#thescorpioracesfestival: novelsandknittingneedles

[novelsandknittingneedles]

"he is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me."

the scorpio races

creative challenge no. 1

@thescorpioracesfestival

[novelsandknittingneedles]

a small scorpio races playlist

[novelsandknittingneedles]

a thisby moodboard

@thescorpioracesfestival

[novelsandknittingneedles]

origins challenge: the library of thisby

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

The library in Thisby is far older than any of the island’s inhabitants. The shelves house leatherbound words with spines that crack and pages that drift loose; they hide loose, yellowing pages, sometimes barely legible. The colors on the spines are faded and muted. They contain secrets in archaic languages, and old physician’s diagrams. They hold myths and legends and poems and stories. If there was once a librarian, they must not have been very organized; the books follow their own rules, their own system.Tucked away in a little one-room building just outside of Skarmouth, no one owns the stone hut, but sometimes, when people go in alone, they swear that can hear a soft turning of pages and they can spy a faint light off behind the mahogany shelves.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

Origins Challenge

@thescorpioracesfestival

The History of Thisby, published 1973

By Professor Isaac Farrow

        Arguably the most well known aspect of life on Thisby, the annual Scorpio Races have widely disputed origins. Some scholars argue that the races began around the time that missionaries began arriving on the island. Others believe that it was a contest implemented by a leader of the island as an annual contest in his honor. Most likely, however, is that the races were started by the native inhabitants of the island sometime after the third century, during the time that they still worshipped the old gods. According to a version of a mythological story, the main object of their worship was Miere Gyden, the mare goddess. The stories vary, however most often, the goddess was linked to fate and the sea. One such story is the following:

       “A long time ago, the Mare Goddess lived below the sea. She was the one who created all of the capall, raising them from the ground and shaping them out of clay, blood, and salt. They were numerous and would roam the sea in search of fishing boats. Their legs moved gracefully under the clear, blue glass sea. After many men were taken, though, the people of Thisby began to fear the sea and brought weapons with them onto the waves. The Mare Goddess was enraged; her capall uisce were thirsty for blood.  For the first time, she stepped out of the sea. When the men saw her, they immediately feared her. She had the body of a human, but the head of a mare. Her garments were dark and trailed behind her. She walked slowly and knowingly. When she began to speak, her voice sounded as if she was speaking to them underwater. To the men of the island, she demanded that they honor her every year. The blood of the fallen riders would enter the sea and feed her children, and the tradition would keep their fear of her as a fresh wound in their minds. The goddess then turned and walked back into the sea, and the men watched until her head disappeared under the water. From then on, the races continued year after year, even though the Mare Goddess never returned to Thisby.”

      This story, of course, is simply folklore, but many believe that the tradition does somewhat stem from an annual festival in reverence of their deities. This is highly likely considering the superstitious nature of the people in those areas during the third century.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 7: home and family

rider: olive callahan

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

“Look! A tourist!”

Bea spoke too loudly, pointing her hand, making Olive quickly lean over with a finger over her lips.

“Don’t say that. He might hear.” She looks over at the tourist, her cheeks growing warm. He seems oblivious, and is still walking along the streets of Skarmouth. Bea just laughs, softly, but the sound makes Olive’s heart grow lighter. At noon, the town is the busiest, the shops bustling with people and with tourist and local alike strolling on the sidewalk.

“Can we buy some oranges?” Bea points toward the grocers, “Please?” She clasps her hands together and pouts. Today, she seems even happier than usual.

“You know how expensive they are.” Olive shakes her head,

Bea sighs, “but it’s nearly December. Mum would always make marmalade in the winter.” Their mother’s marmalade was always the best. Every Christmas morning, they would eat marmalade on toast and would sit by the fire. Jane would be curled up with a book, Bea, Olive and their father playing a game sat on the floor, and their mother would draw, making deft pencil movements on old pieces of paper.

“I remember. Maybe we can get some soon,” Olive responds, “just not today.” It’s hard to look at Bea;s disappointed face.

Maybe once the races are over.

