The priestesses of Epona say that a capall caught at night is the fastest, but they also warn that a capall caught in the rain wants to stay wet. I have no desire to drink the sea, so I wait one day and then two until the storm passes. That night, beneath the sharp smile of a starving moon I go down to the beach and wait for one of the horses.
I had returned to Tolla three days before and told Connan about the storm gray capall and what the ocean was asking of me. He had shaken his head and said I was a fool but he also didn’t try to stop me. I am not the only one the ocean has lured with the capaill uisce. Ronan, an older initiate, and Tor, a village boy, claim the sea has asked it of them as well. By the end of the week, three more men from the village and an older Thisby priest have all been summoned by the sea. I’m not sure how much I believe them, but it is something of a comfort to know others are out here on the beach courting death as much as I am.
Perhaps we are all just fools.
But I can feel the ocean’s approval in the way the waves beat the sand, a cacophony of hoof beats ringing out against the shore. I wonder, as I shiver out on this cold rock, whether the gray stallion that was on the beach was the same one that coaxed my mother away from her family, her life, and carried her into the unforgiving sea. I wonder whether he will come for me as well.
I have three iron beads laced onto a piece of red string and a lump of dusty white chalk, a meager handful of weak magic to protect me against that of the capaill uisce. I slip my hand into my pocket and roll a holly berry between my fingers. I’ve never been able to shake the habit of carrying them, even after I left my father’s house.
An unsettled splash echoes in the darkness, jerking me back to the present. It is dangerous to have a wandering mind here, on the brief gasp of shore that is almost swallowed by the high tide. As I watch the tumble of waves, I catch sight of the arch of a dark neck cresting out of the water and in the same breath slipping back beneath the shifting darkness. I can almost convince myself that I imagined it, but my heart races in my chest and I know that I didn’t.
I hold my breath and listen but I can’t hear anything over the ceaseless murmur of the sea. Then I see the neck arch again and the water horse is heaving itself from the ocean, shaking sea foam from its dark mane. I tighten my grip on the length of rope I’d brought, thinking it’d be enough to restrain one of the capall. It seems an optimistic thought now with one of the horses before me. But there’s nothing else for it, so I creep towards one end of the rock I crouch behind and wait as the capall walks towards me.
The wind is in my favour and the water horse is two arms’ lengths away when I make my move. I throw a handful of chalk into the horse’s face so it is looking at the land and not the sea. Then it is biting sand, sharp teeth, a horse’s scream, my pulse rushing through my ears, and always the hoof beats of the waves upon the shore. I have never been this close to one of the capaill. I think I will be lucky if I come out of this alive.
I do not remember how we get to the top of the cliffs, only that the capall fights me the whole way and when we reach the top Connan is there waiting for me, a stern look and another length of rope in his hands. I am ashamed and relieved that he has come to help me. I do not know that I would have made it on my own.
Connan throws his own rope deftly around the capall’s head in a mockery of a halter. He is confident and sure as he leads the capall and I wonder for the first time whether the old Thisby priest has ever ridden one of the horses. Together we lead the capall to an old stone barn built to house sheep in the winter. After we shut the horse inside and bolt the door, Connan turns to me.
“Fool boy,” he snaps, “what were you thinking trying to catch one of the capaill alone? I’d half a mind to let her kill you and the sea swallow you both just to teach you a lesson.”
I bow my head, duly ashamed, but I think I catch a glint of respect in the older man’s eye.
The next morning, I bring a leg of mutton down to the barn for the capall. I ease the door open, a trident carved of ash wood in my free hand to push the horse back if need be. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the barn and my pulse gallops at my momentary blindness. The barn stinks like the ocean and things too long from the tide. When I can properly see again, my eyes are drawn to the capall staring at me warily from the back corner.
She is a beautiful blue roan mare.
She lets out a scream and charges at me, untamable and hungry as the ocean.
I throw the leg of mutton at her and slam the door closed again. I listen as she lets out a wuff of breath on the other side of the door. There’s a pause and then the unmistakable sounds of tearing flesh.
