“And you?” said Brendan. “What prize would you claim should that ill-tempered beast of yours cross the finish line first? Although I think it likelier that she would sprout wings and flap away.”
“I want nothing from you,” said Shannon, “except to see the look on your face when Darcy and I leave you in the dust.”
Brendan’s eyes flashed. His face was equally flushed, and in his expression I read hostility, amusement, and something else I could not name. How complex humans’ faces are, and I believe they show only half of what is in their hearts.
“Saturday morning, two weeks hence,” he said. “We begin at the manor house and end at the church steeple, a distance of some twenty miles. Embarr is a turf racer, accustomed to no more than a two-mile track, so here we shall yield the advantage to that pony of yours, who may possess some measure of stamina in those stubby legs.”
I swished my tail uneasily as Shannon’s fingers tightened around the reins, and Embarr let out a loud snort. I looked at him in surprise, for usually he maintained a lofty silence.
You don’t think that girl of yours is the first that Brendan has tried to lure with a pretty flower, do you? he said as Shannon and Brendan shook hands to seal the wager. Believe me, I’ve endured many a ride with a pretty peasant girl and her scruffy nag. I don’t mean you, of course—as the local stock goes, you’re really quite fetching. Perhaps there’s some Arabian in your bloodlines.
I ground my teeth and just barely restrained myself from biting a chunk out of his perfect neck. There’s nothing of the kind, I said shortly. I’m a Connemara pony, born and bred.
Oh, too bad, said Embarr. I laid back my ears and snapped at him, but my teeth hit against the bit as Shannon turned me toward the garden gate.
“We shall see you on Saturday, two weeks hence,” she called over her shoulder as we cantered toward home.
“I’ll have my kiss yet!” Brendan called after her. I felt her give a little flounce as she no doubt tossed her golden hair over her shoulder. I still could not tell whether they were truly angry with each other or were only playing at fighting as colts and fillies do.
But for the next week, I had hardly a moment to ponder Shannon’s bet, for some government men had come with a potato sprayer for the farmers to share. Years ago, a terrible blight had caused most of the potatoes in Ireland to rot, and many people had starved. Now people planted different kinds of potatoes and coated the fields with bluestone, a mixture of lime and water, to kill the deadly fungus. But everyone feared that the crops would rot anyway, and the months between first planting and the midsummer harvest were tense.
I spent many long afternoons trudging up and down the ridges of potato beds with the barrel full of bluestone rattling behind me. Several of our neighbors were too poor to keep a pony, and Mr. McKenna loaned me out to help spray their fields as well.
“There is nothing more important than preventing the blight from returning,” he said to Tomas, whom he was teaching how to do a man’s work on the farm. Tomas looked like he’d rather be reading a book in the cool house. “My own grandparents had to leave the country and find work in America or else starve,” said Mr. McKenna. “They left my father to be raised by his grandparents, as many families did. Ireland was a broken country for a full generation—only now that the railroads are spreading has some small measure of wealth returned to the country.”
During the week my mind was occupied only with work, but on Sunday I discovered that the news of Shannon’s bet with Brendan had spread like wildfire. The Hultons were not popular with the townsfolk. They were fair landlords, but snobbish and condescending. Not to mention that their Thoroughbreds often beat the stuffing out of the farm horses at local race meets, where common folk and gentry raced side by side.
When Shannon’s parents got wind of the race, Mrs. McKenna tried to forbid Shannon to go through with it. “ ’Tis unseemly behavior for a young lady of yer age to be gallivanting about the countryside on horseback,” she said as Shannon unhitched me from the cart after church, replacing my harness with a bridle so we could go for a conditioning gallop.
Mrs. McKenna looked even more tired than usual with little Connor kicking in her arms. I often heard him crying at night, and I knew nobody was getting much sleep. “Ye are nearing an age when ye ought to be thinking of hearth and home,” she said to Shannon. “What respectable man would marry a young lady who spends her day galloping after the wayward sons of the gentry?”
