PEGASUS FLIES AGAIN
by Atticus Carroll
Copyright 2011 Atticus Carroll
Smashwords Edition
CHAPTER ONE
There was a dream I had one night. I had a good leg and wore checkered silks, just like a real jockey -- not some broken farm girl with these mud-slick rubber boots and clacking metal brace.
I rode a gleaming white horse. His breath pounded out of his nostrils like a riot and his legs hammered the gray dirt track. We were sitting last in the pack, with the final turn and the wide open homestretch in front of us.
The crowd in the grandstand began to holler and dance as the horses whipped around the turn and barreled toward the wire, their hooves beating and kicking and sounding like a storm-scarred sky, rolling with thunder. Mud and clods of dirt rose off the ground, churned into bits by the pounding race. The spray fluttered about in a cloud of rocky snow.
I chirped to the white horse.
"Come on now," I urged, "This is our race."
The horse stretched low underneath me and grabbed the bit. For some unknown, dreamy reason, I dropped the reins and snatched a piece of the horse's glistening mane instead. The horse shot me a look, and I could have sworn I saw a twinkle swimming in the deep liquid behind his lashes.
And just like that, he bolted.
His ears bent forward, and his legs recoiled and fired again and again, smashing into the dirt. His steady, even breath came blasting out of his nostrils every time his shoes slammed into the track, the weight of his enormous back pushing the air out of his lungs.
In a matter of seconds, we were sitting fourth, then third, then second. Tired, aching horses failed and broke all around, spinning behind in whorls of exhaustion.
We were in the heart of the homestretch. The stands shook. People cheered. The announcer screamed. It was the most magnificent thing I'd ever heard -- the sound of the crowd, the beating of the hooves, the loud, clapping blasts of breath as the horses rose and fell, rose and fell, pushing all that rippling, ropey muscle toward the wire.
There was the lead horse. He was six lengths ahead. Then five, then four, then three. There wasn't much time left. The white horse reached out beneath me, pulling the track under his front legs and kicking it back out again. The lead jockey whipped his horse and chirped and yelled.
With only yards to go, the white horse found some hidden gear within that enormous, barreled chest of his and I gripped the mane even tighter, crouching forward and urging.
As we crossed the finish line, I lowered my head and closed my eyes. For a long, sweet moment, I imagined what it must be like -- to be a real jockey, to hear the crowds and feel the weight of a race horse pumping under my legs. I could almost taste it.
When I opened my eyes, the brilliant white horse had disappeared. The mane was gone, the feet. Surprised, I looked around and saw I was alone -- no other horses, no grandstands, no cheering crowds.
It was just me on a fenceless track, riding a sizzling bolt of lightning.
Someone shouted, "Calliope!"
I looked around, gripping the bolt. No one was there.
A voice called again, louder.
"Calliope!" it said, "Calliope Anne!"
My eyes snapped open.
I was curled atop the cozy, layered hay in the stall of Atlantis Rising, our retired race horse. The chestnut-colored stallion lowered his nose to my cheek and snorted. He smelled like mouth steam and sweet hay and a canvas bag of oats.
I pushed him away.
"I'm up," I muttered, "I'm up."
"Calliope!" someone shouted, and I peaked my sleep-frizzled head out of the stall.
It was daddy. He stood framed in the stable door, his hands on his hips and the horrible sky glowering behind him. Big cement-colored clouds loomed above the wilting farm house, threatening to loose a flood.
"You get out here," daddy called.
He pushed his chin out like he does, reshaping his face into a landscape of boulders. He tilted up his soiled white Stetson so as to eyeball me better.
"Stalls clean?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Horses fed?"
"Yes."
"You been riding Atlantis again?"
I paused.
"I thought so," he said, gritting his teeth. "How many times I got to tell you not to run the wheels off that horse? Atlantis Rising is the only money we got flowing into this place, and I ain't going to let you break his legs in some muddy slop hole, you hear?"
"He needs to run," I said quietly.
Daddy just stood there, saying nothing. He wasn't much of a debater, daddy.
