The night sea is cold and dark and restless, pulling at my legs, urging me deeper while the shifting sand slowly swallows my feet. I shiver involuntarily against the merciless wind but I don’t move. I am listening. Listening for what, I’m not entirely sure. This is the third night I have come out here, searching for answers that I’m not certain exist.
Connan, the old Thisby priest, told me not to come back to Tolla until I’d heard what the sea was asking of me. He claims that I need direction, which I think really means that he’s just annoyed that I keep losing track of all our sheep. But really, how was I supposed to know that becoming an initiate with the Thisby priests meant that I would be minding sheep all day? I haven’t the patience for it. My mother always said I had a gull’s heart, never content to stay in one place for too long. My mind is always wandering and the next thing I know, half the sheep have disappeared or mingled with Hammond’s flock or been snatched by one of the capaill uisce.
The thought of the water horses draws my attention back to the sea. The water is restless and one of the horses could be just below the surface, waiting to pull me under. There’s no way to tell for sure though, so I just listen. Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh. Nothing. So I decide to risk it. I close my eyes and listen to the sea. If one of capaill does decide to take me, at least I won’t have to watch any more mindless sheep.
The current pulls and pushes against me but I don’t let myself move. My feet are numb and that numbness is crawling up my calves, so I imagine that I am one of the black rocks that jut from the ocean like teeth. Solid. Immovable. The waves pound against the shore in a rhythm that almost sounds familiar. I imagine that I am melting, no longer a rock but part of the current drifting further and further from this island until I surround it. Changeable. Eternal. The pounding of the waves grows louder, a ceaseless rhythm that reverberates through my head.
Hoof beats.
I open my eyes and am momentarily disoriented to find that I am neither the sea nor the rocks, but a boy. I turn to the shore, expecting to see one of the hungry capaill uisce, but it is empty. My eyes scan the darkness, searching for movement in the diluted light of the moon off the wet sand.
Nothing.
Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhh.
My legs are numb past my knees and I have stood here too long already but I wait another moment and then another, straining to grasp some meaning from the ocean’s endless lullaby. But if she is asking anything of me, I don’t have the ears to hear it. Slowly, I drag myself from the water and stumble up the beach, picking my way over spiny urchins and blood red jellies that glisten in the meager light.
Still the waves pound in a mimicry of hoof beats, setting my pulse racing. I am nearly to the cliffs when I see it. A gray stallion emerging from one of the sea caves carved into the gray rock. I freeze but it must smell me on the wind because he turns and looks right at me. His nostrils flare and I can see the red of them, even from here. He is terrible and beautiful and I feel myself drawn to him even as I hate him. Every story I have ever heard about the capaill uisce is galloping through my mind. How they were born of Epona, crafted of sea foam and whale’s bone, and how Lir pulled them into the sea out of jealousy. I remember all the legends my mother told me, our fire casting macabre shadows over her face and my father scolding her, saying she was filling my head with nonsense. He must have believed at least a little though, because he hung iron bells on red string above the doorway of our small stone hut and always insisted I carry a handful of holly berries in my pocket.
They say if you can catch one of the capaill uisce and bring it inland, feed it flesh and make it forget the siren song of the sea, that they will carry you faster than the wind has ever dreamed of racing. Hardly anyone on the island has actually ridden one though. The capaill are sacred, wicked and clever, they are not an ordinary mount. They choose the rider as much as any rider could choose the horse.
Mostly though, I remember the image of my mother laughing wildly on the back of a storm gray stallion as he carried her into the sea.
The waves canter against the shore and I take a single step forward though I am uncertain of its purpose. The gray stallion charges forward and suddenly my pulse and the waves and his hoof beats are all one and then he is charging past me and leaping back into the sea. I stand there for a long time, waiting for my pulse to slow but it doesn’t.