“With any luck I’ll be galloping in front of him, Mother,” said Shannon patiently, turning me in a tight circle to stretch my neck and shoulders. “Besides, it’s a matter of honor. The Hultons think so little of us tenants, and treat us as if we were muck they’ve scraped from their fancy boots.”
“Can’t argue with that,” said Mr. McKenna, who was repairing a worn place in the thatched roof of the cottage. “I say let the girl race. People may talk, but times are changing. And the Hultons have never done us any favors, all these years. I wouldn’t mind seeing that lad taken down a peg.”
Liam, who was sitting near the door and braiding dried marsh reeds into lengths of rope, gave me a skeptical look. “Do ye really think Darcy can match Embarr?” he said. “They say he’s unbeatable at track meets. Darcy’s game, but she’s no racehorse.”
“She is the cleverest pony in Connemara,” said Shannon simply, and headed me toward the road. I leaped into a canter, then stretched out my legs until we were outracing the wind as it blew dark banks of storm clouds in from the sea. In that moment, I felt like nothing in the world could keep pace with my flight.
Match Race
The day of the race dawned clear and bright. I had gotten used to the gray blanket of clouds that normally covered the sky, but its pure blue seemed like a good omen. I was in fine condition after daily gallops in the deep sand at the beach, and was bursting with energy from a twice-daily ration of oats. Indeed, as Shannon and I headed across the hills for Hulton Manor, I could hardly keep from prancing like a carousel horse.
“Save your energy for the race, Darcy,” said Shannon, reining me in.
The rest of the McKennas had hitched a ride into town with a neighbor so they could see me cross the finish line. Everyone in the county knew about the race, and more than a few shillings had been placed on its outcome.
“Ye’d better whip that young dandy and his stallion,” one of the Hulton maids whispered to Shannon when we reached the manor. “Show him that our Irish ponies can run circles around their fluff-headed English Thoroughbreds. Ye know, Embarr is so spoilt that he won’t eat a mash of mere oats for breakfast like the other horses. Nay, he must have an apple cut into his feed every morning to appeal to his sensitive palate.”
Shannon laughed, and I took strength in the confidence of her voice as she replied, “We shall pass the church steeple before Brendan finds his way out to the road.”
“I hope so,” said the maid, “for I have a day’s wages riding on the back of yer mare.” The girl took a ripe red apple from her apron pocket and offered it to me. “ ’Tis Embarr’s,” she said with a giggle as I bit into the apple. “But I don’t think he’ll miss one, for he has been stuffed with so many that he’s practically a dumpling.”
Embarr, however, was in top form. He was leaner than usual, and the muscles of his neck and haunches were more defined. His copper coat gleamed as though the rays of the sun had set it on fire. Indeed, my heart sank as a stable boy led him over to where Brendan was chatting with several gentlemen in stately black suits and their ladies, who wore fashionable short dresses.
Brendan himself was clad in the strangest getup of all: buff breeches with flared hips, stiff knee-high boots, and a black jacket whose tails reached nearly to his knees. He tapped a riding crop imperiously against his palm as he spoke to the fawning crowd around him. The day was warm, and he was already sweating under his starched collar.
Brendan and Shannon lined us up outside the manor gates. Brendan coolly wished Shannon luck, and she
replied that she would not need it. I felt dwarfed standing beside Embarr. To my surprise, he touched his nose briefly to mine, a friendly gesture, before Brendan tugged the reins to make him face forward.
The Hulton groundskeeper raised a pistol and fired into the air—we were off!
At first I was startled by how easy it was to keep pace with Embarr. I took two strides for every one of his, but I stuck to his side like a shadow. For several miles we ran neck and neck.
Then I noticed that Embarr wasn’t sweating, and his nostrils were hardly flared. My coat was already soaked through, and I snorted with exertion each time my hooves hit the ground. Embarr’s dark eyes flashed in amusement, and suddenly I realized that he wasn’t extending himself at all.
I think I’m warmed up now, said Embarr as we rounded a bend in the road. It’s been lovely, but …
Embarr changed leads with a skip and surged ahead, his long legs flashing like pistons. I was literally left in his dust—it filled my lungs, choking me, and the grit stung my eyes. Shannon urged me on, but by now we both realized that I was no match for a sixteen-hand Thoroughbred.