Finally he said, "Well you ain't the one to run him."
He jabbed a finger at me.
"You ain't no jockey," he said.
My face felt hot and angry. I wanted to get away. Instead, I just stood there studying the dirt for a moment, grinding into it with the toes of my good leg. I left my brace back in there with Atlantis, and it was times like this I hated for daddy to see me limping about and looking so weak. The thought of it made my ears burn.
In the silence, daddy checked his watch. His face twisted into an awful grimace, as if the thoughts crossing his mind caused him physical pain.
"We got to get moving," he said, "Can't miss the auction. Got everything riding on it."
I collected myself, smoothing my dirty jeans and picking hay out of my long hair.
"Everything?" I asked.
Daddy opened his mouth like he was about to say something but then clamped it shut again. He stuck his chin out a little more.
"Just get the truck," he ordered. Then he stomped to the house, checking his watch again.
I limped back to the stall and slipped on my brace. All that leather and metal, it reminded me of a bridle. I clacked over to Atlantis and stroked his big long face and worked my way down his neck, the black hair of his mane shining like silk.
"Someday," I whispered, "You watch."
The dream of an open homestretch and the roar of the steepled grandstands and the feel of thunder pounding under my legs came crowding back into my mind, as I shut up the stable and clanked back to the house. It used to look so big and shiny, that house. But now it looked tired and in need of a good bath, like a just run horse.
Lightning flashed on the horizon and thunder boomed a second later. I stopped with one hand on the kitchen screen door. Gray clouds gathered over the green pastures and the squared-off horse paddocks. They used to shine and glisten, too, all those pasture fences, but that was long ago, back in the rich days before my brother died. Now they were just like the house, tired and sad -- a maze of soggy, wilting lumber looking like a patchwork of traps.
I let the screen door slam behind me, clacking and clanging my way upstairs to get ready and thinking about that dream again and all that open, free track in front of me. I turned to the window as lightning ripped a hole in the sky and thunder bellowed. I stood there for a moment, staring at our practice oval beyond the stables and repeating in my head the words, "Someday. Someday. Someday."
CHAPTER TWO
That was the day I brought home Peg.
I met him at the horse auction, the big annual one down in Cordelia where everybody goes to buy the best race horses. The draw that year was Regal Warrior, a rangy, oil-colored two year old who traced his ancestry back to Eclipse and was supposed to be just as ornery. Daddy wanted to buy Regal Warrior for the county races. And so we set out early with me driving the pickup and daddy counting his money and my brother, Sam, fast asleep in the back.
Daddy stopped thumbing his bills every now and then and sighed, looking out the window at the rolling hills and the armada of clouds loitering above them.
"What is it?" I asked.
Daddy never answered. He thrust out his chin in the way he does and continued to stare off into the distance. Sometimes he gets like that when he's thinking of momma, and soon I fell to thinking about her too, wondering if she could see us and what she'd think of my dream.
Lightning suddenly flashed in the sky, and thunder clapped its hands among the clouds. I wondered if we'd make it back before the storm hit.
It was not shaping up to be a good day.
When we arrived at the auction house, daddy turned around in the seat and nudged Sam. At 12, Sam was only a year older than me, but he was the jockey now and allowed to get away with things, like sleeping, while I did most of the work.
"Listen here, Samuel," daddy began, "When we get there, I don't want you saying nothing about that horse. Nothing, you hear me? No Oohs. No Ahhs. Nothing. We got everything riding on that horse and I got to bring him home. For cheap."
Sam must have sensed how important this was, because daddy never called him Samuel, and so he silently nodded. I nodded, too, even though daddy wasn't talking to me. I drove up to the front gates and daddy opened the door and hopped out practically before I had a chance to stop.
Crowds poured through the gates and there was a great murmur of excitement. The whole place smelled electric.
"I'll catch up to you," I called.
Daddy waved his hand.
"Fine, fine," he mumbled, "Come on, Samuel."
