Backstretch Blues

Backstretch Blues c2012

By

Hugh Morshead

The pony boy slips the lead as we walk on to the track; the two-year old colt prances and tosses his head. I feel the raw power of the 1200 lbs horse beneath me. Just ahead is his stable mate, both bred in the purple.

      The trainer leans on the guardrail, a short man in oversize winter boots and padded jacket oblivious to his thrift store appearance and in sharp contrast to his sleek muscled horses about to have their first workout.

        The transition from walk to gallop is precarious. At full gallop, your boot tips are jammed hard against the stirrups, your upper body straining against the momentum, your hands locked on the reins and braced against the horse’s withers. The three- point contact glues jockeys to horses as it does mountaineers to rock faces.  I casually gather the reins and we trot forward. Both the horse and the railbirds perceive me as the embodiment of Zen-like nonchalance. If I allow my fear to travel down the reins the colt could scoot sideways or claw the sky with his front feet.  At the racetrack many things are illusory and right now, I am the pilot, however, Pegasus could hijack the controls at any time without reason or warning. However, this was the only part of my life that was uncomplicated, my wife, Kim’s quest that I get a job with a future jingled through my head as the horse jiggled down the track.

     Our instructions are to canter once around the track and work from the quarter mile pole on the second lap. We stay to the outside of the track with the other slower moving horses. Choosing the optimum length of rein is critical. If I move my hands to adjust the reins while we are cantering he could take off at full gallop, too short a rein and he will fight the pull on his mouth, too long and I have no brakes and the speed will increase to a head-long gallop.  Other riders give us space, we are all in the same boat, and if one rider is thrown, then the careening loose horse can have a domino effect on the other horses.

      I crouch forward to align my center of balance with my mount’s. A light squeeze of my lower leg, a quiet click of my tongue and we canter down the track. He bowls along with neck bowed.  I can feel that the colt is enjoying himself and revelling in his latent power, we both are. The rhythmic backbeat of hooves, heart and muscle provides the bass line, like the thump of blues from deep in the bayou, only the lyrics are missing – they come later when I get home.  On the second lap approaching the ¹/₄  pole I glance behind me to my left, no horses are coming fast on the rail. I pull my goggles down, pick his head up and tightened the reins. The pace quickens.

       “Are you ready?” shouts Juan, the other rider.

       “Yes, I’m right behind you.”

       A quick glance back shows the guard rail is clear. We peel off from the center of the track to the rail, like F15s on the final approach to attack. I throw my weight to the left, the horse switches to lead with the left leg, I lift his head, boot him, slap the whip against his shoulder and yell an explosive ‘garrr’.  The two colts burst down the track on the rail, head an’ head.  Moments later, we max out at 60 kph; buffeted by the slipstream our stirrups clang against each other.  The horse’s ears are flat back against his mane and briefly we share the sleek high performance profile associated with the jet set. Exactly twenty-four seconds later we pass the finish line, I let him drift slightly off the rail and gradually slow to a walk.  The horses’ flanks heave and his nostrils steam in contrast to the relaxed breathing of Juan, a journeyman jockey.  Professional jockeys have the same level of fitness as middle distance Olympic runners and swimmers. Waves of well-being flow through my body from the unleashed endorphins. I do this because I am an adrenaline junkie and every morning it is as if someone threw me the keys to a dozen Maseratis, Ferraris and Porches and said - ‘take them for a burn’.

       “How was he, Rory?” asked the trainer.

       “Good,” I replied.  Words are not necessary. He could see from the colt’s effortless ground-eating stride that this one was a pay cheque.

        Horseracing is a money game, the colt is a business unit on a conveyer belt, and all of us on the backstretch get our cut. Only one in twenty horses makes it to the winners circle at the end of the conveyor belt, most fall by the wayside to be replaced by next year’s crop of promising two year olds. Horses are modern day gladiators and, as a rider, I am in the ring with them. The risks were not only on the track – they were also at home.   

       “Your home early,” said my wife, Kim, with a questioning look; her red plaid shirt mirrored her volatility.

       “I have a splitting headache.”

       “You had another fall, didn’t you?”

