The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [126]
I think: He was just sitting at our table in that jacket.
“Puck, isn’t it?”
I look to my left and see a man standing there, his arms folded neatly in front of him, as if he stands in church. Of course I know that he’s Norman Falk, now that I look at him, because I remember him standing in our kitchen the exact same way, talking to my mother. I’d just always thought of his face and thought fisherman, not Tommy Falk’s father. Beside him is a kid, possibly one of Tommy’s siblings. Norman Falk doesn’t look anything like Tommy. He smells like Gabe, which is to say, like fish.
“I’m sorry about this,” I say, because that’s what people said to me after our parents died.
Norman Falk’s eyes are dry as he looks into the pyre. The boy leans against his leg, and Norman Falk puts a hand on his shoulder. “We would’ve lost him either way.”
It seems a funny sort of comfort. I can’t imagine thinking that about Gabe. There is Gabe being dead, which is forever.
And there is Gabe being happy somewhere I might never see him again. It might feel the same to me, but I’m quite certain it wouldn’t feel the same to Gabe.
“He was very brave,” I offer, because it sounds polite in my head. My face is getting hot from the flames; I want to step back but I don’t want to seem like I’m stepping away from the conversation.
“That he was. Everyone will remember him on that mare.” There’s naked pride in Norman Falk’s voice. “We’ve asked Sean Kendrick to give her back to the sea, and he’s said yes. We’re doing it right for Tommy.”
I ask, ever so polite, trying to pretend that Sean Kendrick’s name hasn’t interested me, “Give her back to the sea, sir?”
Norman Falk spits behind him, hard, so that he won’t spit on the boy at his side, and then turns back to the pyre. “Yes, releasing her the proper way. Give the dead some respect, like we used to. Give the capaill some respect. It’s not about the tourists coming in and lining pockets. It’s about the capaill uisce and us, and anything less than that makes it a dirty sport.” Then he seems to remember who he’s talking to, because he says, “There’s no place for you on the beach, now, Puck Connolly. You and your mare. Shouldn’t be. I knew your father and I liked him, but I think what you’re doing’s wrong, if you’ll hear me.”
I feel shamed for no reason I can name, and then I feel bad that I’ve let myself be shamed. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful.”
Norman Falk’s voice is kind enough. “’Course you don’t. You just don’t have a mum and dad to set you right. That horse of yours is just a horse, is the problem. If the Scorpio Races are just horse races, then all this” — Norman Falk jerks his chin toward the flames — “was just a bloody shame and nothing else.”
Two weeks ago, I would’ve thought he was crazy, that of course it was just about the race, the money, the thrill. And if I’d just been watching the training on the beach, I probably would’ve still said that. But now that I’ve spent time with Sean Kendrick, now that I’ve been on the back of Corr, I feel something inside me slipping. I’m still not sure it was worth Tommy dying for. But I can see the allure of having one foot on the land and one foot in the sea. I’ve never known Thisby so well as I have these last few weeks.
The boy says something to Norman Falk and he replies, “He’s bringing her down now. Look there now.”
We both turn our heads and there is Sean, halfway down one of the little paths to the beach. He holds Tommy’s black mare, and in comparison to Corr, she looks fragile in his hands. Sean wears nothing ritual or unusual, just his same blue-black jacket with his collar turned up. I feel a strange,