Bea crosses her arms and her face makes a pout, but soon she softens her stance.

From the window of the butcher shop, Olive’s eyes catch on James’. He is near the door, and he smiles at the sight of her. The corners of her mouth quirk upwards slightly.  He extends a hand, his fingers splayed out, and waves. She mirrors his movement.

Bea casts Olive a knowing glance, which makes her laugh. She reaches for Bea’s hand and squeezes it, swinging their arms back and forth as they walk.

In the morning, Olive finds Bea sitting at the kitchen table, running her fingers along all of the scratches and pockmarks in the wood. Her hands are fidgeting and she is unusually quiet.

As she hears her sister behind her, she straightens and turns.

“How was training?” The younger girl’s voice is completely lacking its usual, distinct bounce. It sounds dry and weak, as if it will crack at any moment.  

“Fine. How was school?”

Her fingers freeze. Bea waves the question away and interjected saying, “Dad went to the doctor in Skarmouth today.” Her voice is accusatory, as if asking Olive, how could you let this happen?

Olive freezes and asks, “Why?” Her hands are tightly gripped around the handle of her bag, her knuckles pale, skin stretched thin.

“His legs were hurting him. He hasn’t felt well for ages. Haven’t you noticed?” Bea looks incredulous, and Olive can’t meet her eyes. She hadn’t realized, had been too preoccupied with the races. She looks down at her hands before taking a breath and saying, “When will he be back?”

“Early evening at the latest. He didn’t want me to tell you about it, but I think it’s serious this time.”

Their father had had numerous health scares over the years, from dislocated shoulders to influenza. When he had been complaining of aching limbs, she had pushed it aside and though nothing of it.

Bea fixes her hazel eyes on Olive. Her gaze is at once chilling and innocent. “I don’t think you should ride.” Her voice sounds older than she is, and it is soberingly serious.

“I can’t pull out. It’s too late.” Olive can hardly look at her. She tries her best to sound and look apologetic, but her words fall flat and come out empty and emotionless.

“I know,” Bea sighs, “but after Jane? I’m really worried about you.”

Olive can’t help but smile. “It’s not your job to be worried about me. I should be taking care of you.” She reaches out and grasps her sister’s hand, rubbing it with her thumb and looking at her carefully. The degree of seriousness in the girl’s eyes makes Olive stop in her tracks. The past few years had caused the girls to grow up faster than they should have. After their mother left and their sister died, Bea had become almost completely self-sufficient. It was good that she was so level-headed and able to take such good care of herself, however Olive sometimes felt an aching guilt at not having stepped up as a role model, and instead leaving her little sister to mature on her own.

It’s not my fault, Olive thinks, trying to reassure herself. Mum shouldn’t have left.

The words are empty and fall flat.

Bea sighs again and nods faintly, before her eyes return to the lattice of scars on the table. Her fingers worry the surface and fidget, playing with the stem.

“I’ll talk to Dad once he comes home. We’ll work something out.”

Olive looks at her sister carefully, but she doesn’t meet her eyes.

She is sitting with a book in her hands when she hears the telltale sound of keys in the door. Olive rushes to her feet instantly, throwing the book aside on the table. It slides and almost falls onto the floor, but she has already reached the entryway. Dad is wearing a large, fraying sweater, with a coat over it, and long brown pants, but still his nose, ears, and fingers are tinged pink. Other than that, he looks pale, from his grey hair to his pasty skin. Olive had barely noticed how he had aged, but now she sees that he is no longer the man she had known. His legs had weakened and his health was fragile. For years, he had prided himself on the way he was able to ride capaill, but now, Olive looked at him with new eyes and was forced to confront the reality that there was no way this old man would be able to ride a horse, much less a capall.

“How was the doctor?” She blurts it out, too tired to speak tactfully.

He hangs up his  beige coat before answering. “It was fine. It was nothing important.”

He reaches to place his hand on her shoulder, but she recoils.

Positioning her hands on her hips, she insists, raising her voice slightly.

“Was there a diagnosis?”

