set out to fund my race, it took me a few days wandering the island between training sessions to find something suitable. Gratton’s offered me a position behind the counter, and it would’ve been a good fit with their proposal to pay me in half-decent cuts of meat, but I couldn’t stomach the sight nor smell of the massive sides of raw beef and pork that hung like grotesque ornaments in the back of the shop. Palsson’s had no need for a new shop girl, and I had no talent for baking. Shop after shop I entered and left without success. Parched and tired, I made my way to the Black Eyed Girl, an inn popular with local and tourists alike. It was sitting there at the bar with a glass of hot cider that the barmaid had sympathetically tipped a bit of whiskey into and listening to an old radio warbling out tunes from the mainland that I got my idea. The barmaid was more than pleased to have another young woman to share the male-dominated space with, and the owner was more than pleased to have another young woman to keep drawing them in.
As I enter and unwind my scarf, Bridget is already pouring my cider. We exchange a friendly grin and Bridget claps me on the shoulder in admiration, having already heard tell of my escapades from the night before, and I take my place at the piano. A sip of whiskey-laced cider and a deep breath, and I start to play. Conversations quiet, and heads turn to where I sit as my fingers dance across the keys, muscle memory making the task as easy as breathing. Though I’d prefer to play through some complex Chopin or a gentle Brahms, traditional songs from the Mainland hold much broader appeal and are significantly easier to sing along to. So, each day I play through my repertoire, one built through nights stealing out to pubs near school with my friends and allowing the field hands to buy us gin and call us pretty. I play to my audience, rousing quiet groups of work-tired fishermen to their feet with a bright and lively round of “Spanish Lady”, and coaxing crowds of rowdy drunks to tears with a sweetly voiced rendition of “Oh Danny Boy”, accompanied only by the beating of my own heart. I’m allowed to keep whatever coin makes its way into the jar atop the piano, and I pull in a good bit, more than usual as I’m able to devote the whole day to it. Drunk mainlanders are loose with their purse strings, and I feel only a tinge of guilt to be taking their money. But I’ve lived in their world, and they scarcely miss the fiver they clumsily stuff into my jar.
At the end of the night, Bridget and I share another drink and a Sunday roast, the second part of my payment for providing the entertainment for the night. In these moments, perched on a barstool in the empty inn, talking and laughing far later into the night than I really should, that I feel most content. Because here, I am not part of a fallen family. I am not the talk of the island. I am not even a rider. I am simply Lettie, the girl with the pretty voice, the piano player, Bridget’s friend. Perhaps more money could be made elsewhere, and if things turn out poorly in the Races I’ll surely have to go searching for something more lucrative. But for now, thoughts of the future are far and away. I am relaxed and happy and warm, my secondhand pocketbook is full, and there’s a slight buzz in my blood from the alcohol. And I can believe, if only momentarily, that everything will be all right.
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Rising up to my full height and holding the hot, salty blood in my mouth, I take the final few steps up to the top of the rock. And then I turn, even as the woman reaches for my hand to slice my finger, and I spit that mouthful of blood onto the red-spattered stone below with as much force as I can muster.
“I will ride. Collette Darling. Nyx. By my blood.”
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Week 2: Character Challenges 2 & 3
When it comes time to go to the Festival, I attempt to sneak out, as I’ve done quite successfully since that first morning. However, it seems Mother has developed the ears of a fox, and she catches me at the door. Admonishing me for my attire (she does not approve of my wearing pants, and only tolerates it because it keeps me from riding in my knickers), she drags me back to my room where she dresses me like a London high street mannequin. oon, I was dressed in what now counted as my Sunday’s finest, complete with a flower-covered fascinator that was wildly inappropriate for the occasion.
“There,” she sighed, clasping her hands as she stepped back to survey her work. “Now you at least look presentable. Shall we then?”
I look at her in bemusement.
“We?”
“Why yes of course,” she replies, draping a shawl about her shoulders, and beginning to steer me toward the door. “Lottie! Lottie come on! We’re going to leave without you!”