       “It’s nothing,” I said offhandedly, collapsing on the worn couch.  “The rain closed the track and we rode them around the shed row. A filly spooked and there was nowhere to roll, I banged my head against a locker. 

       “You are thirty years old with two kids. What will we do if you can’t work?”

       “This is my life, I’m really good at it. Do you know how few really good riders there are...?”

       “How about being a really good dad,” her voice rising, “you promised you would call Joe about the job – have you?”

       “I will, I will.” It wasn’t just the thought of a soul-destroying life laying inter-locking brick; I would be jettisoning my youth.    

        “I can’t go on like this worried sick, waiting for that phone call – it’s either the track or your family. You choose.” The ultimatum turned the headache from throbs to hammer blows. I sank into the couch with my head in my hands.

       “Okay, Okay, I’ll call him at the weekend.” Anything for relief, the Tynanol wasn’t working. Neither of us voiced the real reason.  We had met at the racetrack and lived the lifestyle of fast cash and passions, an insular world were relationships are as precarious as the horses.

        “Take care out there,” said Matt, the groom, as he saddled my next mount. Taciturn by nature, his usual comment was a clichéd, “send em’ and burn em’”.

        “Why?”

        “The Doc was here yesterday.”

        “And?”

        “He was giving them shots. I only heard him say something to the boss about a new tranquilizer.”

       Damn. The horses are athletes and when not worked, high performance becomes high anxiety.  When extreme weather closes the track for a day or two horses’ sanity was maintained with low-level tranquilizers.  The intention was safety, the reality was big Pharma, because horses are wealthy investments and not subject to the restraints that apply to humans, veterinary practice is at the cutting edge of medical breakthroughs. Many of the advances, like repairing torn tendons with stem cells, are life-enhancing. The dark side is the unpredictable nature of tranquilizers.  

        Matt gave me a leg-up and the pony boy led us to the track. It was as if we were leaving the Paddock for the starting gate prior to a race. He had that awkward gait that is neither a walk nor a trot and impossible to sit. We cavorted onto the track.

       The colt reared. I grabbed the mane as we went vertical. I thought he’d smash down onto the pony boy, but instead of dropping back to the ground, he did the seemingly impossible and danced backwards on his hind legs. I clung to him like a limpet, paralyzed with indecision. I want to bale but my brain is hard-wired to stay at the helm.  A jolt of fear shot through me, I was going backwards fast in a tower of terror.

       Crash! The guardrail splintered and we rolled backwards together down the embankment. I lay there in a fetal position unable to move. Para-medics rushed from the pair of ambulances stationed by the entrance to the track. Somehow, they attached the cervical collar and strapped me to the backboard. My upper body was seized solid like block of concrete, I no idea whether I would ever walk again. We had fallen onto the guardrail and it had sledge-hammered me diagonally across my midriff. The shock shut down my senses and I disappeared into a mist of pain.

      “You have two broken vertebrae,” said the doctor with a clipboard in his hand.

       “Am I going to be in a wheelchair?”

       “No, fortunately.  It’s the prosthesis, the wing-like protrudances that extend from the center of the vertebrae.”

       “Am I going to be okay?”

       “Six weeks bed rest and you should make a full recovery. However, if there are any problems see a doctor immediately. You have suffered serious trauma.”

            The trainer met me in the waiting room and drove me home, his concern came through in his voice, we both knew that injuries are an occupational hazard. I told him not to worry; I would be back in a few weeks.

       The codeine and the hot tub reduced the stiffness enough for me to hobble around the house. Two days in bed was all I could take. I knew from training horses that recovery depends upon blood flow to remove the toxins and repair tissue. Kim doted on me like a mother hen; it was a side of her that I had not experienced before. I lay there and thought about our future. The track opens at 6am, three hours before most jobs; many of my friends juggled two jobs.  I could too. I just could not give up the adrenaline rush and sense of well-being, not yet anyway.  Kim and I had pillow talk about our future. I was not going to spoil our intimacy by mentioning my need to thunder down the rail; instead, I caressed her flat tummy. My hand slid up her body and felt her firm breasts under the shot silk nightie. Her nipples were on high beam.