“You need not worry about that. I’m right as rain.”

Olive’s chest feels tight. “I do need to worry about it. I’m your daughter. Bea is worried and I am too. I can’t very well go off and ride in the races with you ill or worse.”

“Ollie,” he says, “it’s fine. We can worry after the races. Right now, I’m proud of you and I’m not going to let something ruin it.”

“You haven’t called me that in ages,” her voice softens, “It’s important isn’t it?” Her attempts to keep her voice as crack-free as possible are not successful.  She reaches for his weathered hand and takes it.

“Don’t worry. It will all be okay.”

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 8:

Rider: Olive Callahan 

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

Lying on her back, Olive watches the light peeking through the window and reaching the ceiling. Her arms are splayed out on each side of her and she takes deep breaths in and out.

She refuses to look at the photographs on the wall, given to her by her mother. Reminders of what she had to lose in the races.

I have to leave Thisby. What if I never get off this island?

The money from the races would let her travel. Escape. That is, of course, if she won.

What about dad? And Bea?

She had barely even considered her family in her plans. Now, Dad’s sickness was binding her to Thisby.  Bea didn’t want her to leave. She had been hinting at that for weeks.

Olive releases a big breath and rolls over onto her side, closing her eyes and burying her face into her pillow.

In Skarmouth, Olive’s eyes linger for a little bit too long on the tourists. Some are newly arrived from the ferries but others have been on Thisby for a week or two already. Some of them speak foreign languages, but the majority are from the mainland. Her chest feels tight as she thinks of all of those places.

Glasgow, London, she lists. Edinburgh, Cardiff, Oxford.

Those words had become a mantra for her, reminding her that she had to leave. When she had envisioned her triumphant escape from Thisby, she never felt that guilty or ashamed. She never abandoned her struggling family, or ended up missing the island.

Why is this so hard?

She walks away from the docks and walked up the hill into the center of the town. The sun was young in the sky, and few tourists were yet out and about. Instead it was all of the locals, born and raised on Thisby, live and die on Thisby.

Passing by the butcher’s, her eyes land on a short, middle aged man wearing a turtleneck sweater and a huge brown coat. He was plodding across the road. Collin Green, a close friend of Olive’s father.

He seemed to notice her too, and he began walking her direction. He raised his arm in a sort of salute.

“Hello, Mr. Green. How are you?” She raised her hand, mirroring his movement.

“I’m well. Alberta’s a bit under the weather, but soon she’ll be right as rain. How are the races?”

Of  course, she thought, everyone knows about the races. “Very well. I’ve been training a lot.”

He nodded enthusiastically, “What’s your capall’s name?”

“Her name is Morrigan.”

He brightens even more. “Goddess of war, fate, and death. Your father’s, too. That’s a good omen,  I can tell with these sorts of things.”

Mr. Green had always been ludicrously superstitious. When eating, he would be militant with his salt, avoiding spills at all costs. Sometimes, he would point out the color of the sky and list the possible meanings.

“That’s good. I certainly hope so, at least.”

“You know, your father must be so proud. I know him, and I know that he must be so happy.”

“Yeah,” she responds, “I think he is. He’s seemed to always want someone to carry on his legacy.”

“And after Jane! You know, Alberta didn’t even think that he would let you compete after that! That was absolutely horrific.”

Those words stung bitterly. She bit back any harsh comments and kept her smile glued onto her face. “We all miss her dearly, but we have had to move on, I suppose. I think that my participation in the races has given him something else to distract him from her.” Olive was making things up through her teeth, trying to end the conversation as soon as possible.

“Family is nice. My Alberta and I never had any children, but sometimes we wish we could have.”

His voice trails off and grows wistful. “Now, it’s a bit too late. But, it’s fine. I don’t even think of what I would have been like as a father. I’m a wanderer. It could never work. Family just seems to tie you down, doesn’t it? You can’t be a free spirit and a family man, both.”

Olive nods, his words striking a chord, but she feels the desperate urge to prove him wrong about his second statement. After the races, she would leave and she would both be free and be close to her family, wouldn’t she?

