This Kind Winter

Tonight is the longest night of the year. Before sunset, there will be blood in the water.

It’s the kindest winter I’ve ever seen. The sun is a cruel beacon, bright and heatless, turning the sea into a piece of black and silver foil. It shifts over the brown sand, curls into white caps farther out. The cliff face that curls close to the water on my left keeps the wind from tossing everyone on the beach into the sand. The patterns in the sand on the shore are made from people only, walking the Ley line.

Horses run up and down the beach as well, but they run in the water, churning up sediment and pebbles instead of just sand. They race over part of the line, filled with the energy of its activity. The road for the race this year has been mapped out, from the black water to the cliffs to the tussock grass beyond. That is the trickiest part of the road. It begins in the water. And you should never turn your back on the sea.

For the last month, there is not a part of this land where I have not tasted the air. I have breathed in this beach, and the wet smell of the rock, and the dusty grass. My face is chapped and raw from the wind, from my hair snapping against my cheeks. My thighs have been aching for weeks, from sitting in a saddle, from running. When the pain recedes, that is a sign to push harder. My back is twisted up from climbing onto my horse and dropping again, from swimming and sprinting. I have not known a full night of sleep in ages. I have not eaten enough to fill myself in weeks. I have not heard my name spoken in a month, only shouted across sea and sand.

There is fire in my chest.

My brother leads me toward the start of the race, across the beach. A couple of neighbours say hello to my brother on the way down. A race official eyes me and must think that I am too young to be here, because his mouth twists down and goes still. One of our elderly neighbours, Thomas Beecham, takes a moment of our time. My brother stops in the sand. Thomas says, “This one is very young to be in the race, isn’t he? Just lost all of his baby teeth, hasn’t he?” When this gets no response from my brother, he turns to me. “Connor Hanegan, don’t you think you’re young to be in the races?”

“I think I’m young enough to be in the races.” Let him parse that out. Several of the usual racers this year have dropped out from old age. He dropped out not long ago. His face cannot decide whether it is amused or unhappy. He speaks to my brother for a moment, lowly, about the game and age, but there are no rules about age restrictions. I know; I’ve checked.

My brother has too. It is a brief exchange. “These are violent races,” Thomas says to me. “Be careful. I can think of better ways to end your life if that’s what you’re looking to do.”

I look at him until he realizes he isn’t going to get another answer. I wait for him to walk away on the sand first, then I have to jog to keep up with my brother.

Everywhere along the beech are racers getting ready to start. There are a few new horses on the beach, a few more nightmares tossed up from the sea. They rear against their equipment, even the ones that have been trained well. They are not meant for bits like normal horses. One of them rears and paws at the sand. It is the colour of the water behind it. All of the horses are the colours of an autumn night: black, grey, red, brown, orange, gold, silver. Some of them are decorated for the race. Some people believe it is a blessing, or that their talismans bring the rider closer to the Ley line. I would not trust an herb or a bell or a metal charm to keep my horse focused. They would sooner turn back to the sea than follow someone’s directions all the way down the racetrack. That is part of why the track doubles back to the sea. But they are most dangerous on the shore. Water horses with flowered garlands have torn riders to bits in the surf. And two years ago one of them dragged its rider out too far and down. The body washed up, or part of it, almost two weeks later.

When mam told my brother and I not to turn our backs on the sea, she was not talking about the waves. The horses are swift as nightmares, and as hard to detect coming. You would not know until its jaws were around your collar. And, stuck on the Ley line, separating yourself from the beast is not always possible.

My brother’s horse is fast, but without great endurance. She is panting not far away on the shore, being held almost still by our neighbour, Killough. She foams at the mouth and turns on the spot.

She loves the race. She hates the track. Any track that leads her from the ocean is her enemy.

My brother’s mare only needs to make it as far as the grass. Then there is only a short distance along the line that he will be riding her. At some point, all of the riders will dismount and run. It is up to them to have trained their horse to stay in one spot. My brother has trained a month for this, running when he is not riding, riding when he is not sleeping.

“Help me here, Connor,” my brother says. He is holding his sash. It drapes over both shoulders and ties around the bottom of the rib cage. It is the same blue-black colour as his horse. The race officials, and the crowd, will know who he is by his sash. Some riders adorn theirs with talismans or embroidered sigils so they will be remembered. My brother is remembered without.

