Galway Bay (10 page)

“I wonder, will Mr. Lynch put a wager on Champion?” Michael said.

“Only if he can bet on credit,” I said.

I looked at the oval track set out in the park. Good green grass, fresh from yesterday’s rain. Clear today—a cloudless warm July afternoon.

“Owen Mulloy got it right,” Michael said. “See? The gates, the walls, the piles of brush stuck out here in the park are just like his pasture.”

“Where is he, Michael?” I said. Owen had disappeared somewhere. “Drink’s being sold all over the place. Would he, I mean, is he the type to—”

“Easy, Honora. Look, there’s Owen.”

Owen was talking to some dodgy-looking lads. He hurried over to us. “Got the word,” he said, “from the boys who set up the course. As close to the horse’s mouth as you can get.” He waited for us to laugh. We did. “Now, Michael, go to the right on the first jump, the wall; then dead center on the second, the gate; take Champion away to the left over the bushes and bring her slightly right of center on walls three and four.”

“But you said Strongbow would be crashing and colliding with the other horses,” I started. “How can Michael aim Champion—”

Mulloy held up his hand to stop me talking. No mere woman should point out his in-con-sis-ten-cies. Michael winked at me.

“Michael, remember, strat-e-gy!” Owen Mulloy said.

Michael mounted Champion. While the other riders wore jackets and top hats, Michael was in a frieze coat and bareheaded. But none of them were a patch on him for looks or ease on horseback. My gallant hero on his great red steed smiled down at me, those blue, blue eyes so steady and sure, his black hair shining in the sun.

Mr. Lynch walked over to us. “Magnificent animal,” he said, patting Champion.

“Well, the girl is,” said a voice, “in spite of the hanging red petticoat.”

I turned to see a fat, red-faced man in a shiny top hat, black coat, pants, and boots. He was pointing at me.

“Good morning, Pyke,” Mr. Lynch said.

Is this Satan walking up to us? I wondered. I ducked to the other side of Champion.

“Don’t go, girl,” Pyke said.

Michael heard Pyke call to me and started to dismount, but Owen Mulloy gestured for him to stay put and began talking to Pyke.

“Don’t her lines, the horse’s, put you in mind of the mare Her Ladyship brought with her from England?” he asked.

“I see no resemblance whatsoever,” Pyke said, looking at Champion.

I slipped away into the crowd.

Major George Scoundrel Pyke, in the flesh. I spat on the ground as Granny did when evil appeared in any form.

I saw Owen guide Michael and Champion to the starting area, then found Da, my brothers, and Owen’s neighbors standing on the far edge of the course.

“I never thought I’d be at the Galway Races watching my own horse run,” Da said. “An O’Cadhla today, Lord of Connemara.”

Owen rushed up to us.

“Is meeting Major Pyke an ill omen?” I asked Mulloy.

“Not at all,” he said. “Look your enemy in the eye. Sorry about the old goat’s remarks. I would have taken him up on it, but I thought Mr. Lynch would speak for you, him being in with the priests and all.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Speak of their holinesses, here’s Father Gilley, a great sportsman,” Owen said. “Good morning, Father.” Owen pulled off his hat, as did Da, my brothers, and the other men.

I half curtsied when the priest approached us.

Father Gilley nodded—not on horseback, but still above us.

“Not suggesting you’re a betting man, Your Holiness,” said Mulloy, “but if you have any friend so inclined, a bit on the horse named Champion would be very ad-van-ta-ge-ous.”

“Thank you, uhm . . .”

“Mulloy, sir. Owen Mulloy.”

“A parishioner?”

“I am that, sir.” Owen lifted his hat even higher, and I bent a little lower as Father Gilley walked away.

“Have to lay the respect on thick with that one, Honora. We might need him if Mr. Lynch tries to wiggle out of our agreement when Champion wins.”

“You’re confident, Mulloy,” Da said.

“I am. And glad to get a word or two with the priest—get him on our side.”

“Granny says soft words butter no turnips,” I said.

“Jesus, I hope that’s not true or the strategy of a lifetime’s destroyed. I find the gentry, agents, and priests very open to flattery and nothing too ham-fisted for them. I guess they have such a high opinion of themselves, it blinds them to . . . Oh, they’re lining up! Say your prayers, girl!”

Praying, I was. Good St. Bridget, Enda, Patrick, Mac Dara, and you, of course, Our Lady, and Our Lord, too, plus Lugh, Queen Maeve, Macha—and anyone else with a bit of power—hear me. . . . Let Champion win! If she loses . . . I can’t think about that.

