I’m left alone, the gusts beating the breath out of me. I’m furious with Dove for being so fearful, but I’m more furious with myself. Because it doesn’t matter how brave I’ve been or how brave I will be. It only took a casual handful of minutes to convince everyone here that I don’t belong on the beach.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PUCK
That night Finn and I make a picnic in Dove’s one-sided lean-to. Dove is still strung out and fretful, and I don’t think she’ll touch her hay unless I’m out there with her. And Finn says that the storm’s going to keep us inside for a few days anyway, so we might as well be outside while we can. Also, Mum used to tell us to picnic outside when we were being horrid and loud in the house, so it has a sort of comfortable nostalgia to it.
Of course, it’s getting dark, and it’s drizzling fitfully, but still, under the lean-to it’s dry, and an electric lantern provides enough light to see our soup by. I break open one of the cheap bales of hay to use as a blanket over our legs and we lean back against the wall of the lean-to. Finn, sensing my black mood, clinks the edge of his bowl against mine as a cheers. Dove stands half in and half out of the lean-to and picks at her hay. I have a clear view of the scratch on her neck from here, and again, I hear the sound of my cry on the cliff top. I can’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if I’d just galloped with them when they’d first asked. I can’t stop seeing their faces as they pulled their horses back from Dove.
For a few minutes, we’re all silent, slurping potatoes and broth, listening to Dove’s teeth grinding up the expensive hay and the sound of the light rain whispering across the metal roof of the lean-to. Finn piles more hay across his legs for insulation. Outside, the sky is going blue-brown and black at the edges.
“She looks faster already,” Finn says. He slurps the bottom of his soup to annoy me, and then smacks his lips to make sure he’s succeeded.
I set my own empty bowl on the hay bale behind me and take a piece of bread. My stomach still feels empty. “Can you come at me again with that sound? I don’t think I heard you.”
“You’re in a black mood,” Finn says.
I think of three things I could reply to that and in the end just shake my head. If I say it out loud, it will only make it harder to forget.
Finn is enough of a private creature that he doesn’t try to make me speak. He spreads the hay thin and then thick again over his legs, trying to make it even. After a long pause, he says, “What do you think will happen?”
“Happen when?”
“With the race. And with Gabe. What do you think will happen to us?”
Crossly, I throw a stick of hay toward Dove. “Dove will eat her expensive food and the capaill uisce will eat beef liver and the bets will all be against us, but on the day of the race it’ll be warm and windy and Dove will go straight while the others go right, and we’ll be the richest people on the island. You’ll drive three cars at the same time and Gabe will decide to stay and we’ll never have to eat beans again.”
“Not that one,” Finn says, like he’d asked for a story and I’d picked the wrong one. “What will really happen.”
“I’m not a fortune-teller.”
“What about if you don’t win? I’m not saying anything bad about Dove. But what if she doesn’t make any money?”
I glance at him to see if he’s picking at his arms yet, but he’s just mutilating a piece of hay. “We lose the house. Benjamin Malvern kicks us out.”
Finn nods at his hands, like he’d guessed this before. Gabe had underestimated both of us.
“And then I guess …” I try to imagine what it will look like if I fail. “I guess I will have to sell Dove. And we’d have to find someplace to live. If we got a job, the living could come with it, if it was something like … cleaning. Or at the mill. There’s mill housing.”
No one wants a life at the mill.
I try to think of something else truthful but not so dire. “Gratton said he was eyeing you as an apprentice. I know you couldn’t, but maybe he’d consider me instead….”
Finn says, “I’d do it.”
“You couldn’t bear it.”
He’s demolished the hay in his hands; it’s just dust. “You couldn’t bear to ride in the race, either, but you are. I reckon I could learn to bear it, if I had to.”
I don’t want him to learn to bear it, though. I want to keep my sweet, innocent brother the way he is, and I want to keep my best friend Dove here beside me and I don’t want to trade the house I grew up in for a tiny flat and a mill job.
“But it won’t happen that way,” I say. “The first way is how it’s going to happen.”
Finn shreds another piece of hay. So does Dove.
And, just then, there’s an odd creak.
The lean-to’s metal roof is old, so there’s plenty to creak there, and its one wall forms part of the fence, so where the boards meet the posts of the lean-to, there’s yet another chance of creaking. And the fence itself is not the youngest thing on the island, so, really, it could creak anywhere there’s a joint.
But this isn’t that sort of creak.
It’s more like a creak plus a knock. Not quite a knock. Softer. A pat. I can’t think of how I even heard it, really, once I think about it, until I see Finn looking at me, completely still, and realize I didn’t just hear it — I felt it.
Finn and I both turn our heads toward the lean-to wall that we lean against.
I want to say, Maybe it was Puffin. But Dove has stopped chewing and has pricked her ears toward the sound, though of course there’s nothing to see. I don’t think she’d prick them for a cat.
Finn and I sit motionless. The drizzle goes ssssss on the roof. We’re trying not to look at each other, because looking would make it harder to hear. There’s nothing. Nothing at all. Just the rain on the roof. Dove’s still listening, but there’s nothing to hear. It was just the lean-to settling. Our little electric lantern makes a circle of yellow up on the ceiling. The world is quiet.
Then:
Whuff
And the unmistakable sounds of slow steps on the other side of the wall.
It’s not the sound of feet.
It’s the sound of hooves.
We stare at each other.
There is the creak-pat again, and this time, we both know what it is. I feel the experimental push on the other side of the wall and I bite my lip, hard. With a questioning expression, Finn puts a finger on the switch to the electric light. I shake my head furiously. The only thing I can think of that’s worse than facing a capall uisce in this drizzly night is to do it without light.