A man from the village passes. He hails my brother as he leads his horse. His arms are made of rock, his legs meant for moving villages. They look almost as muscular as the beast that he’ll keep between them. “Fine morning, Connor Hanegan,” he calls. Something in my stomach stirs at that, being called to across the beach like I am another racer, another contestant. Like I am a part of this, as much as he or my brother. In a year, I will be. But Thomas Beecham was right- I am too young this year. I nod to the man from the village. My brother and I get his saddle situated on the mare. His hair is stiff with salt. He has not been away from the beach for days. I think there is as much salt in his blood as is in the sea.

He is not frightened of the water, but as I pass him his bottle of water, I can tell he is unsettled by the mare. She does not like the people, or being separated from the beach. I think she will follow direction, but her hesitation makes my brother unsure.

I wish I could join him. I am a sure rider.

When the horses begin to assemble on the beach, on the line, the air changes. It is the Ley line, not just awake, but paying attention. There are very rarely this many people on it, with this kind of intention, all in one spot. The mare gets more difficult to hold. My brother wrestles with her a little, trying to sooth her until her she stops snorting. She will ride very fast today.

My brother hands me the reins once she has calmed a little. He adjusts his sash and double checks her saddle- you can never be too sure. There is salt on both our lips, and they are chapped. I lick at mine, though it does not make it better. My brother bites his lips. I have seen him race for years, and this is the first year I see his fingers slip on the knot of his sash. He is not keeping himself as close to the mare as he can. She frightens him.

I have been on this mare without a saddle. Bareback, I have felt the heat of her body beneath me. The wind buffeting me, the drop of her hooves like thunder in the sand and on the rocks. I have been sprayed by the sea and by the dirt thrown up by her hooves. I know that on this beast, someone could win the race.

I put a hand on her nose. Most of the horses do not like this, but I do it slowly, so she can see and smell my hand. I stroke the velvety part of her face, following the grain of her hair.

“Move! What are you doing?” my brother says. His voice is sharp enough that the mare snaps her head away from my hand. They are an agitated pair. “Keep your hand away from her face, unless you’d like to lose it. This is no friendly creature you’re standing next to, you know? Come away, or do you think you’d look handsome without a nose?”

I do not come away, just drop my hand away from the mare. Her head is dipped forward. I speak to her, lowly, so my brother cannot hear it, and so it might sound like the wind.  Her ears prick forward again.

My brother sees my lips move. He steps forward and draws me away by the wrist. “Help me up, now. Then get on up to the cliffs. It’s about time. Here-” I steady him as he swings over the horse’s back, into the saddle, settling his feet.

The horse moves under him immediately. His wrists and hands get to work trying to hold her in one place. She is restless as a stallion. The mare moves the bit in her mouth. Her head tilts, like she is trying to watch two different directions at once. I would tell him that is not the way to do it, but it is not me up on her, and I do not have the reins.

I look at her to make sure she remembers what I’ve just told her. Bring him back alive, in one piece. My brother is not careless in the race, but you do not need to be careless to suffer a loss. I look up at my brother and say, “Luck. I’ll see you after.” My brother steadies the mare to be able to reach down and pat my shoulder. Neither of find goodbyes particularly agreeable.

I go up to the cliffs to watch with the spectators. We are in the safest part of the cliffs, where, when the horses pass us, they should already be taken with the enchantment of the Ley line. A couple this year have not forgotten the sea, and they turn back the moment their hooves touch chalk. My brother makes it all the way to the grass, dismounts, draws a circle in the grass with the dirt, and begins to run. He mounts the mare again once he’s returned and heads down the Ley line, toward the sand.

He has just about won the race when the horse beside his clamps enormous teeth around his shoulder and drags him into the water.

I breathe in a breath of sand that I do not release again. The water has gone still, the riders frozen. I cannot hear horse’s hooves. I see nothing but those teeth in my brother

Then sound returns. My brother falls sideways off his horse. He falls into the water and stands, lurching toward the shore. It is not his black mare that goes for him, but the other rider’s horse, a gold one, that gets a grip of him. Red froth bubbles up on top of the water where he thrashes. Several horses come in behind him and if he is not already dead by the horse’s teeth, he is dead from the trampling. His elbow bobs on top of the water. The black mare dives into the sea, missing it more than she wants a meal. The Ley line tingles with energy, as it always does when someone dies on it. Blood is still surfacing, but not because my brother is alive. The sea is churned to peaks that day.

When they drag my brother away from the reddened surf, they tell me not to look at him. I do, but I see instead my brother as he climbed on the mare, a heart full of fear.

Now, I know better.

Art by Anonymous

Text by Lucie MacAulay