That wasnβt the plan, when she made that first mad decision to ride. When, against all odds, she and her island pony crossed the finish line ahead of all the men of Thisby. No, that had been born of necessity, and a wild brush with death, and surely, surely, had been a fluke.
Puck loves Dove, with all her heart, and Dove is the bravest and strongest and fastest and loyalest of horses. But Dove is not a cappail uisce. She can beat them in a race, but there is no magic in Dove, just good old island grit. Puck thought that was all she needed, but the first time she rode Corr she suddenly could see why Sean Kendrick had one foot in the sea.
The Thisby she knows and loves is ponies grazing on weedy grass and November cakes and Father Mooneyham in front of the stained glass of his church, but it is also stormy waves against chalk cliffs and the beady eyes of the mare goddess and the dark of the Scorpio sea. Thisby is wild, and free, and old, old, old. And Thisby is the cappail uisce, and the cappail uisce are Thisby.
Sheβd never thought sheβd ride one, and never thought sheβd race again. But she finds that once sheβs tried it, she has to do it again. Kate Connolly, Puck Connolly, Kate Kendrick, learns to love the water horses. She rides horses, of both varieties, raised in a yard that is hers, hers and Seanβs, and come November she and a fierce red mare line up beside all the men of Thisby and wear their colors proudly.
When the men on the beach shout βKendrick!β they generally mean her husband, but they learn to be just fine if itβs her that comes running instead. She may not have the magic Sean does, but heβs taught her the ways of his beloved horses.
Occasionally, she goes to the mainland and rides races on breathtakingly fast horses who have never once tasted meat. The mainland racetracks donβt like a woman on them any more than Thisby did, but they do like a spectacle, and Kate Kendrick is just about the most spectacle you can get. She hates it, hates the prissy crowd and the clamoring reporters and the stifling uniforms and the hours spent on a ferry, feet away from the same watery death her parents faced, but when the gates open and the race is off she remembers just how much she loves the feel of a horse beneath her, and just how much she loves to win.
But the cappail uisce, they make her feel wild and free too. They are Thisby, as is she. And she realizes, eventually, that the cappail uisce donβt put one of her feet in the sea. They sink both feet even deeper into the island.