Daddy and Sam disappeared into the river of people, while I eased the lumbering pickup back around to the lot and cursed under my breath when I saw that all the handicap spots were taken, some by cars without handicap tags at all. My face turned to red again and my cheeks felt ablaze. I was grateful daddy wasn't in the car because he would have told me what's what if he'd seen my punch the steering wheel like I did. But it just made me so angry sometimes, dealing with this leg. I wheeled the truck to the back lot and finally found a spot way back by all the horse trailers, trucks and piles of endless hay. I hit the wheel again.
It was a long way back to the crowds, and my leg went clacking the whole way on the asphalt. I didn't want to be late, but the faster I went, the more noise I made -- ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk -- and people started to stare, which I hated even more than my leg. I cursed under my breath and I wanted to say, "Ain't you people never seen a cripple before!" But it wouldn't heal me up. And my face already felt like fire. Sometimes I just wanted to scream.
By the time I reached the gates, the auction had already begun and the crowds were swirling and pushing around the main ring, making it impossible to get in and see the horses paraded around. The river of people swept me up and swirled me away from the main ring, pushing and pulling until finally it dropped me off at the edges of the auction house where there were only dusty long barns and cramped stalls.
It was quieter back there, just a few grooms and scratchy old horse rubbers milling about. A rusty hot walking machine creaked and sighed, looking like an enormous, aching metal spider. There was a broke down knob-kneed bay eating a sad bunch of molding hay and I wanted to go up and tell it everything would be OK somehow, but I knew he'd probably be sold off for dog feed or glue later that day, and it seemed best to let him just enjoy his last few hours in peace. People think they know best sometimes, but sometimes you just want to be left alone to suffer.
The clouds above growled and lightning flashed. It felt like rain soon and I didn't want to get caught out there in the open when it came, so I started making my way back to the main auction and the crowds and the gleaming stallions with brighter futures when the gray sky turned sparkly white and a rumble of thunder boomed so loud it seemed to shake the barns. Then everything abruptly settled down. It suddenly felt eerie back there, among the shifty barns and the doomed horses. I had a violent urge to get away.
"You lost there little girl?" a voice called, "Most folks up at the auction by now."
I turned around to find an older man in dirty brown corduroy overalls leading a brilliant white horse by the bit. I openly gaped at the horse. I couldn't help it. I had never seen a horse so beautiful. It looked as white and brilliant as ...
"Lightning," I whispered.
The old man held a hand to his ear.
"How's that again?" he called.
"I ain't lost, thank you very much," I told him, "I'm just making my own way."
"Name's Olumpios," the man said. He held out his hand. He had a thick gray beard and eyes that sparked behind all that bushy exterior.
"Olumpios?" I asked.
"It's OK," he said, "I get that a lot. I know it's a funny name. Well not funny, I guess. Unusual."
"I didn't mean nothing," I said. "I know a thing or two about unusual."
I lifted my jeans a touch and showed him the metal brace under my right leg. I don't know why I did it, but I figured he'd know anyway the moment we got to walking.
"Well aren't we a pair then," Olumpios said, "The two of us, we're ... unusual."
I looked at the white horse he was leading around. Low slung and muscular with gnarled knees, he had a flowing white mane, one golden sock and a powerful neck. The horse twitched his ears and seemed to settle his eyes on me for a moment, as if he was appraising me just like I was taking stock of him. His eyes were so black and inky they almost looked blue. It felt like I was staring into some deep, ancient sea.
"How do you do?" I asked the horse.
Its ears twitched, one moving forward and the other back. The horse then nodded in response.
Olumpios swiped his hat over his forehead.
"Well I'll be," he said. "You're the one."
With great difficulty, I took my eyes away from the horse.
"The one?" I asked.
"He ain't never paid mind to anyone but me," Olumpios said. "You're the one person he even bothered to look at all day, like he know."
"Know what?"
Olumpios rubbed his neck with this hand and twisted his mouth around, like he was trying to find the right words. Finally he put his hand over his mouth and whispered so the horse wouldn't hear.
"That he's doomed," Olumpios said.
