November Horses

Chapter One - Rhyse

•••22 Days•••

Rhyse

I watch him lose the horse. The song grasps him; envelopes him in its arms; but he fights back.  

But not enough to keep the horse. 

The grey mare is gone now, only a dark trail in the sea. Her songs are only whispers heard through pillows at night-spoken in the water. He stands up, dusts off his jacket, as if he'd only been riding an island pony. As if he'd been doing this for lifetimes after lifetimes. A mere stroll along a perfectly safe beach. 

More like a death race along a perfectly dangerous beach. 

The crowd dissipates, goes back to the streets and bars that line them. I follow, not interested enough to watch the waves for capaill. Quinn is at home, probably meddling with something. He'd told me that he was busy, couldn't go. I'd known otherwise-it was the blood he couldn't handle. He's so squeamish, I sometimes wonder why he was born on Thisby and not on the mainland. Where carnivorous horses don't leave pieces of sheep strewn about the road. Every time we pass the butchers on our way to Etta Maeve's, Quinn squeezes his eyes shut to not see it. I don't think it helps.  

I swerve out of the way of a women with arms piled full of boxes of November cakes. My mouth waters at the tantalizing smell. Every October and November, the sweet nectar-filled delights come around for the Scorpio Festival: the time when mainlanders flock to the island by the hundreds to see Thisby's finest men race the capaill uisce down the beach.  

"Jane Langley! What are you doing here? These capaill aren't for you. They'll eat you and drown you and then where would Quinn be without you?" Someone is yelling at me from across the street, near the butcher's.  

I turn to find who it is, and my eyes land on Bev Morton-the butcher's wife. "I'm not sticking around," I say to her, my voice louder so it would carry over the roar of Skarmouth, "I'm just now on my way home."  

She nods, to acknowledge that she heard me. I duck my head under the arm of someone waving about and turn the corner to Etta Maeve's shop. She lives on a flat on the top floor with her two sisters, one of which is mostly blind and the other who is so pretty she never runs out of men. They say that about Bev Morton too, but she's not as good looking.  

I unchain my tired bicycle from where it waits from me, and flash a sour look at an American leaving the store. All he does is smile, but I can tell he's intimidated. My father always used to tell me stories about how I was born from a bottle of the strongest scotch, rather than my mother's womb, and how they bathed me in sweet water for weeks to wash it off me. Apparently, it didn't work, because I always go back to the strong liquor. But none of that matters, now that they're gone. Taken by a sea-fresh capall uisce--when its head was still long and it's ears were still devilish. At least that's what I've always been told, that and that it was quick. But that's always what they tell victim's families-that it was quick. We all know better, that the capaill drag out the kill, but somehow it helps subdue the grief anyway.  

I leave before Etta Maeve or her sister can see me-I want to get home before the dusk settles. The October nights on Thisby are too dangerous to go out alone. When I reach the house, Quinn is out on the driveway with a go-cart and Libby is standing on the yard, grazing. I click to her, and my island pony trots over, almost shoving me over when she pushes around me to reach for treats. She is hungry and wants her dinner, but I can only give her a cheap hay and the grass in our lawn. Winter isn't even close to beginning and she's already got a hay belly. Money is hard to come by. I do odd jobs for Etta Maeve, and Quinn runs a fix-it business. Combined, we bring in hardly enough to feed ourselves and Libby but we scrape by. I've managed to postpone most of this year's payments on the house to keep us going. Times should get easier now, during the Scorpio Festival, when tourists are buying from Etta Maeve and locals are fixing their trucks for the upcoming winter. But it isn't getting better. 

Especially now that a slick cream Cadillac pulled up. 

I know exactly who it is.  

Thomas Stonrach. The owner of most all of Thisby, except for the sea and the Collinsey Yard. Probably the richest man here. My stomach drops and Quinn quits tinkering when he gets out of the car. We both know why he's here. I can tell he means business by the way he steps up our driveway.  

"May I come in?" Is all he says. 

I don't even nod and he's already striding through the door. All I can do is trail behind him to shut the door and ask him if he'd like anything. Yes, he would. Tea with butter and salt. I scowl inwardly at his request. What man drinks his tea like that? I wouldn't know. Probably just disinterested old men who ran their islands like a Monopoly board game.  

Stonrach sits at our cluttered kitchen table and eyes the mess as if it were an annoying speck on his tie. I fidget around in the kitchen, preparing his tea and getting out the butter for him. Salt is already on the kitchen table. I don't bother mixing the concoction for him, just set it down in front of him.  

"Jane Langley," Stonrach starts, stirring his tea, "I know times are hard. Money is short." He takes a long gulp. "But you haven't paid dues on this house since January. I can't help you any more. You owe me a lot of money, and-" 

"Mr. Stonrach." I start with an edge. 

He smiles. I don't. "How have you two been doing? After your parents, I mean." 

I despise how he addresses me. As if I were some small child he had to bend down to. "We keep ourselves busy." 

"Enough to pay for the house?" He watches my face. 

"No, but were getting along." 

Something sparkles in Stonrach's eyes. I don't know what it is. "Really, now?" 

I won't play games with him. "Why are you here, Stonrach?" I deprive him of the respect needed to make him Mr. Stonrach, instead of just Stonrach. He seems amused. 

"I am here to expel you." Stonrach pauses for me to talk. 

I stay silent.  

"Well?" He seems displeased with my reaction.  

"How much do I owe you?" 

"More than you would know." 

"I'll have it all paid off in three weeks." 

Something resembling a grin passes over his face. "You think you can win the Scorpio Races." 

I won't give him the satisfaction of listening to me make excuses. I stay quiet. 

"On that little island pony out there?" 

"The races are run with capaill, aren't they? So I'll run in them with my own capall." I shove it back in his face. 

Distaste, and then amusement comes from Stonrach. He doesn't respond. "If you live, I'll see you in three weeks. If you don't-" 

I interrupt him. "I'll live. Your lack of faith in me is disturbing." 

Stonrach brushes off my comment and stands up. His teacup is empty. A horrid man is as horrid as the stuff he drinks, I decide.  

I let him see himself out. He shuts the door behind him and starts his car. As soon as the engine noise fades as away, I collapse on the table, my arms covering my face.  

I have one week to find a capall uisce. Two weeks after that to train it. One chance to win. 

Outside, I can hear Quinn tinkering again.