I had my eyes tight closed when they started, but the sound of ten horses hitting the ground and Owen Mulloy’s yelp told me they were off. I heard Da and my brothers roaring.

“Champion Abu!” Dennis shouted.

“Jesus Christ, didn’t Michael hear a word I said?” asked Mulloy.

“But, Owen, he’s first, he’s leading!”

“And here comes that bollocks Strongbow. Look at the way the Major’s bollocks of a son, Captain Robert, is riding him! He’ll foul Michael just for badness!”

The big ugly dun-colored horse jumped the first wall and started after Champion. Only a few yards before the next gate. . . .

“When he catches her, he’ll kill her!” Mulloy said.

Michael leaned forward on Champion’s neck and she sped up, gathered herself, and jumped the gate, landing easy on the grass.

“Is that the right place for that jump, Mr. Mulloy? Left, center, or—”

“Who gives a fiddler’s fart!” he said. “Go on! Go on, Michael! Come on, Champion, you red banshee! Run!”

Now we were all jumping up and down and screaming—Da, the boys, the fishermen, the farmers, the Claddagh women.

“Curadh, Curadh! Run, run, run!” I shouted.

The other riders let Strongbow and Champion set the pace, waiting for Strongbow to attack our filly, knock her and himself out of the race, leave the field to them.

At the turn, Captain Pyke pulled Strongbow to the right. The horse surged ahead, hitting Champion in the hindquarters.

“Foul!” Mulloy shouted toward the stewards. “Foul, you blind bastards! Did you not see that?”

The push from Strongbow put Champion off her stride, and she faltered and pitched forward. . . .

I closed my eyes. Don’t let her fall!

“She’s steadied herself!” Mulloy said. “Good on you! Good girl! Now pull away from that ignorant guilpín and the horse he’s riding!”

She did. As if thinking, Let’s get this over with, Champion flew over the last two jumps and crossed the finish line—first.

“She won, she won! Champion’s won!” Mulloy yelled.

Da hugged me and then pumped Mulloy’s hand.

“Hoo-ray, hoo-ray, hoo-ray!” Dennis and Joseph shouted.

“Thank you, Saint Bridget,” I said, “and all of you up there! Thank you!”

Owen Mulloy insisted Father Gilley come for the prize giving and convinced Mr. Lynch—by wrapping a string of “Your Honors” around every word—to let Father Gilley divide the money between Michael and Mr. Lynch, with one sovereign going to the poor of the parish.

“Which we aren’t,” Michael whispered to me.

And Mr. Lynch agreed. Twelve sovereigns to Michael, twelve for himself, and one for Father Gilley.

Da and the boys, with Johnny and the other Bearna men, went off to collect the sixty shillings they’d won on their bet—a good sum, even when shared among so many.

I saw old Major Pyke laying into his son something awful and Strongbow, huffing and puffing, welts rising on his hide from being whipped.

“You rode a great race, Michael,” Owen said. “Did just what I used to do, got in front of the feckers and let the devil take the hindmost!”

“Mr. Mulloy, what about the strat-e-gy?” I said.

“Not much good in the heat of battle.”

Da had come up beside me, with Johnny, my brothers, and Owen’s neighbors, all congratulating Champion, who neighed and whinnied. A grand celebration.

The Scoundrel Pykes looked over at us.

“You’ve made enemies there, Michael,” Da said. “I’d stay clear of them.”

“No need to see them again. Champion’s first and last race. Owen and I plan to breed her. We’ll train and sell the foals.”

Da nodded.

Dennis and Joseph and Johnny crowded close to look at the pile of coins in Michael’s two hands.

“Handy money,” said Da. “Never saw so much.”

“Now then, Owen, take seven of these,” Michael said. “One for your fee and six for a year’s rent of Askeeboy and the surrounds.”

“Askeeboy? Are you sure?”

“Is that a fair rent?”

“More than fair. The agent will be only too delighted. And no need to tell him your name. The Scoundrel Pykes will never know they have a new tenant.”

“And we’ll share the pastureland?” said Michael.

“It will be an honor to have Champion eat my grass.”

“She’ll be grazing with her foal soon,” Michael said.

“A great partnership, Michael! And you, too, Honora Keeley soon-to-be Kelly.”

I looked at Da.

“Mr. Keeley hasn’t consented yet, Owen. He’s known me only a month,” Michael said.

“Mr. Keeley,” Owen said, “I’ve been judging bloodlines my whole life as my father did before me, and this boy’s bred from good stock.”

Da said nothing, but he patted Champion and smiled at me.

“I wish you God’s blessing in Askeeboy, Michael Kelly,” Owen said.

“Knocnacuradh,” I said.