Doomed. This horse? I thought to myself. He looked perfect, his ears twitching to hear our words and his eyes sparkling like he knows just what we're talking about.
"Yup," Olumpios said, "This broke thing heading to the feed factory, for sure. Circus or girls riding school if he's lucky, and I wouldn't necessarily call that luck."
I quietly approached.
"Don't look broke to me," I said, patting the smooth white velvet fur and rubbing my hands down the horse's enormous legs. I grabbed the horse's ears real gentle with both my hands and leaned in close so it could smell my breath and get used to me -- something the Indians used to do a long, long time ago. I touched my forehead to his and closed my eyes, feeling something powerful washing over me, like a dream, a dream of good legs on open track.
"Nuh uh," I finally said, "This one ain't going to no feed factory, no sir. This one's coming home with me."
Olumpios rubbed his beard and seemed to be giving it some thought.
"I think you better ask your folks first," Olumpios suggested.
"I got my own money and I take care of my own horses," I said.
Olumpios shook his head.
"He's got busted legs and a temper to match," Olumpios said, "Whyn't you go find yourself a pretty little pony little girl?"
I shot Olumpios a look and felt my cheeks turn to fire. Olumpios held up his hands.
"I'm saying he'll be a handful is all," Olumpios continued, "He won't race no more, he won't work. As far as I can tell, he won't do nothing but sit around, sleeping and eating apples."
I could have sworn right then that beautiful white horse smiled. His ears twitched. He lifted his head, nickered and his mouth pulled back at the sides, just like he was a sly old thing.
"Apples then," I whispered to him, "Is that what you like?"
The horse nodded, and I knew right then he would be mine.
"What his name anyway?" I asked.
Olumpios smiled.
"Peg," he said.
"Funny name for a stallion," I said.
"Not funny," Olumpios told me, "Unusual."
CHAPTER THREE
Olumpios and me were walking back up to the main auction ring, when he told me all about Peg.
"An old race horse they say," Olumpios started out, "Though I don't know who "they" are, because I can't find a person who remembers seeing this one run. Supposed to have won at Aqueduct but no one can find the record. Supposed to be out of Flying Serpents from long ago but again, no one can find the record. No pedigree at all as far as I can tell. But a beautiful myth for sure."
"That don't mean much to me," I said.
"Well it should," Olumpios sniffed, "If you plan to race this thing. How can you tell what a racing horse will do if you don't know what kind of blood it come from?"
Olumpios shook his head, like I should know these things. My cheeks burned, but I held my tongue.
"Past is past," I shrugged, "People get caught up on the history without ever seeing what's really in front of them, but I can train him up. You'll see."
I turned toward the main auction house and saw the grandstand behind it, rising up into the sky with its three pitched white steeples. I knew the track was right behind it, and I wondered for a moment what it might be like, to wear the family racing colors and lead a horse past the crowds and onto the track, to feel the rush of the harnessed wild underneath me, running free.
Olumpios stopped and pointed at one of Peg's knees, a big knobby cluster of bone and muscle, like a burled knot on a skinny tree.
"Knees like that?" Olumpios said, "This horse ain't running any more, that's for sure."
He took off his hat and rubbed his forehead again.
"But I guess if you want, he could be a good companion," Olumpios continued, "He seems like the gentle kind with you."
I couldn't help looking in Peg's eyes again. They were so deep they looked blue water. He must have sensed I was sizing him up again, because he did it again. His eyes fell into creases and his mouth curled up into a sly little smile, like we were already best of friends and in on some special joke just between the two of us.
"See that?" I asked.
"See what?" Olumpios asked right back.
I shrugged and said it was probably nothing and then asked if I might lead Peg around for a bit.
"Seeing as this is your horse -- well, going to be your horse -- I don't see why not."
I grabbed the lead and didn't even feel a tug in it. I didn't have to lead Peg. He walked right along when I walked and stopped when I stopped, as if we were just two chums out for a stroll. His muscular shoulders towered over my head, but he still came along just fine.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out an old rotten apple, its flesh bruised a little but still smelling sweet. The moment I brought that thing out, Peg leaned over and snatched it right out of my hands. I could feel his tongue reach out and grab it like a hand would -- firm but gentle. I felt the whisper of his teeth and knew he wouldn't bite. Not this one.