I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. This statement is true in my day-to-day life and has been for some time, but never has it been more true as I stand on the beaches of Thisby. I’ve only just disembarked from the ferry, a hastily packed sea bag thrown over my shoulder, surveying the chaos before me. I only know that I must find someone willing to dupe a mainlander into buying their particularly murderous water horse. I’ve tried to dress down for the occasion, but even my old war-torn boots aren’t enough to distract from the fact that my cap has very clearly never seen action outside the haberdasher and my fingernails are just a bit too clean. I find myself quite intimidated despite knowing that I likely could buy ten of the bloodthirsty beasts straining at their leads or pacing inside circles in the sand with just the money in my pocket. But I don’t need ten. I only need one. So I take a long, slow breath of the sea air, and step into the fray.
I expect to be overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, by the press of people, by the screams of men and horses. Rather, I feel an odd calm fall over me. As I wander through the crowd, eyes roving back and forth across the sea of faces, I feel quite outside myself, as though I am moving slowly through a dream. It’s a familiar sensation, and one not altogether unpleasant, considering the alternative. However, as I soon find out, the thousand-yard stare does you little good when there’s a vicious predator approximately two yards in front of you.
“Oi!”
Someone shoves me hard as the massive grey creature lunges, teeth bared with every intention of tearing out my throat, and I go sprawling in the sand, tasting salt and grit between my teeth. The island has certainly shown me a warm welcome.
“Are you blind?” my rescuer asks as he stands above me, silhouetted against the grey cliffs. “Or perhaps have a death wish?” His tone is genial and familiar, but my pride is wounded.
“Certainly the latter, swiftly on my way to the former,” I mutter, trying to straighten my clothes as I haul myself to my feet, ignoring the proffered hand.
“Christ, Will, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Taken aback, I finally glance up, and standing before me is the very man who introduced me to this mad place.
“John Goveny, fancy seeing you here.”
We embrace, and for a moment I think I may shed a tear of relief. But then he steps back and looks me up and down.
“Barely recognized you without your cufflinks and linen handkerchief,” John says with a grin.
“Well, I thought I might do better with the fair folk of Thisby if I at least tried to blend in.”
“As hard as you might try, your high-born, Oxford-educated accent will give you away every time, my friend.” John shakes his head. “What in blazes are you doing here?”
I look down at my boots and scuff one in the sand, digging a small trench. Suddenly, I feel foolish. Foolish for having come here, foolish for having lost myself in front of John, foolish for my reasons for being on this beach.
“I… I came to ride,” I finally manage, and my cheeks burn. “You shan’t talk me out of it,” I press on hurriedly, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve come to ride, and by God I’m going to ride.”
We stand there for a long moment. John holds my gaze for one heartbeat, two, until I drop my eyes back to the sand.
“Well I won’t let you test your luck on this beach with these crooks,” he sighs. “The moment you open your mouth they’ll pounce and you’ll leave with no money, no capall, and likely at least one fewer limb than you started with.”
He turns and starts up the winding path to the clifftops. I follow slowly, laboriously, all my mental capacity focusing on staying on my feet. I nearly collide with him when he comes to a stop in front of a neat cottage, a small round pen erected in the yard. Inside paces a handsome animal, its coat the amber-red of the sun through whiskey, a broad white blaze down its face.
“Gwen had been training this one for the Kendricks, but if I know my illustrious commanding officer, you aren’t about to back down from the challenge of the Race. So here. He’s yours if you want him. Just know,” he warns, “that if you do go through with this, you’ll be stuck with me until you make it across the finish line.”
Cracking a grin, I clap him on the shoulder. “There are worse fates than that my friend. Now, what do you call this fine beast?”
“I’m afraid we weren’t particularly creative this year. We call him Whiskey. The word gets its meaning from the old word for water, uisce.”
“Seems fitting, if a bit on the nose,” I quip with a glance over my shoulder at John, who stands with his arms crossed, brow furrowed. Shrugging, I turn back to the water horse, and I see nothing but fury and pain in its eyes. And I am terrified. Heart pounding, breath coming quick, I taste metal on the back of my tongue. And I am relieved to just be feeling something. So I smile despite the fear.
