Tuesday, February 5, 2013

A Gift and a Curse



A Gift and a Curse

by

            Hugh Morshead   c2012
“It’s time to get up,” said Dad, with a little touch of his gnarly hand on my shoulder.  I staggered downstairs to the steaming cocoa waiting on the kitchen counter. Then went out the door with the mug, a chunk of homemade bread and a jacket over my arm and walked down the garden path to the stables. The tack room light threw a luminous glow through the thick fog and darkness.
     “Annabelle has cast a shoe, you will have to go on your own,” said Dad.
     “Shouldn’t I wait until the fog clears?”
     “No, you’ll miss the bus. Don’t cross the river, it’s high tide. Go for a quick spin along the headland to the Ruins.    

      We live in the former gate lodge of an ancient edifice, now in ruins. It stands on a rocky headland by the sea and is reputed to be haunted. A railway runs parallel to the shore and a long overgrown laneway connects our home to the beach and on to the Ruins; to the left flows a river and beyond that miles of empty beach. I feel a tinge of fear, it is pitch dark and the fog is like a suffocating clammy shroud.

      The pony trots confidently down the lane towards the shore. I convince myself that it will soon be light. The briars and hawthorns are high on either side and it is like entering a dark tunnel. I quickened our pace under the railway bridge as the sound of hooves echoes off the stone and metal. Ever since I was a kid, the railway gives me the creeps, not because of the trains, but rather because of the feral homeless who used it as a corridor between communities.
 
     “Arhh!” The pony jinked sharply, I fell to the ground. Lying beside me was a short bearded man dressed in rough tweed.
     “Are ye trying to kill me?” He said.
     “Are you all right? I never saw you.”
     “Ahh, my leg hurts,” he said, trying to rise.
     “Where are you from?” I asked, thinking he must be one of the local gypsies.
     “At the fort on yonder headland... how come ye see me? Tis' strange.”
     “I didn’t see you, that’s why my pony spooked,” I said, adding, “You ride the pony and I’ll lead you.”
     “Grand,” he said, as I gave him a leg up into the saddle.
We reach the Ruins and he slid to the ground. There are no houses nearby and in the half-light of dawn his features became manifest. I feel a chill and it is not from the fog rising off the sea.
 “Ye nearly killed me; however, ye meant no harm and gave me a ride. I can only repay ye with gypsy gold.” He said, with one hand gripping my shoulder. His three-quarter length coat fell open; a pair of rabbits hangs from his belt.
     “You took them from the snares, didn’t you,” I said accusingly. I tried to grab him; he twisted away and scrambled over the rocks.
     “Ye ungrateful cur. I gave you a priceless gift, you have everything and I have nothing. For every success you have, may you have ten disasters,” he yelled through the fog.

     I cantered home rattled by the encounter. At least I can tell my friend, Liam, why his snares were empty.

     A few days later, I am doing the barn chores and I see Liam go down the laneway towards the shore, he has a gimpy leg and moves with a distinctive swaying gait.
     “Hey, wait,” I called out.
     “It’s not a fox taking the rabbits, it’s an old man living beyond the Ruins,” I tell Liam about the raggedy old man.
     “I’ll fix the bastard, I can trap more than bunnies,” said Liam, “hey, are you coming to the races on Sunday. Da’s horse is a sure thing.”
     “You know I can’t go to flapper meets, I’d be banned from the real races and will never get a rider’s license.”
     “Ah, you’re only watching, an’ nobody will know you.”
I paused for a moment. Liam and I are ‘The Outlaws’, in our world we are desperados and mountain men. The race meet was five miles away on the top of the moor. There was a trout stream nearby. There would be no harm in going fishing and maybe stop by the races at the same time.
     “Yeah, sure”. I said.

     Sunday dawned bright and I set off on my bike with the dismantled rod and cheese sandwiches strapped to the rear rack. Ramshackle old vans pulling horse trailers pass me the road, all heading for Tullyesker, the highest part of the moor. Sheep grazed amongst the dense gorse bushes and rough stonewalls.

     “Ah, here’s my jockey,” said Mick, Liam’s dad, a big burly man dressed in a collarless flannel shirt, leather vest and baggy tweed trousers held up with a thick leather belt.
     “What do you mean?” I said.
     “Siobabh bust her arm giving him a pipe-opened yesterday, they took the corner too sharp and his legs went from under him. Liam said you’re the last of the best.”

     I stare at the family. Mick, smiling and enthusiastic, Liam, grinning like an idiot and his younger sister, Siobabh. dark and lithe, dressed in worn jeans and a plaid shirt. She gave me a penetrating stare and a half smile. I felt like I was on the high diving board and cannot back down.

     “He’s a real gentleman, an easy ride, it’s early in the season and the others aren’t fit. Siobabh has him as hard as nails working him on the hills.” Said Mick.
     “Right” I say. I am bewitched by Siobabh and am wild to impress her.