Olumpios laughed, a big chest-wriggling laugh.
"That horse," he said, "Let me tell you, I've gone through three bushels of apples. That's practically all he'll eat."
A long time ago, my daddy told me that my momma used to just love apples, that she'd go halfway around the world for a bite of a good, sweet apple. He had a way of talking about her that made him sad, as if he could only part with one bit of information about her at a time before his eyes became cloudy and wet and his lips started to quiver. And then just like that, he'd go quiet and his eyes would have this distant look about them. So I only knew bits and pieces, tiny little things he'd let on about before going quiet. She liked apples. She liked horses. She could dance until the sun came up. She spoke ancient Greek, or at least could read it, I think he said. And she would have loved me, if she ever got to meet me.
And then the hard times struck and soon enough even the little bits and pieces stopped flowing, and it was like my daddy clammed up altogether -- his mind only on the horses he trained and the losses we'd suffered. First my mom and then my brother. It was just the three of us then -- my daddy, Sam and me. And sometimes I wonder if all that pain was just too much for him to bear. And it made me feel sad and angry, because as much as he was hurting, I was hurting even more. Imagine not knowing your mother at all. Imagine actually being responsible for her ... well, I don't like to dwell on it either.
"Hey there!" I shouted suddenly, when Peg caught up to me and knocked his big old head into my shoulder. I must have been zoning out on all that old business, because I didn't even hear him sneak up and then all of a sudden there's his head, pressing into that soft spot between my shoulder and neck. Usually a horse knocks into you and you go flailing to the ground, but there was something about this I still can't get my head around. It surprised me at first, but then I could feel how gentle he put his head there, how he nuzzled his nose deep into my neck and blasted steam into face, as if he was letting me get to know him too. Peg smelled of sweet apple rot and hay, and when I put my hand around his snout and hugged him back, I could see in his eyes that he knew just what I'd been thinking about and he did the only thing a horse could do to make it better.
"He likes you," Olumpios said, "I never seem him do this before. He likes you for sure."
I hugged a bit harder and hid my face from Olumpios, whispering to that broken down, no good, cast off circus horse under my arms, "I like you too."
CHAPTER FOUR
"No way," my daddy said, "Ain't no way."
He was loading Regal Warrior into a horse trailer -- or trying to -- when Olumpios and me and Peg came walking around a corner and saw all the crowds gathered around him. Sam beamed with pride but I could tell he was also a little bit scared. He ain't the horse man he thinks he is, and I think somewhere deep down inside he knows it. But he still smiled and strutted and pretended to be proud of that flanky oil-slick race horse he was pushing by the butt into the trailer.
My daddy was inside, pulling on the lead shank, struggling to get Warrior inside.
"Calliope Anne, I am not bringing another horse home today," daddy wheezed, out of breath from all the fighting, "Look how much trouble we're having getting this one in!"
The crowd started to laugh and clap their hands. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Hannah Hannigan, and she was the last person I wanted to see right about then. At the edge of the crowd, a couple girls gathered around her, doting on her every movement like a burden of pests. When Hannah moved, the gaggle moved too. It must be nice to have friends, I thought for a moment, and then I remembered all the things Hannah and her horrible pests had done to me over the years. My cheeks felt hot again, and I remembered these were no friends.
"But daddy," I whispered urgently, "I worked hard for this money and I can spend it. I'll train him and feed him and you know for a fact I know how to keep a horse on my own."
My daddy stopped struggling for awhile, content to let Warrior just rest there on the trailer ramp, half in and half out -- his enormous butt exposed to the crowd. Just then, he loosened his stomach and triumphantly dropped an enormous pie right on the trailer. The crowd laughed and applauded.
"Look at this," daddy said, "The fair races are at the end of summer and I can tell we're going to have our hands full with this one. We need to get him trained up and we need to get Sam trained up and I'm sorry but no. Now is not the time for another horse."