“Coming, coming.” My little sister races down the stairs, pink-cheeked and grinning in a flouncy pink dress. I think it’s the first outing we’ve had since moving to Thisby, so I don’t blame her for her excitement. Seeing her happy is enough to make me swallow down my annoyance at this night becoming even more of a production than it previously was. Lottie, sweet Lottie. She has always been my shadow, despite being my exact opposite in almost all manners of the world. My raven curls to her golden, my blue eyes to her brown, my intensity to her cheerfulness. As soon as she was old enough to talk, she even insisted we call her by the shortened version of her own name, Charlotte, to be like me. If having a Collette and a Charlotte under the same roof hadn’t been bad enough, having a Lettie and a Lottie in the house has been perfectly maddening. But I love her. So I simply smile, tuck a flyaway golden curl into her hat, and lead our little parade out the door.
We’re already running late by the time we leave the house, and I must dash off to join the meandering Riders’ Parade, but not before I slip Lottie a couple of coins, enough for a November cake and a sweet, hot cup of cocoa. It’s the last of my money not reserved for purchasing food for Nyx, but the light in her eyes tells me it’s worth it. She scurries off, towing Mother behind her. Mother gives me a final glance over her shoulder and shouts something about meeting me after the ceremony, and then they’re lost to my view. And I prefer it that way. I never wanted to involve them in this madness, so I’m happy to have them enjoy the more anodyne aspects of the Festival.
I allow the crowd to carry me along, jostled this way and that by the other Riders. Most are using the parade as a show of bravado, waving to the crowd and laughing and dancing along to the furious beat of the Scorpio drummers. But as I look around, I see others who look how I feel: sick to our stomachs and ready for this whole thing to be over. I’m not about to show my nerves, though. I’ve already tipped my hand one too many times to expose that weakness. So I raise my chin, fix what I hope to be a cocky smirk onto my face, straighten my back, and walk. And, miracle of miracles, it works. I feel confidence slowly fill me, leeching into my bones like the warmth of a fire after a long day on the beach. I belong here, I tell myself, and I believe it. I catch sight of the Mare Goddess out of the corner of my eye, and I match her unblinking gaze with one of my own until she swings her head around, breaking the link between us. I feel so, so powerful. This false confidence become real carries me all the way through to the end of the Parade, walking tall and sure as I approach the rock upon which this year’s bird-headed priestess stands. I take one, two, three steps up the rough surface, and then…
Crack!
My foot catches on a bit of uneven stone, and I pitch forward, my hands slamming into the rock in a futile attempt to catch myself. Pain lances through my face as my chin makes contact with the hard, cold surface, my teeth sinking deeply into my bottom lip. Tears prick at my eyes even before the jeers begin, loud whistles and laughs only building as I struggle to my feet, all tangled skirts and scraped knees. The woman in the bird headdress takes a step toward me, hand outstretched, but I wave her off. As the whistles and indecipherable shouts reach a crescendo, I feel the same hot anger I felt on the beach flood me. It does not come slowly like the confidence, but all at once, like a tidal wave washing over me.
I belong here.
Rising up to my full height and holding the hot, salty blood in my mouth, I take the final few steps up to the top of the rock. And then I turn, even as the woman reaches for my hand to slice my finger, and I spit that mouthful of blood onto the red-spattered stone below with as much force as I can muster.
“I will ride. Collette Darling. Nyx. By my blood.”
The crowd has gone absolutely silent now, and I stand there for two more breaths, chest heaving, staring out at them, daring them, before I swipe a sleeve across my mouth, gather up my skirts, and make my way down the other side of the rock. The bird-headed woman knows better than to try to draw her pinprick of blood. People part in front of me, leaving a clear path to where Mother and Lottie wait. Mother’s eyes are wide with shock, speechless, while Lottie’s eyes are bright with excitement, and she doesn’t stop chattering the whole way home. I half-listen to her as we make out way home, suddenly too exhausted to do much more than nod. Mother bursts into the house, and, having now found her voice once more, drags me by the sleeve to the room where Father sits, raging against me the whole way. Pushing me into a chair in front of Father as she recounts the whole evening to him. Then she puts her hands on her hips and looks at him expectantly, sure that my incredibly improper comportment will be the thing to rouse him from his stupor. And, as it turns out, she’s right. A slow smile spreads across his face, and he leans forward, placing a hand on my knee.
“That’s my girl.”
Exasperated, Mother throws her hands in the air, and we hear her angrily making tea and muttering to herself in the kitchen. We sit there for a while, Father laughing to himself and shaking his head and patting my knee, long enough that my lip finally stops bleeding and my eyes are heavy. I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror as I make my slow, sore way to my bedroom. I’ve bitten almost clean through my lip, and it will surely scar, but I smile all the same. A fitting souvenir of this violent, bloody journey.
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