“It’s been nice talking with you,” He finishes, “Best of luck in the races.”

“Thank you. I really hope that it goes well.”

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 6: sea wishes

rider: olive callahan

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

Seated in the pews of St. Columbas, Olive felt like a child again. The Callahans were not much of  a churchgoing family, but it still reminded her of the few and far between times that they did go, whenever Mum wanted to escape the dreary house on Sunday. The pews are all hewn out of dark oak wood and are completely covered with scratches, carvings, and markings. Some might even call them a ledger, of all of the people who have stepped under that roof.

As the priest gives his homily-today, it was about the sins that unwitting riders can commit in the races-Bea fidgets and pokes Olive with her pointer finger. She shifts her body and angles her mouth up towards her sister’s ear.

“Why,” she sees Olive’s finger on her lips and softens her voice, “did you make me come here?”

“Because,” she says, copying her mother’s words from years ago, “today is such a dreary day. We should go somewhere.”

Bea’s brow furrows and makes a petulant scowl, “Not to church! Let’s go to Skarmouth together, or even the cliffs!” Her voice has once again reached that level of not-quite-whispering. A woman in the row behind them, wearing a garish floral dress makes a shushing sound.

“I’ll take you to Skarmouth soon, then,” Olive hisses, “but for now, be quiet.”

Bea huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, but Olive knows that she is satisfied with the agreement; otherwise, she would have continued arguing.

A couple pews ahead, she sees her best friend’s head. Asher is sat next to his mother and father, two devout Catholics. They went to the services every week. While she refused to admit it, Olive did miss him, and had come in the hope that he would notice her again. The last time she saw him was on the beach. He was standing in a group of men, talking to them easily and cooly. He had even adopted the same confident, striding gait that they all had. Cruelly, she had considered all of the things that she could tell them about him, that would make them rethink letting him join them. Maybe of the times when he would dress up as a fairy and prance around his family’s farm. Or, when he cried for days after watching his father slaughter a pig. Once those thoughts surfaced, she felt disgusted at herself. He had found his place among them.

When Olive’s thoughts clear, she realizes that the priest had completed his homily and had begun a gospel reading.

“Of those who are sleeping in the Land of Dust, many will awaken, some to everlasting life, some to shame and everlasting disgrace.Those who are wise will shine as brightly as the expanse of the heavens, and those who have instructed many in uprightness, as bright as stars for all eternity.”

The land of the dust, Olive muses. I wonder where Jane is.

The steady rise and fall of the recitation is comforting, the exact same as it had been when Olive was a little girl, still holding her mother’s hand. Mother might not have been religious, but she still would become engrossed in the service and despite Olive’s coaxing, would refuse to leave until it ended. The little girl would tug at her sleeves and whisper, receiving not so much as a glance in return.

Those memories seemed like bliss now, with the races rapidly approaching.

There’s no point in dwelling on it, she reminded herself. Just worry about the races, for now.

She clambered clumsily onto Mor’s back and gently clasped her hands around the capall’s neck in order to steady herself. The creature’s sleek back was still difficult to get used to, and whenever it rocked back and forth, Olive would make a harsh intake of breath and close her eyes. Her legs ached desperately from clutching the capall’s flank so long and her arms were tired from being held around Morrigan’s neck. The races were taking their toll only on her it seemed, because all of the other riders were as confident as ever. Every evening, she would return home, legs purple and blue, to go straight to sleep, barely even pausing to take of her boots. The fatigue had been ever present and she could hardly wait for the races to finally come and bring an end to it all.

Olive held on as her capall sped up, her blood pounding in her ears. The beach was a mess of riders, barreling forward through the air. The sound of hooves hitting the ground pounded in her chest and was all she could hear.

The races were coming, as fast as those capaill.

The thought of racing made her stomach uneasy. That day when she saw the dead man resurfaced. The capall was covered in blood and it was seeping into the sand.

Olive closed her eyes and tugged at Morrigan in a feeble attempt to slow down. Her hair whipped around her face and her nose and lips were bitten by the cold.