Unless …
I looked over at the forbidding expanse of bog that I had traversed with Fiona. I still remembered the way through, and I didn’t think I would get stuck again. Embarr was a hundred paces ahead by now, and I knew there was no chance of my catching him.
Shannon cried out in surprise as I cut sideways into the bog. She struggled to turn me back toward the road, but I held my head high to evade the bit. Then she let out a laugh and seemed to understand. She released the reins and urged me on.
By now, Brendan had noticed our shortcut and he sent the stallion chasing after us. A stone wall separated them from the bog, but they cleared it in an effortless leap. In a few of Embarr’s ground-swallowing strides, they had caught up to us. But the turf was uneven, and Embarr stumbled and fell behind again.
Horses can see in nearly a full circle around them, so even as we proceeded through the bog at a careful trot, I could see Embarr lashing his tail in frustration because he could not find his footing on the rough ground. Brendan was kicking him, trying to make him gallop to catch up with me.
With neither of them paying attention to the shifting terrain, Embarr splashed into a pool of murky water and sank nearly to his girth. Brendan, unprepared for the sudden stop, catapulted over the horse’s head and landed facedown in the muck.
Shannon swiveled at the sound of Brendan’s cries. She reined me to a halt, perhaps wondering if she should stop to help. But Embarr heaved himself free from the puddle. Dripping, he minced his way back toward the road, ears flattened against his head in disgust. Brendan—whose buff breeches I feared would never be the same—chased after him, waving his broken riding crop.
Shannon and I pressed onward. I edged cautiously along the trail I’d taken to reach the doctor, careful to keep my weight over my hindquarters in case the path collapsed. I lifted my hooves high over brambles and sedge and skirted around gaping mud pits. Before I knew it, we were clear of the bog and galloping onward into town. As we swept past the church steeple, we were greeted by cheers from the townsfolk and startled gasps from Sir Henry and his friends.
Shannon halted me swiftly and swung down from my back. The younger McKenna children showered me with pats and praise. Mrs. McKenna looked both vexed and proud as Shannon spun a dramatic retelling of the race to her siblings and friends who gathered around us.
It was a good half hour before Brendan and Embarr joined the festivities. They were coated in muck from tip to tail, and Embarr was favoring his left foreleg.
Are you all right? I called. Despite the stallion’s arrogance, I was sorry he’d been injured.
Only a stone bruise, said Embarr, wrinkling his nose as a drop of mud oozed from his wet forelock. I say, it’s rough country out there. Not my cup of tea, but you seemed to handle it well. Good show, indeed.
He plunged his nose into a bucket of water someone had brought, and I thought that perhaps I had misjudged Embarr. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same of his owner.
Brendan dismounted and stalked over to Shannon. “You cheated!” he said. “We were to race by the road, not through some infernal swamp.”
Before Shannon could reply, Liam broke in. “The race was from Hulton Manor to the church steeple,” he said. “There was nothing about the track ye had to take to get here. Our pony outclassed yer fancy hunter, and that’s all there is to it.”
Brendan tossed Embarr’s reins to a waiting servant and peeled off his mud-encrusted jacket. Unfortunately, the shirt beneath wasn’t much cleaner, and the ripe scent of the peat bog drifted toward me.
“Well, I suppose she’s got a certain talent for scrabbling over rocks,” he said stiffly. “But she’d never have won on a fair track, and she’s quite a common-looking thing.”
“Ye just can’t stop yer tongue a-flapping even after ye’ve lost, can ye?” muttered Liam, scuffing the tip of one crutch angrily in the dirt.
“Calm yourself,” said Brendan with one of his ironic smirks. “I was speaking of the horse, not your sister.”
Liam dropped one crutch and delivered a solid punch to Brendan’s smug face. The young aristocrat reeled back in shock, then fished frantically in his jacket for a handkerchief as his nose began to drip blood. Instead of returning the blow, he sputtered something about poor country manners and retreated hastily to his father’s carriage. Several young ladies hurried over to comfort him, offering their own handkerchiefs and bringing cups of ice from the grocer.
