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.
CHAPTER TEN
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.
Joseph crows something else that I don’t pay any mind to. In a way, I’m grateful that Joseph’s here being an oaf, because he’s such a fixture of life here that he makes everything else seem more familiar.
My head jerks as Joseph pulls my ponytail. I whirl around to face him, hands on my hips. He gives me his too- big smile. He is pimply under his blond hair. His mouth goes
I try to think of something catchy to say, but there’s nothing but irritation that something that was funny to an eleven-year-old boy is still funny to a seventeen-year-old one. So I just say ferociously, “I don’t have time for you tonight, Joseph Beringer!”
This is true always, but truer tonight. I’m supposed to sign up as a race participant today, I think. Because of my hurry, Finn graciously offered to feed Dove for me. When I left, he was looking at a bucket as if it was the most complicated invention he had ever seen.
Beside me, Joseph is going on about my bedtime again – he likes to just take a topic and worry it to death, never a danger of missing anything subtle with him – and I simply ignore him as I hurry down the walk to Gratton’s, the butcher shop. As I look at all the people, some of them tourists already, I think about how Mum used to say that we needed the races, that this would be a dead island without them.
Well, the island’s alive tonight.
Gratton’s is a riot of sound, with people spilling out onto the walk. I have to push my way through the door. I wouldn’t say people in Skarmouth are rude as a rule, but beer makes people deaf. Inside, the place is abuzz with noise and a crooked line leads around the walls. The ceiling feels low and crowded with its exposed timbers close overhead. I’ve never seen so many people in here before. In a terrible way, though, it makes sense that the butcher’s should be the unofficial center for the races, on account of this is where all the riders get their meat from.
Except me.
I see Thomas Gratton straightaway, shouting directly into someone’s ear by the opposite wall. His wife, Peg, is behind the counter, smiling and chatting, a piece of chalk in her hand. Thomas may own the place, but Dad said that Peg ruled it. Every man in Skarmouth is in love with Peg. Dad said this was because they knew that Peg could cut their heart out neat and they loved her for it. Certainly isn’t for her looks. I heard Gabe say once that Mutt Malvern had bigger tits than Peg. Which I suppose is probably true but I remember being very shocked at my brother saying something so crass and unfair, because what say does a girl have in how big her chest gets?
I edge into the single line of people that leads to where Peg writes names up on the chalkboard. I am standing behind a man in a dull blue jacket and a hat, and his back is so high he blocks my view of everything. I feel like I’ve become a toddler in a room that dangles with meat hooks. Thomas Gratton roars to the crowd to stop smoking in the shop and men roar laughingly back at him about Thomas not being able to stand any heat near his meat.
I begin to feel uncertain, like I’m not sure I’m even supposed to be standing in the line. I think people are looking at me. I hear people at the counter placing bets. Maybe I’m wrong and this has nothing to do with signing up for the races. Maybe they won’t even let me sign up with Dove. The only positive thing is that I’ve lost Joseph