His jaw hardened, and I knew that would be the end of it. My thoughts turned to Peg and the idea of the feed factory or, worse, a toddler girls riding school. I opened my mouth to speak, but in that moment, Peg swished right on by me. The horse glided right up the ramp and into the trailer, turning his head to Warrior and I'm not making this up: He smiled at that stubborn race horse. He smiled and stuck his tongue out, as if bragging that when it came to getting into trailers, he was the best horse in all the county.
Warrior must have took offense because he just up and walked himself inside the trailer and stood beside Peg and stamped his feet, as if to prove he could do it too. Horses are just as proud as people, I suppose. Or maybe just as dumb. Peg nodded his head a few times and wrinkled up his eyes into that sly little smile of his; and his body began to shake with ... laughter? Yes indeed, it looked exactly like that old horse was smiling and laughing.
My daddy was speechless, and Sam looked bored, and I didn't know what to say. The crowd looked perplexed for a moment and then broke into some more applause and calls. Daddy quickly snapped out of his trance and slammed shut the ramp.
A bowling ball of a man with a face as big as a full moon stepped forward from the crowd, clapped his hands and doubled over with laughter. It was Hannah's daddy.
"Looks like you got two horses now," Mr. Hannigan shouted above the crowd. "And not a one of them is going to beat mine in the races!"
The crowd liked the jab and laughed and cheered some more, while my daddy stopped a grimace from forming on his lips and turned to Mr. Hannigan, our neighbor, and said, "Hank, we'll see about that. You can bet on that."
Mr. Hannigan said something funny right then.
"Oh I did," he said, raising his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear, "I bet alright. I placed a bet right on your stables."
The crowd went silent and men shifted their feet and looked down all nervous. There was a weird quiet in the air, as if this was a private joke between Mr. Hannigan and my daddy and it wasn't quite the joke you laughed at. I caught sight of Hannah in the crowd, and she was smirking that awful little smirk of hers, and all those pests behind her followed her lead. Daddy just looked down for a moment, clammed up like usual, and went around to fix up the trailer hitch.
"Calliope," he whispered, "You go get the pickup."
I made my way through the crowds and into the lot and deep down toward the trailers and our pickup just as it began to rain, wondering the whole way what Mr. Hannigan meant and why daddy looked so suddenly pained.
CHAPTER FIVE
Our farm had a clapboard house that used to be white but over the years took to the color of dust and decay around the bottom edges with a sprinkling of ruin around the top. There was also a rust-colored barn that seemed to sag in the roof and my favorite part: the stable. A long, red rectangle that had seen better days, it still smelled of sweet hay and hot mash and the breath and body heat of animals.
It's a funny thing about race horses. A long time ago, they used to just run around the wilds, but now they're so expensive that horse trainers keep them inside for all but a few hours a day. That would drive me mad, being cooped up like that. The thinking goes that if you're going to spend that much money on an animal that could make your fortune at the races, why risk letting it out to pasture where it could get spooked by a snake and break a leg or something. So whenever I went into the stable, I inhaled real deep and got that smell, the smell of a horse with something wild in it, something ready to run, to be free -- no bridles or braces to hold it back.
The morning after we brought the horses home, I woke up before the sun came up like I always do and put on my big rubber boots and wheeled the muck bucket to the stable, remembering to bring an old apple for Peg. I cleaned up Warrior's stall first, tying him up outside the door while I raked the soiled hay and padded his stall with new, fresh layers. We used to use sawdust but that was before the hard times. I checked on his food and water and made sure he seemed content with his new place. I couldn't tell. He kept his head real high, as if he didn't want to bother looking down at me. But that was fine by me. I wanted to hurry along to Peg anyway.
"So what do you think old boy," I asked just the minute I reached his stall, "You gonna like it here?"
Peg snorted and sniffed, testing the air. He quickly closed the distance between us and nudged his head into my shoulder and then poked his nose into my overalls pocket.