The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [64]
“Never mind,” I say. “Good job.”
“Only thing,” Finn says, licking his hand, “is I’m not sure how we’re getting home now.”
“If I make it through the riders’ parade,” I reply, “I’ll fly us home.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
SEAN
The Scorpio drums pound a ragged heartbeat as I wind my way through the crowds that fill the streets of Skarmouth. The cold air smarts as I breathe it in; the wind carries all sorts of foreign scents. Food that’s only made during the race season. Perfume only women from the mainland wear. Hot pitch, burning rubbish, beer spilled on the stones. This Skarmouth is raw and hungry, striving and unknowable. Everything the races make me feel on the inside is bleeding up through the seams in the street tonight.
In front of me, people shoulder their way through the tourists, who are slow with drink and loud with excitement. If you hold yourself a certain way, though, even the drunk will part for you. I slide through the crowd toward the butcher’s, my eyes wide open. I’m watching for Mutt Malvern. It’s better to see than be seen, until I know what he is up to tonight.
Sean Kendrick. I hear my name, whispered, then called, but I keep walking. There are many who’ll recognize my face tonight.
As I walk, I look past the people at the town that stands beneath them. The stones are gold and red in the streetlights, the shadows black and brown and deep death blue, all the colors of the November ocean. Bicycles lie up against the walls as if a wave has washed them there and then retreated. Girls push by me, their strides ringing from the bells tied around their ankles. Firelight flickers from one of the side streets, flames licking from a barrel, boys gathered around it. I look at Skarmouth and it looks back at me, its eyes wild.
On one of the walls, there’s an advertisement for the Malvern Yard. FOUR-TIME WINNER OF THE SCORPIO RACES, it says. OWN A PIECE OF THE RACES — YOUNGSTOCK AUCTION ON THURSDAY AT 7 A.M.
Everything in that advertisement is my business, but my name is nowhere on it.
I have to stop for the drummers as they crash up from a side street that leads to the water. They’re fourteen strong, driven by enthusiasm rather than talent. They all wear black. The Scorpio drums are wide as the span of my arms, the heads made of blood-spattered leather and rope. The drums throb, replacing my pulse with theirs. Behind the drummers is a woman who wears a horse’s head and a blood-red tunic. A tail curls behind her, and it’s hard to tell if it is rope or hide or a real tail. Her feet are bare by tradition. It is impossible to tell who she is.
The drums thump by and we press against the walls to allow them to pass. Some of the tourists clap. The locals stomp. The mare goddess scans the crowd slowly, the stuffed horse head dwarfing her body. I see someone make the sign of a cross over the front of them and then, again, backward this time. In the center of the street, the horse-headed woman holds out her hand and one thousand tiny pebbles rain out across the street. By tradition, she’ll drop a single shell in the course of the night, and whoever gets the mare goddess’s shell will have a wish.
There is nothing but sand in her hand this time.
One night, many years ago, as I stood beside my father, she looked at me and dropped her handful of sand and pebbles, and the single shell spun across the ground in front of me. I had darted away from my father’s side to catch the shell where it stopped. I had my wish formed before my fingers curled around it.
I turn my face to the side, waiting for the woman to pass, waiting for the memory to pass.
I hear an exhalation, at once human and equine, and I turn my head. The mare goddess stands directly in front of me, inches away. The great old gray head is turned so that the left eye regards me, like Corr would have with his one poor eye. Only this horse’s eye has been replaced with a shiny bit of slate, polished so that it winks and weeps like the piebald’s. This