naming this after a pippi longstocking quote i saw on berlin art-parasites because why not.
edair is like 75% capall uisce and 25% regular horse, ok.
The wind is rough and whips my hair past my face and pushes it in all directions, just like my mother said it would. The ground below me is uneven and I feel the pulse of Thisby in every crevice of the the cliffs stretched in front of me. The island is roaring.
Today is the first of November.
The promise of everything this month holds, of the races and all that comes with it has never been stronger than it is today.
"Thisby," my father says, appearing next to me. He is atop Corr and their shadow dwarfs me. Against the light, it is hard to tell where Corr stops and my father begins, almost as if man and uisce have become one.
Even now, I can still see the unevenness of Corr's leg-the sinewy smoothness which lapses into a crooked bend that he's kept all these years. Corr can run but I'm told it'll never be like before. When he does run, it feels like he's holding back, like he wants to give more but cannot run any faster. I've heard the story of how it came to be millions of times around our table, along with that of the first year a woman no other than my mother rode in the Scorpio Races, how she won and how my father started Kendrick Yard shortly after.
The newspaper clipping from that day still hangs above the fireplace amongst saddles and several years worth of colors. My mother breaking the finish line frames the front page, and a picture of her kissing my father-not the other way around-can be found on the lower portion of the page.
We stand at the base of the cliffs, overlooking the beach and the ports. From here, it's easy to forget how small our island really is. Easy to forget the world beyond Skarmouth, that there are places like Uncle Gabe's Ireland and George Holly's America. The sun makes me squint with its intensity far too strong for November. The sea stretches on for days, temperamental and blue blue blue.
Edair is restless below me and keens in the direction of the salty mist. I prod his side to remind him that I am still riding him. It doesn't matter if he craves to race down on the beaches with the rest of the horses today. I have to tear myself away from the view and the pull in my gut, reminding myself of this: we will not be riding today.
The second wave of mainlanders came last week and the last-minute batch of visitors, tourists who suddenly decided to visited, is descending upon us. Some bring their horses, dull against the coats of Thisby's water horses. The raucous noise they make down there is a stark contrast to the usual quietness of the ports.
Pebbles pelt Edair's skin as he sends mountains of sand astray.
Most people think that he's the spawn of Corr and Dove. With his skin the color of light leather and his pale hair, he could be and it would be fitting for me to ride the child of my parents' horses.
But Edair is more uisce than horse and he doesn't have Dove's quiet compassion. He lacks bloodthirstiness and his teeth are too small to rip a man in half. He's neither here nor there.
But he is mine.
We meet my mother at the beach. She beams when she sees us.
My father looks at my mother like he'd stop the sea for her. Whenever Samantha Privett makes eye contact with me, she gives me a look a bit like she wants Edair to drag me into the ocean.
John Beringer spots me as we head towards the officials' tables. He surveys me, squints his eyes. I get the sudden urge to flick him.
"Aren't you a bit young to be riding in the races, even for a Kendrick?" His father asks me.
My father shakes his head and a silent look of understanding passes between them.
Beech Gratton grunts, a low sound befitting the owner of a meat shop. "Ribbons for spectators are over there with Palsson."
My parents are given identical green ribbons. A yellow cloth gets wrapped around my wrist and I tie a matching one to Edair's saddle.
My heart is pumping faster and faster.
I find a friend of the Kendrick family sitting by the sides with a basketful of November cakes as soon as I tear myself away from the crowds.
"Ah, Robert!" George Holly calls jovially.
Robert, like my late grandfather who was drowned by water horses one unlucky November.
Use of my real name is like listening to an old song you haven't heard in a while, an odd yet reassuring thing. I hear my real name exactly twice during the year-when he comes in the spring to see the ranch's newborns and in the fall when he visits in time for the races.
"Nobody calls me Robert." My voice comes out sour, sourer than I mean it to and sourer than it should be on race day.
The creases around his eyes deepen when he smiles and smacks his forehead playfully. "Of course. You are your mother's son, Lucky Kendrick."
I asked my mother once about my name.
"You were born with legs instead of hooves and came out of me instead of the waters. If that's not luck then I don't know what is." she told me, waving a wooden spoon in the air. "Now please tell your father to get back inside before the cold sweeps him away too."
I sit beside George Holly in comfortable silence, him giving me more cakes than I am allowed to have, but my feet don't stop tapping the ground.
"Rather excited, I see."
"You could say that. It might just be the sugar in all of these November cakes."
His laughter is booming. "Don't I know it. Your mother was the first one to introduce me to the cakes, you know, back on my first trip to Thisby."
I wonder how long ago that was. The years don't show on his face.
"Not riding in the races this year?" There it is.
I pause and swallow the sticky pastry. "No, not this year. Not yet. Dad says thirteen is too young."
At thirteen, I'm told that I'm the spitting image of Uncle Finn in his youth.
He smiles again with a knowing glint in his eye. "Well, November does have a way of attracting you Connolly-Kendricks."
He doesn't say anything more.
When I see the shore washed up with bodies and red later after the races, I am almost thankful that I didn't ride this year. Almost.
George Holly must see this on my face because he laughs. He gives me a look I can't quite decipher and tells me this before he leaves to meet my parents. "The time for that will come."
The thought of waiting until next year becomes more bearable.
a/n: it's scorpio races season wahoo this has been in my folder of unfinished fics since forever but idk i suddenly got motivation to finish it so here it is. i actually quite like the first part but i'll probably come back to this to make some edits. in between studying, extracurriculars, sat prep and the hell that is junior year, i've barely had time for myself, let alone to write but nonetheless, i hope you guys enjoyed it. i've never written for this fandom before (but i love this book so much) so let me know what you think. comments and critique are greatly appreciated.
-cheshire chameleon