November Horses

Chapter 2 - Rhyse & Jae

•••21 days•••

Rhyse

When I wake up the next morning, the sun has barely risen over the horizon. The birds have yet to recognize that it is past 4 am, and are still sleeping in the trees. I think that Quinn is still asleep like the birds when I don't hear any clattering noises coming from the kitchen, but listen again and sure enough I hear the sound of glass shattering and a pleasantly spoken swear following it.  

Because the sun is taking its own sweet time rising, the air is cold and frigid when I take off the covers. I cringe and quickly change into clothes I find strewn about without considering turning on any lights. I find my way along the walls to my door and then to the bathroom. I don't bother turning those lights on, either. The electricity bill might cost too much.  

I find Quinn sitting on the counter when I reach the kitchen. He sits with a sad smile on his face, staring at the ground. He doesn't hear me until I crunch a piece of glass under my socks.  

"Why are you dressed like that on a day like today?" 

"What?" I'm confused. 

Quinn only points at my shirt, and I look down. In the dark, I'd thrown on an ugly knitted pink turtle neck and my black breeches. It didn't look too terrible with my wild red hair-unless you took into account that the sweater was on backwards.  

I scowl and pull my arms in to turn the chunky sweater around.  

"That's better." He says, and re-fixes his eyes on the ground. I step around the dining table to see what it is. 

The shattered pieces are the colors of the rainbow and shiny with a glaze. I look up at an empty shelf on the wall, something in my stomach making me queasy, and scowl again. 

"Why is Mom's plate on the ground?" I ask. My voice doesn't sound too pleasant, but I try to keep it nice anyway.  

"It dropped." That's all he says, but I know he's sorry by the look in his eyes. After years of living with the quiet and meditating Quinn, I've learned some of his habits. Like when he jumps down and goes to pick up a Mason jar and a dust pan, I know he doesn't want to talk about it.  

Quinn just sweeps the glass up into the jar and sets it on the shelf. Parts of Mom's plate are better than no Mom's plate, I decide, and let it go.

* * * 

Jae

It feels like the whole island is waiting for me to get down on that beach. The island's muggy air stuck in the stables last night, making things seem even heavier than what they really are.  

I don't give in to the pressure of the spectators. Calmly, I crouch and wrap a capall's legs in seaweed; occasionally spitting in my hand and pressing it to his chest. This one is a cloudy colored roan. Flashy and unique, but that's not what keeps you alive when you're on his back. It's not what wins races, either. 

Speed and straight lines win races. Composure and control keeps you alive. 

I finish wrapping his legs and spit again, but this time slapping my hand on his withers when he tried to turn and nip at me. The uisce's ears press back and he shudders, but I m already out of his stall before he can strike again.  

The small crowd behinds me marvels at this feat, but I ignore them and move on to the next water horse, a plain chestnut. A lightning bolt of white strikes on her left shoulder, almost making her a paint, but more effectively marking her as a capall uisce 'blessed by the gods'. They all don't know it, but this mare is too sea-mad on a clear day to run even in circles, and even if she would straighten out, she wouldn't have enough speed to come last in a race. I still find her mark interesting enough to keep her in my yard, though. 

When I finish with the rest of them, the gathering of people seems about ready to burst with tension. Small murmurings come from the ones holding cameras and notepads. I stand up, causing them to quiet and stare, and turn to face them. "Time for you to go." I say, but my voice isn't as sour as the remark warrants, and the crowd reluctantly shuffles out of the stable hall and out to the morning sun outside.  

I wait for the noise of the people outside to drown out the soft noises of the barn before I move. When I do move, I leave behind the rows of the cappaill uisce stalls and walk in narrow hallways with plain stalls holding plain horses. When I finally come to a stop, it's in a smaller barn that's incredibly wide. Ornate stone carvings make up the walls, and old oil paintings make up most of the ceilings. It all looks like a harsher copy of the Sistine Chapel, but with the smell of horses instead of incense.  

I think it used to be a church, but its been in my family forever as a horse stable. Legend has it that it was first building here, and that it was where they worshipped the gods of the sea. That explains the paintings, at least. 

In the middle of the barn are two uisce stalls; one on each side of the hall. Fortified with a thin iron bar at head's height on the doors, they are what keeps my precious water horses on land instead of fleeing back into the arms of the sea. A lot of the hands don't trust that the iron is enough to keep them in, but I know otherwise. Iron is far superior to heavy metal bars in my eyes. The capaill uisce may be monsters, but they do not deserve a jail cell. 

The uisce in the stall on my left breathes out loudly through his nose, demanding my attention. I walk over and give it to him; splaying my fingers across his muzzle and forehead. The stallion trembles under my touch, but soon relaxes into my hand like I'm an old friend. 

In truth, I am. I've watched him be caught, kill, let loose, and caught again. I've turned him from a very very deadly animal to just a very deadly animal. I spent over five years in grooming him to be what appears a mere island pony to tourists, but in reality is a well-oiled machine of speed that runs straight and true.  

"Aye, Jae Aglionby!" Someone shouts from outside. I can barely tell who it is, but the voice is deep and gruff like what a bull's would be if one could talk, so I decide it is either the butcher or the butcher's son. If it is the butcher, then he would be out in his old truck in front of the barn doors with a truck bed full of meat for the capaill and can wait. If it is the butcher's son, then he would be fighting through the crowd, muttering curses at stupid Americans, and striding into my stables like he owned the place. He can wait, too.  

I turn back to my black stallion. A white splotch rests under his left eye; probably where he was struck by another capall and the hair grew back different than black. His vision isn't as sharp on his left side either, partially blind I think, so I stroke his right jaw aimlessly as a stable hand gingerly sets down a pail with seaweed in it for wrapping. Still running my hand down his face, I unlock the stall door and step inside. I don't get enough time to squat down on my heels to start wrapping before someone bursts through the stable doors in a rush. 

"Jae Aglionby! There's a horse on the beach!" I guess the butcher's son can't wait.

So, yah, sorry for the wait. In short, I hate technology. Had to rewrite this after it was deleted. 

Yay. 

Sorry that this is kinda short and that it seems like a filler chapter.. But oh well things take time I guess. 

Anyways things are kinda picking up... And you get more of a taste of who Jae is and how Jane/Rhyse lives.