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
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
“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?”
“Sisters,” Brian says. “Three of them.”
“Where are they tonight?”
