Young Writers Society

“Must you catch one tonight?” asks Irene. Her back is pressed against the cliff and she pulls her eyes from the sea towards Leonie.

“No. If I don’t I figured I could just run the race barefoot,” Leonie replies. “That’s what your employer first did, correct?”

It’s only an hour before dinner, but the sky is already black and sooty. Few locals want to be standing on the beach in weather like this, and none with a brain would volunteer. Yet a team of them stand huddled together like sheep, with the same level of joy, watching the water. It’s a miracle of money, and they are excited for its end.

They’re quiet. It’s difficult to speak with gritted teeth. The sound of an older man, an old fisherman, is low enough to hear through the gale.

“It’s the wind, it is. It forces the froth into their lungs, gives them a taste of the air. Rumour ‘as it, a capall in the gale will always come on land.” His voice is whimsical, a sort of tone which can only exist in the shelter of a storm. “But the storm blows the sea onto the soil,” he continues. “It isnae as clear cut for these horses and they dinnae realise they’re on land. That’s why they’re the best, but also why they’re the worst.”

“You’re talking folk tales, uncle,” says a younger man.

A cuffed ear. “Dinnae go disrespecting the capaill, boy.”

“You ken I wouldn’t.”

“Your ma raised you better than that. There are forces out there we don’t understand, forces we ain’t made to understand. The capaill are just an example of them. Dinnae go throwing out your ribbons and your bells just ‘cause you’re read up on today’s news. There are things older and stronger than men stretching their limbs around us.”

“Aye, uncle.”

“Idiots,” mutters Leonie.

The waves before them leap and crash over each other and the white foam races to the sand. One wonders what sort of creature could be born beneath the surface.

Irene pushes up her sleeve to check her watch. “We’ll give it another hour, or if the weather gets much worse. That alright with you, Miss?”

“You’re not being paid to sit warm in your house, Miss,” says Leonie.

Irene glances at her for the required amount of time to result in polite annoyance, then looks back to the sea. “Of course not. But any horse you catch in weather worse than this will be impossible to bridle.”

Leonie stares right back. “Yes, si vous ne rien savez faire de ses dix doigts.”  *

Irene doesn’t reply.

There’s a mumbling to the left of the group, signs of men squinting through the rain to see if they saw true.

“Iasgach, is that- Iasgach! There,” says the boy with the best eyes.

They have bundles of ropes in their arms and bunches of bells, and they sound like an early Christmas celebration. Irene leads them, and Leonie mulishly follows by her side. The wind hits them like bricks, harsh and excited like any storm on Thisby.

“Wait,” says Irene, and her voice is whipped away by the wind before Leonie can disobey.

Disgruntled, she watches as Irene walks towards the horse, and then stops halfway. The men crowd in a distinct group around her, four watching the sea, two others curious and watching Leonie. “Are you unable to do your job?” she drawls with a nasty smile and stares back out to sea.

Irene reaches into her knapsack and pulls out a newspaper wrapped parcel, and drops the paper to the beach. Leonie’s eyes search the coastline, until a wave bows over and reveals the black water behind it. Then the capall stands out, jumping about and shaking off seafoam. There is something off about it, or at least different. It looks like a wraith dragged from the depths, no light to make its white coat shine. An absence in reality.

Its ears perk as Irene unwraps more layers, revealing a bloody cut of beef. Sniffing the air, its eyes finally settle on her. The ocean crests as it starts trotting over, momentarily stealing its image, its coat the same white as the froth in this weather.

Irene starts walking backwards towards them. “Positions,” she yells over the wind, and the men spread out.

Leonie hears one of them swear as the horse picks up the pace to a canter, right shoulder towards Irene, left towards the sea. It seems to be a crucial moment, when they’ll discover where the capall will go. With a decision she can’t catch, the capall veers in, pace teasingly slow compared to what she has heard.

Irene throws a piece of meat to the sand, slowing the capall for a moment and letting her return to the group. Leonie’s heart throbs watching the capall lift its head, red around the lips. She feels like anything would be possible on such a fairy tale.

The capall stops eight metres from them and snorts. No one else moves. The sea, behind, crashes against rocks and itself. The horse seems confident- the sea isn’t as easily defined.

The men slowly -achingly, painfully, slowly- circle it. Leonie stands beside Irene. Her hand tightens around the rope, then relax and unwind it. Her pulse jumps with a flash of lightning, but the surprise doesn’t hit her until she hears a man yell. The capall stands a meter away from him and seeing it this close, the water dripping from its mane, the flexing of its muscles- a deep desire wells from inside her.

A rope is thrown around its neck as it snaps at the man- he dives out of the way to avoid its kick. Two more, from the left and from the right snap with tension as the capall yanks away. A constant ring ring ring from the bells, and the capall’s movements become smaller. The yelling man jumps up from the sand and, as the capall throws its hind legs out, capture one in a rope.

Irene throws a knitted red blanket at Leonie. Knots hang loose from it in rows of threes and twelves, and she yells, “You take the front, I’ll take the back.”

Closing the distance feels, to Leonie, like halfway through a fight- the middle moment when everything is possible and crude and simple, and you’ve never had to think about sophistication.

Leonie catches one glimpse of those startled eyes before she covers them in red, twisting it at the bottom. The sheer strength of it makes her grin. She wraps the blanket around her hand and balances her weight. She’s heard their teeth are twice the length of your finger- a diagram in a book she read across during the ferry detailed which ones were for grabbing and which ones were for tearing. Both performed their jobs exceedingly well. Its head jerks up, and Leonie can feel it’s jaw moving above her hand. “Now, now,” she murmurs. “Sois sage, behave, you little merde*.” Tension still strains through its muscles, but its ears are no longer tight back against its head, and its breathing has slowed to match hers.

She lifts her free hand behind the capall’s ears and massages small circles behind its ears, and she can see Irene working its blanket-covered rump.

Leonie’s hands sting from the cold. She catches Irene’s eye and jerks her head back to the cliffs. In reply, Irene makes a point of securing the blanket with some rope.

When Leonie takes her hand from the capall’s ear it lets out an exhale, one ear twitching to follow the sounds of the men around it. Leonie keeps murmuring lowly as she takes a rope -this one bare of bells- and wraps it around the blanket and its neck. Then she pulls it down over its eyes, and later she’ll learn her grin was manic, but she can’t resist the joy running through her system. Creatures like this seem like myth- creatures like this should be unreachable. She notices that its eyes are more forward facing than other horses. It’s somewhat unsettling to make eye contact with one.

She uses the rope holding the blanket as a lead. She holds her breath as the men relax their ropes slightly, then lets it be stolen by the wind as the capall takes a step forward.

Irene waves a hand signal to the men and walks towards Leonie. The wind carries the scent of beef still back in Irene’s bag, and the capall perks up.

One more step, then as Irene walks back, another. Leonie sees its ears flicker forward before it pulls on the ropes. The men find their purchase in the wet sand, and Irene jumps back. Then, a ring of bells as the capall shakes its head and returns to the previous pace.

“She’s smart, this one,” murmurs Irene. “Decide now if you want to keep her.”

Leonie hums. “It’d be a waste to throw away such a beautiful mare.”

For the first time since meeting her, Irene smiles. “She’ll test you.”

And that just makes Leonie smile all the more.

French Translations:

*si vous ne rien savez faire de ses dix doigts: If you don't know how to use your ten fingers, e.g. if you're an idiot.

*Sois sage...merde: Behave, you little shit.