       “This is not a good idea.”

       “Oh, you feel so good,” I murmured.  My hand said much more.

       “You have a broken back, you can’t move.”

       “I’m just going to lie here, you can do all the work,” my fingers continued the conversation and then she lowered herself on top of me. Her rhythmic thrusting dissolved the pain as no drug ever could.

        “Oh, that feels so good.” Waves of pleasure washed through my body. Then the waves turned to muscle spasms that seized my chest. I couldn’t breathe.  

        “I can’t breathe,” I gasped softly. Panic became terror as my chest became concrete. I tried to will air into my mouth, but unable to move my chest, no air went into my lungs. I wildly gestured to Kim to do CPR. She straddled me again and with rhythmic pressure for the second time that evening brought relief.  Shallow breathing was just possible, I still felt panicky, I wondered if my kidneys had shut down, the doctor had said that I had suffered major trauma. Kim dialled 911 and put on the outside lights. I waited for the ambulance wondering if I would live to see the dawn.

Unlike my previous visit to Emergency, when I received immediate diagnoses and was in and out in less than three hours.  This time after an initial inspection, I was wheeled away and left for several hours isolated on a screened-off gurney. I could do nothing but think of life, how precious and precarious it is. Kim had always given me her unconditional love despite my waywardness. I thought of our relationship and how important it was, and yet so difficult.    Why is it that men and women’s bodies slot together like a jigsaw puzzle, yet their minds are so difficult to align?  When I get out of here, I will call Joe and see if that job is still open.  Perhaps working with inter-locking brick will help me master the mysteries of alignment. Kim at also suggest I apply for the manager’s position at the new horse park. That would be perfect for both of us.                                                         

Two Cups of Tea

Two Cups of Tea

By

Hugh Morshead c2012

     “Rory, we have to talk. Your school report was a disaster, you will be twelve this summer and it is high time you grew up and take responsibility for your life. Your father and I have agreed, either, you get a summer job or attend summer school - also, you have out-grown Tonka, it is time for him to go,” said my dear mother. The porridge turned to soggy plaster in my mouth.

       “But Tonka is doing so well, this is our year to win the Pony Club Championship,” I said with a sinking heart.

       “Remember, we all agreed that Tonka was a project and when you out grew him, we would                                                                   sell him on,” and added “last night at the Pony Club meeting Gloria De Bacle was going on and on about how Penelope has shot up like a weed, she’s not ready for a thoroughbred. She needs a good pony for the summer.”

       “Ahh, not Penelope, she’s a snotty dressage rider, Tonka hates dressage,” I persisted. I felt panicky, I couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t.

       “They are coming on Sunday to try him and I want you on your best behaviour. Don’t forget that Major De Bacle is chair of the amateur licence committee for the Jockey Club and so you had better be nice to his daughter,” she said and added, “oh, and by the way, I have put your name in for the job at the Chascomous Hunt and Country Club.”

      I dumped the porridge in the compost bin, slipped on the wellies and strode to the stables. Tonka was munching hay, I rapped by arms around his neck, sobbing, I told him the awful news. We had shared so many adventures together over the years, many know only to us and my gypsy friend, Liam. I did the barn chores, then jumped on my bike and peddled furiously to the gypsy encampment seeking solace. Liam and his dad, Mick, were working on a car, while Liam’s younger sister, Siobhan, was skinning a rabbit.

      “What’s up with you, this fine mornin’,” said Mick.

       “Ohh, my life, my dreams, and my hopes are destroyed,” I said, “Tonka is being sold and I could be conscripted into the Chascomous labour gang.

       “And why would this be?” Said Mick.

       “My report card was sketchy,” I said.

       “Ahh, school just replaces ignorance with confusion. But, there’s no harm in work and you     should be ridin’ horses not ponies. That said, I have to go over to Owen’s to shoe a horse. Jump in the truck we’ll go now.”