As for Liam, he was quickly hailed by a dozen farmers offering to buy him a pint. But he refused them all and took my lead rope from Shannon, saying that he’d walk me until I was cool. She hugged him and whispered, “Thank ye! I wanted to smack him myself, but Mother would never have forgiven me!”
Nearby, I saw Mr. McKenna stiffen as Sir Henry approached.
“I apologize for my son’s behavior,” said Mr. McKenna in a rush, stumbling over his words. “He’s recently back from the war, and he hasn’t been quite himself.…”
“Never mind,” said Sir Henry, waving a walking stick with a gold top shaped like a horse’s head. “Boys will be boys. That colt of yours has a strong right hook, I daresay. Speaking of colts …” He looked me up and down. I was still hot and tired from the race, but I tossed my head and kicked up my heels to show that I was far from winded.
“Embarr is coming three years old this season,” Sir Henry said, “and I would like him to cover a few mares. He runs like a cheetah and jumps like a gazelle, but he’s not acclimated to the rough terrain of this country. I am curious to see how he would cross with one of the local ponies. Unassuming creatures, they are, but full of spirit. So what say I let Embarr cover your mare—no fee, but as payment for a race well run?”
Mr. McKenna seemed surprised, but he agreed. While Liam led me up and down the street, seeming grateful to be apart from the merry crowd, Fiona appeared from the general store with a piece of rock candy. “A present from Mr. Beadle,” she said as I crunched the treat. “He won three shillings on ye today!”
She glanced at Embarr on the far side of the town square. One of Sir Henry’s men was sponging the mud from his legs, and another placed a scarlet cooler over his back. “He is a looker, though, isn’t he?”
“But no match for our Darcy,” said Liam, a bit of the old glint returning to his eyes.
That night, as I was nibbling grass under the stars, I saw a dark form lurching across the pasture. I shied and flared my nostrils until I caught Liam’s familiar scent. I trotted over to him. He led me to the stone wall and laid his crutches against it, then slid carefully onto my back. His weight felt strange with one leg missing. Liam wrapped his fingers in my mane and clucked to me. Obediently, I stepped away from the wall.
After a quick circle around the stable yard, Liam leaned forward and signaled me to run. Although his seat felt different, his balance was still good. I was tired from my long ride t
hat morning, but I arched my neck and galloped hard across the hills and valleys of my pasture, as if I were running the race all over again.
Afterward, Liam slipped down from my back and returned silently to the house. He still looked haggard and worn the next day, but I felt like something that was lost had returned to him. He came out to the barn with Fiona to see a new litter of kittens, and it seemed that his eyes were somehow more alive.
Berries and Briars
Sir Henry was true to his word, and I was bred to Embarr the following spring. For the first time I felt the stirring of new life as the foal grew inside me. Although it’s said that Connemara ponies can survive on a thimbleful of oats and a bushel of thistles, the McKennas made sure that my belly was never empty after a long day in the field or at the shore.
I had always been bored by all the hitching-post gossip about foals that started up in early spring, but now I was as eager as anyone to speculate as to which mare would deliver a colt or a filly, or whether its color would take after the sire or the dam.
You’re going to have a red colt, Darcy, said Mollie, Dr. Farber’s mare, as we stood hitched outside the church one mild February day. I can tell by the way your mane is split so it falls on both sides of your neck. A red colt, mark my words.
Ach, you’re full of old mares’ tales, insisted Clover, a bay draft horse who pulled the town fire engine. If Darcy was bred in the first week of April, it was a new moon in the sky. That means a filly, and it will be gray like herself.
But they were both wrong, or perhaps each was half right. A month later, in the gray light before dawn, I gave birth to a black colt. I had never felt such pain before, but I forgot it as soon as my nose touched the wet, shivering creature in the grass. I licked him clean, and before the rooster crowed the colt was standing to nurse.
The children named him Finbarr, and for nearly a year he frolicked by my side. There was no rest from the endless cycle of planting, hauling, and harvesting, and he learned to trot beside me as I pulled the cart or the plow.
Darcy Page 4