     Our race is the third on the card. The course is three times around a mile track cleared of sheep and gorse bushes. An old boundary wall runs across the top of the moor dividing the track into two. Wattle hurdles were pulled aside to leave openings for the horses to pass.  We tacked up the horse behind the trailer.

     “What is his name?” I asked.
     “Merlin,” says Siobabh, as she tightens the girth. I have only ridden rough-haired ponies, never a muscled thoroughbred, albeit a pony-size one. This does not look good.
     “If he pulls to the right on the turns just tap him on the nose with the stick.”
I felt sick and my throat was parched. This is my first race and gypsies are crazy and lawless. It will be a mad free-for-all.

     “Now, Rory, there’s only six in our race. Stay just off the pace until the last gateway, then bang sparks off the spurs. Nobody can beat him in a finish. Ye will win, I have the money down,” said Mick, handing me a black thorn stick... “any messin’, smack ‘em across the face.”

    The six horses walk in a circle inside the roped off area in front of the bookies. The crowd jostles and shout instructions. I see, Johnny, the blacksmith, laying a bet. I pray he will not recognise me. Siobabh grins up at me as she leads us around the ring.

     “Good luck,” she said and unleashes us.  We canter down to the start as a rabble. I glanced at the other riders. They are like bandits gathering for a bank raid. The starter raised a large red flag.

     “They’re off,” he screamed. We charge down the narrow turf track, past the rows of cars and yelling spectators. I am in the middle of the bunch, Merlin pulls like a runaway freight train and I crouch low in the slipstream. The whips are out and riders slash each other and their mounts. We scream for space as the horses bounce off each other, we are all out of control.   The horses swing to the left around the first turn. It takes both hands on the left rein and all my strength to get him around the turn. We lose ground. I duck my head to avoid the worst of the stones and clods of turf thrown up by the flying hooves a few yards in front. Merlin tears after the leaders and my arms burn with the strain of holding him back. I’m lying fourth as we go into the final lap. The leader is three lengths in front and then a pair are neck and neck in front of me.  The whips flash and we hurl around the flag marking the turn before the finish. I give Merlin a crack, we come up the inside, and the three of us are upsides going into the gateway.

 Crash!  The rider on my right slams his horse into Merlin and we smash through the hurdle. I lose balance and hit the dirt, Merlin chases after them, riderless.

     “Are ye kilt?” says Mick, as I hobble back to the trailer.
     “I’m okay.” My blood fizzes with adrenaline.

     Siobabh unsaddles Merlin. His nostrils flare, sides heave and cloud of steam envelopes him.
     “That was grand sport. Jasus, he runs like the wind. Come on and have a jar,” says Mick going over to the van for the stout.
I look at Liam, my legs still shake.
      “Da is in grand form, he had the winner backed, he’ll be into the drink now.”
     “Wasn’t I expected to win?”
     “Not exactly, it was Merlin’s first run and he’s a nutcase as you know.”
     “Come on and have some food” said Mick, handing me a sandwich and a beer, adding,                                                        "we’d have rabbit stew if Liam only knew how to set a snare.”

     Liam tells about my encounter with the raggedy man and the rabbits.
     “He promised me gypsy gold for helping him and then cursed me for trying to take the rabbits off him,” says I.
     “Gypsy gold is the kind that glistens in the sun and neighs in the dark, it’s the gift of horses,” says Mick, adding, “It didn’t do us any good today though.”
      “That’s not all; he cursed me and said ‘for every success may ye have ten disasters.”
     “What did he look like?”
I describe him down to his rough tweeds and heavy brogues.
     “And when exactly did this happen?”
I relayed the time and place.
     “Glory be, he was one of the ‘little people’. I’ve heard tell of how under certain conditions a gap opens allowing people to past between worlds.”
     “Ahh, go on Da, that’s the drink talking,” says Siobabh.
     “No, it’s like the tumblers in a lock, clickin’ one at a time to open it. Rory was betwixt and between. The sea and the land, the fog is half air and half water, the dawn is between night and day, the spring high tide and finally he’s on a horse and in the old times horses were a portal to the spirit world.”
Siobabh stares at me in wonder.
     “Ha ha, we were doomed from the start.” Says Mick, laughing, “me jockey was cursed.”
     “Hey, it’s not all bad, you’ve got the gift of horses, you’ll be like Captain Apache and ride anything with hair,” say Liam.
My leg is stiffening up, I have to get home before I am completely crippled.
      “I got to get back.”
     “You’ll not stay for the dance?” said Siobhan.
     “I got to go, my folks will be worried about me, I said I’d be home for supper,” I said.
     “I’ll walk you to your bike,” said Siobabh.
     “I’m sorry to let you down, I hope Merlin will be all right,” I said.
     “Thanks.” She said, putting her hand on mine, for a moment we stand there gazing into each other’s eyes. I move closer, put my hands around her waist and lean forward to kiss her.  A wave of tingling pleasure washes over me. 
     “I better go, I’ll see you soon.”
     “Watch out for the ‘little people’,” she says, smiling. 
The end.

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