      Mick and Owen Monet are both horse dealers; however, the similarity ends there. As someone once said, the difference between them, was that Mick regretted having to be dishonest. Their appearance and lifestyle were polar opposites. Mick was a big raw-boned man with a battered face and dressed in soiled work clothes, like a granite outcrop, he was all rough edges and has character could be grasped in a glance. Owen, on the other hand, was a chameleon; he could blend into any crowd and be at home in any society. Like a water-worn pebble, his smoothness prevented attempts by creditors and litigation lawyers to get a grip on him. However, the real difference was that Owen had transcended the grubby world of horse coping to the real business of trading in prestige and information.

      “How’s business?” said Mick, and continued, “You know, Rory, the hell-rider that lives down by the strand. He is cryin’ the blues ‘cos he’s losing his pony.”

       “I’ve outgrown him and the De Bacles are coming on Sunday to try him,” I said.

       “Well, he couldn’t go to a better home,” said Owen.

       “You‘ll see him every day when you’re working at Chascomous,” added Mick.

       “When do you start there?” Said Owen.

       “Next week, if I get the job; they’re building a new cross-country course.”

       “While Mick is doing the shoeing, why don’t you hop on one? The chestnut in the first stall is a lovely ride,” said Owen.

      I went into barn with its double row of stalls either side of the center aisle. I took the head collar off the hook on the stall door and slide the door open. The sleek chestnut horse looked at me quizzically. My real education had come from hanging around Liam and Mick; they had taught me how to establish a rapport with any horse. It was all about leadership and respect. I let him smell my hand, and then gently rubbed his upper neck, he lowered his head and I blew softly into his nostrils, and then he blew into mine. We had completed our introductions and I slipped the head collar on him and led him to the crossties in the aisle to be groomed and tacked. I warmed him up jogging around the arena and then jumped through the line of show jumps. It was effortless for both of us.

      “He just came in last week, he has potential doesn’t he?” Said Owen, as I took him back to the stall and untacked him.

       “Ya, he’s a sister-kisser...no problem,” I said.

       “Anytime you want to come and ride, you are welcome,” said Owen, with a friendly smile.

       “Thanks, I might take you up on that, I’ll have nothing to ride when Tonka goes.”

       “You’re very confident the sale will go through,” said Owen, giving me a look.

       “Oh, my pony is a real gentleman and Gloria De Bacle would never put her daughter at risk,...though, I cannot bare thinking of the endless dressage he will have to do.”

       “There is a way you can keep your pony without risk to anyone,” said Owen.

       “How?”

       “Give him two cups of well-stewed tea in his feed an hour before he’s ridden and he’ll be a different horse,” said Owen.

       “What do you mean?” I asked.

       “It’ll just give him a bit of an edge; when a rider tries a new horse they are nervous and fear travels down the reins, neither will feel comfortable with each other. That feeling of uncertainty is enough to insure there is no sale,” said Owen.

       As I peddled home, I thought about what he had said. Tonka had to go one day, I felt so mixed up with the prospect of losing him and a little scared over the prospect of my first real job. I needed time to find the right home for him and I had never told anyone how important winning the championships was to me. My parents would get over the school report in time; after all, low marks are not the same as being in the gang scene and I could get them up by studying harder.

     The De Bacles were coming at nine o’clock. I slipped the teapot out to the stables, mixed up a mash of bran, a hand full of oats and stirred in the tea. Tonka wolfed it all down in his usual fashion. Sometime later, I heard the swish of gravel as the black sedan curved into the parking area in front of the house. My mother went out to greet them.

      “Wonderful to see you again, Gloria, and you too, Penelope,” said Mum.

       “We do hope your pony will be suitable, we can’t stay too long because Owen Monet says he has a new chestnut horse we just must look at,” said Gloria.

       “Oh really,” said my mother, there was enough meaning in the words to pack a suitcase.

       “I can’t stand the man, he travels with his own personal oil slick, however, to be fair, his horses win gold,” said Gloria.

      My brain was racing, that horse I rode must be the one he now wants to sell to Gloria Moneybags and now he has tricked me into doping my pony. I agonised about whether I should do something. I looked at Penelope, a slim blonde in form-fitting breeches and polished riding boots. I wish I had been able to ride him before they came, so that I knew that he was going to be all right.

      “You don’t need spurs,” I said to her, “he knows all the aids and responds to the lightest touch.”

