Maggie Stiefvater - The Scorpio Races

We leave fresh prints in the hard-packed sand the tide’s left behind; it is frigid against my bare feet, especially when cold seawater presses out of the ground around my skin. My blistered feet welcome it.

End of the first day, the endless first day. The beach has had its share of casualties. One boy fell off and bloodied his forehead on a boulder. Another man got bitten, an impressive-looking wound, but nothing a pint and a few hours of sleep won’t fix. And then there was the dog. I couldn’t be surprised that its maiming was the piebald mare’s handiwork.

All in all, there’ve been worse starts to the training.

This evening, the registration will start at Gratton’s. I’ll put my name and Corr’s there, though at this point it feels like a formality. Then there will be a frantic week of uncertain islanders and tourists trying out horses to see if they have the nerve to truly race, and if they do, if they have the nerve to race on the horse they have beneath them. Horses will be bought, sold, bartered. Men become owners, fifths, riders. It’s a frustrating time for me. Too much negotiation and not enough training. It’s always a relief when the festival ends the first week and forces riders to officially declare their mounts.

That’s really when life begins.

Corr lifts his head, ears pricked, neck curved, as if he’s courting the Scorpio sea. I whisper to him and tug his lead. It’s me I want him paying attention to, not the song of this powerful water. I watch his eye, his ears, the line of his body, to see whose voice will be more potent tonight, mine or the ocean’s.

He jerks his head toward me so fast that I have an iron rod out of my pocket before he’s finished his turn. But he wasn’t attacking, merely moving to study me with his good eye.

I trust Corr more than any of them.

I should not trust him at all.

His neck is soft, though the skin around his eyes is tight, so into the surf we go. I let my breath out in a rush as the cold water creeps up my ankles. And then we stand there, and I watch him again, seeing what effect the magic eddying around his ankles has. He shivers but doesn’t tense; we have done this before and the month is young. I cup a handful of salt water and tip it onto his shoulder, my lips pressed against his skin, whispering. Still he stands. So I stand with him and let the gritty surf work on my tired feet.

Corr, red as the sunset, looks out to the ocean. The shore faces east and so he looks out to night, deep blue and then black, the sky and the water mirror images. Our shadows fall into the ocean, too, changing colors with the breakers and foam beneath them. When I look at Corr’s shadow, I see an elegant giant. When I look to mine, for the first time, I see my father’s shadow. Not quite my father’s. My shoulders don’t have his slight hunch, as if against perpetual cold. And his hair was longer. But it is there in the rigid posture, the chin always lifted, a horseman even on the ground.

I am caught off guard, so when Corr moves up and away, I do nothing. He is in a half-rear before I realize it, but then he brings both his hooves down in the exact same place they left, making a mighty wall of water spray my face. I stand there, salt in my mouth, and I see that his ears are pricked at me, neck arched.

For the first time in days, I laugh. In response to the sound, Corr shakes his head and neck like a dog shedding water. I back up a few steps in the water and he follows me, and then I come after him and kick a splash at his body. He winces, looking deeply wounded, and then paws to splash me in return. Back and forth we go – I never have my back to him – as he follows me and I him. He pretends to drink the water and tosses his head in mock disgust. I pretend to drink a handful and throw it at him.

Finally, I am out of breath and my feet are sore from the pebbles and the water is nearly too cold to bear. I go to Corr and he lowers his head, pressing his face against my chest; he is warm through my soaked shirt. I trace a letter on the skin behind his ears, to still him, and I rub my fingers through his mane, to still me.

Not too far away, I hear a distant splash. It could be a fish, although it would have to be sizable for me to hear it over the breakers. I look out over the sea as it turns to black.

I don’t think it is a fish, and neither does Corr, who is again looking out toward the horizon. Now he trembles, and when I back out of the surf, it takes a long minute to convince him to follow. He takes one slow step, then another, until the water is no longer touching him, and then he stops, rigid legged. He looks back to the sea, lifts his head, and curls back his lip.

I snap the lead sharply and press the iron into Corr’s chest, before he can call. While he’s in my hands he won’t sing their song.

As I walk back up the gradual slope to the boat slip, I see silhouettes at the top of the road to Skarmouth. They are standing at the ridge where it meets the sky, black against purple. Though they’re distant, one of them is the unmistakably graceless form of Mutt Malvern. Their posture is undeniably interested in my progress, so I’m wary as I make my way.

It doesn’t take me long to discover that Mutt Malvern has pissed in my boots.

They’re laughing now on the ridge. I won’t give Mutt the satisfaction of my disgust, so I tip the boots out – this beach is too good for his urine – and tie their laces together. I let them hang on either side of the saddle on Corr’s back and start up the slope. Though it’s nearly dark, there’s still a lot to get done; I have to be to Gratton’s before ten. The day stretches out in front of me, invisible in the darkness.

We climb inland.

My boots smell of piss.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Skarmouth after dark, and it reminds me of the time that Dad cut his hair. For the first seven years of my life, Dad had dark curly hair that was like me – in that he told it first thing in the morning what he wanted it to do and then it went and did pretty much whatever it wanted to do. Anyway, when I was seven, Dad came back from the docks with his hair close shaven and when I saw him walk in the door and kiss my mother on the mouth, I started to cry because I thought he was a stranger.

And that’s what Skarmouth has done, after dark: It’s turned into an entirely different Skarmouth from the one I’ve known my whole life, and I don’t feel like letting it kiss me on the mouth anytime soon. Night has painted the entire town dark blue. All of the buildings press against each other and, clinging to the rocks, peer down into the endless black quay beneath them. Streetlights make brilliant halos; paper lights crawl along wires tied to telephone poles. They look like Christmas lights or fireflies, spiraling up toward the faint dark outline of St. Columba’s above the town. There is a legion of bicycles leaned against walls, and more cars than I knew existed on the entire island are parked along the streets, streetlights caught in their windshields. The cars have disgorged unfamiliar men and the bicycles have bucked off half-familiar boys. I’ve only ever seen this many people in the streets on fair days.

It’s magical and terrifying. I feel lost, and I’m only in Skarmouth. I can’t imagine Gabe making his way on the mainland.

“Puck Connolly,” shouts a voice that I know belongs to Joseph Beringer. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

I park Finn’s bicycle as close to the butcher’s as I can get it and lean it against the metal rail that is meant to keep you from falling into the quay unless you absolutely mean to. The water smells weird and fishy tonight and I peer down to see if there are any fishermen’s boats down there to account for the smell. There’s nothing but black water and reflections, making it look like there is another Skarmouth submerged under the salt water.