“What?” Mulloy said.

“The Hill of the Champions,” I said.

“Knoc-na-cur-adh,” Michael repeated, using the long Irish “ah.” “And the best place to watch the sun go down on Galway Bay,” he said.

“It is that, whatever you call it,” said Owen Mulloy.

Michael set me in front of him on Champion’s back, and Da made no objection. We were the happiest people in Ireland, singing and laughing, Da walking with Owen and his neighbors, Dennis and Joseph and Johnny going ahead, shouting, “Faugh-a-Ballagh! Clear the Way!”

We circled above Galway City and crossed the river at Menlough. Many a man would have headed straight for the pubs in Galway City and sent the rest of us on our way. But Owen wanted to gather his wife and children and the neighbors’ families for the celebration in Bearna that had surely begun.

“We’ll pass the land Michael will take over,” Owen said.

“Askeeboy?” Da said.

“Knocnacuradh,” I said.

Owen Mulloy was standing in for Michael’s own father—making the marriage contract. Da couldn’t refuse. Michael had actual money—gold coins, got legitimately with the Honorable Marcus Lynch’s support. We need never see the Pykes again. And as for Patrick Kelly, ná habair tada—whatever you say, say nothing. What Da didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Though late evening, the sun was still high in the sky when we reached Owen’s clachán.

“Look, sir, you can see the Bay,” Michael said. “We’re up so high, Honora could come down and warn you if clouds are gathering.”

Da turned and stomped away.

“What did I say?” Michael asked.

“Till the land,” Johnny Leahy said. “Play your pipes, ride that red banshee horse, but never pass a remark about the weather to John Keeley. It’s unlucky.”

I caught up with Da. “He’ll learn, Da, he will. Here . . .” I took his hand. “Look here, Da—a fairy fort. Granny would like that. Owen Mulloy said there was an ancient stronghold here—the Ráth of Ún. Gives the whole parish its name, Rahoon. Surely that means it’s a lucky place.”

Da walked over to the raised circle of ground. He likes to think of the times when the old Irish ruled the whole place—the O’Cadhlas, Lords of Connemara. Great people once.

“And here, Da, a holy well.” I showed him a deep hole in the hollow of the hill, with a low stone wall around it. “Saint James’ well.”

“My grandfather was James,” Da said.

“And there’ll be a baby James living up here if you’ll please say we can marry. Da, I love Michael so much and he’s a fine, honorable man. He prays and doesn’t drink, well, not all that much, and—”

“Enough, Honora. You may marry, but tell your husband never, ever to make a remark about the weather or speak to me of a rabbit or fox.”

“He won’t! Thank you, Da! Thank you!”

Whole townlands came out to cheer us as we followed the Ballymoneen Road down from the hills to the coast road and into Bearna. Word had spread—one of our own had won the Galway Races. People from Rusheen, Shanballyduff, Cappagh, Derryloney, Truskey East and Truskey West, Ballybeg, Lachlea, and Corboly stood in the summer dusk and called out to us. “Is it Red Hugh and the Wild Geese come to free us?” I heard. Many shouted, “Faugh-a-Ballagh!” and, “Remember Fontenoy!”—the Irish Brigade’s victory cries.

Riding in front of Michael on Champion, his arms circling me, his hands on the reins, I felt like the queen of a conquering army, waving at her liberated subjects. Centuries of tugging the forelock forgotten. A great people altogether. Victory.

At the hooley in our cottage that night, our Bearna neighbors met the people from Askeeboy/Rahoon. Owen’s wife, Katie Mulloy, had brought some early potatoes, freshly dug, for Mam to cook.

Katie was a comfortable woman with light brown hair and dark eyes, five years younger than Owen, she said, with two boys—Joe, six, and John Michael, four—and a two-year-old daughter, Annie.

I liked how she smiled at Owen as he explained to a circle of fishermen that their townland’s official name was Rahoon and the parish was called Rahoon. “Which leads to a bit of ob-fus-ca-tion, which is no bad thing. Those we want to find us do.”

“He was taught by one of those Latin-type hedge schoolmasters and fell in love with big words,” Katie whispered to me as we worked together, mashing the bit of butter from the Dwyers’ cow, the last one in the townland, Katie said.

“What’s that you’re saying, Katie?” a little gingery-haired woman behind us asked. “Couldn’t hear.”

“I said, ‘Isn’t this lovely for fisher people and farmers to get together,’” Katie said.

“Squashed together, I’d say.” The woman put a hand on Granny’s spinning wheel and began to turn it. Granny saw her, stepped over, and stopped the wheel. The woman shrugged and walked away.