       “Penelope likes to be properly attired when she rides,” said Gloria.

      I quickly tacked him up and led him to the mounting block. As soon as she sat in the saddle, I saw Tonka’s ears twitching. They went out into the backfield and rode some circles, followed by cantering in a tight circle. Tonka and I were partners; Penelope rode as if the pony was an employee. He was not happy and gave a couple of half bucks.

      “Take him for a canter around the field,” shouted Gloria.

      Instead of letting him ease into the canter, she gripped the reins tightly, pulling on his mouth. With that, Tonka took off and the canter became a gallop.

       “Circle him, circle him,” screamed Gloria. Penelope leaned back with her legs outstretched in front. She had lost all contact with the pony. As they whipped around the corner, she tried to jump off and hit the ground like a rag doll.

       She lay motionless as we ran over. My mum, a former nurse, knelt beside her and cradled her head in both hands. Gloria frantically dialled her cell phone.

       “What’s the address, what’s the address?” she screamed at my mum. The ambulance was called and Penelope lay there whimpering.

        “Wriggler your toes,” said my Mum. The boots moved; “now wriggle your fingers.” The fingers moved spastically.

         “Oh, thank God, it’s not her spine,” said Gloria.

        “Where does it hurt? Said Mum.

        “It’s my hip,” said Penelope, sobbing.

        “You’re going to be alright darling, the ambulance will be here any minute,” said Gloria.

        “Rory, go out to the road and show the ambulance how to get here,” said Mum.

       The ambulance with lights flashing arrived shortly and I directed them across the field. Tonka was munching grass with the reins caught around one leg. I caught him and took him back to the barn. I felt sick with worry over what I had just done. I tried to justify it that the girl could not ride and it was really dumb to bail out from a gallop; it was no good, I knew it was all my fault. The ambulance made its way back towards the stables. I went over to open the gate.

       “Is she going to be okay?” I asked the driver.

       “We just wrap ‘em and pack ‘em,” he said, with macabre jocularity. The two mothers came across the field with looks of anguish on their faces.

       “Come in for a quick cup of tea, you need a moment to get over the shock before you drive to the hospital,” said mother.

       “I don’t know if I could stomach it, I feel physically sick,” said Gloria. The two walked up the path to the house. I could not join them; I had to get away and try to make sense of it all. I went back to the stables, untied Tonka and we went down the road to cool him off.

        I heard a car slow down behind me, it was Owen, and he pulled alongside and lowered the window.

       “I heard she had a fall,” said Owen.

       “No, she bailed. Tonka is just not used to a strange rider with spurs,” I said.

       “Or a cup of tea,” said Owen, adding, “you’re not a horseman until you have a hundred falls, and if you have a hundred and one falls, you’re a fool for riding horses.” I could not believe his callousness.

       “They’ve taken her to the hospital,” I said.

       “You and I are partners now, we’ll keep our little secret to ourselves,” he said, with a tight smile that had a blade in it. I slumped in the saddle, with the realization of the terrible price I had paid to keep Tonka for a little longer. I had been looking forward to going to work at the Club, now I dreaded meeting the De Bacles everyday and Owen Monet having a noose around my neck. By the time I got home, Gloria had left and my mother was standing at the door.

        “Rory, have you seen the tea pot? I can’t find it anywhere.”

        “It’s in the tack-room,” I replied.

        “Why on earth did you take it there? You have a perfectly good travel mug. I wanted to make Gloria a proper cup of tea; instead, I had to use tea bags. I was mortified.”

I went back to collect the teapot. I wanted to smash it and Owen Monet against the wall. As I walked back to the house I thought, education is not about marks, it is about character.

       “Gloria just phoned, Penelope is going to be okay, she has a big bruise and a mild concussion...and she said you can stable Tonka at the Club when you work there. Penelope would like company when she rides,” said Mum.

       “Thank heavens she is going to be alright,” I said.

       “Gloria also said that she is going to give you dressage lessons, she says you need them...cup of tea?” Offering the teapot.

        “I think I will have a glass of milk, thanks.”  

Cross country jumps

Key hole jump, Lane's End horse trials.

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.