The capall began slowing, until Olive and Morrigan were at the back of the pack. Finally, once they were the last, Mor stopped. Olive climbed off, and kneeled on the sand, her body doubled over. One hand was against the capall’s grey side. She took deep, ragged breaths.

One, two, three, four, she counted the breaths slowly, five, six, seven, eight.

She stayed like that, until her heart no longer felt as if it was leaping in her chest.

You’re okay, she reminded herself. Not much longer.

She slowly stood up, leaning on Morrigan to steady herself, brushing the grains of sand off of her knees.

Morrigan’s eyes caught hers. They were large and black and glistened in the winter light. What once scared her about the creatures now was normal, and she reached out a quivering hand and put it between the capall’s ears.

I don’t know if I can do this.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 9: obstacles

rider: olive callahan 

url: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

Olive sat at the kitchen table, holding a warm mug in her hand. Outside the window, the sky was dark and the wind was pulling at the trees. The weather looks as if it will be harsh, and Olive dreads the walk down to the beach for training.

“Are you awake?” Her father walks down the small hallway, leaning against the doorframe to steady himself. He has dark circles beneath his eyes and looks pale. The sight of him like that stings and makes her feel utterly hopeless, like being adrift at sea.

“Yeah,” she nods, “I’m just getting ready for training.”

“I remember when I did that, getting up at the crack of dawn and climbing down onto the beach dragging a capall behind me. What I wouldn’t give to be able to do that again.”

Olive smiles a bit at his reminiscing, “How did Morrigan act around you?”

“She was absolutely brilliant,” he responds. “I almost couldn’t believe that she was a capall and not a real horse. How is she treating you?”

“She,” Olive pauses to think, “is good, but can be a bit flighty. I’ve grown to like her.”

His face brightens and he nods. “That’s great. I had hoped that you would love her like I do.”

“It took me some time, but I think I do,” Olive says.

He looks out the window, “It looks like you should be leaving soon.”

“Yeah,” Olive gulps down some tea, “I need to leave now.”  

She stands up, pushes in the chair, and grabs her bag hanging from the coat rack. Inside, she shoves a rope and a package of bandages, in case of any scrapes. Waving to her father, she walks out of the house.

The chilly fall air is bracing and pulls and whips around her clothing and hair. The gravel path is damp from the dew and the grass and trees nearby are withered and yellowing, their color stolen by the seasons.

Olive walks briskly, her bag swinging at her side. At the bottom of the hill, she passes the tree that she and her sisters would always play in as small children. The sight of the gnarled wood and rough bark reminds her of Jane. The thought is persistent, and refuses to go away, like a stain. Jane loved the fall. She would hide near the cliffs and spy on the racers, and would run around and dance during the festival. Her eyes were at their brightest, and her smile made her narrow face vibrant. Her loss felt to Olive like the way people described phantom limb syndrome. Something was missing, and she felt it and it hurt.

Once she reaches the edge of the cliffs, the wind feels more intense and it pushed against her whole body. As she walks, she ties back her hair and straightens her clothing. On the beach, she stands out. The women in the racces are few; this year, there are no more than four. She sometimes feels stares boring into her back and can feel eyes prickling at her skin. Still, unlike some of the women in previous years, she is lucky; her father’s identity and involvement with the races gives her some degree of immunity.

Already, there are men on the beach. Olive can hear them before she even turns the corner. She surveys the beach, spotting Asher with his new friends. He seems happy, but she can’t help but feel a bit like he abandoned her. She sighs and turns her attention to Morrigan. She runs her hand gently along the capall’s grey neck and she whispers, “Soon, everything will be well.”

Olive repeats those words in a feeble attempt to make herself believe it. Morrigan doesn’t respond or make any movements. A strong gust of wind chill’s Olive’s blood and she pulls her coat tighter around herself.

Why do the races have to be in November, she wonders. Out of all of the months, why November? Why  not June? Do they want us to catch our deaths?

Behind her, she hears sand and rock crunching.

“It’s really cold today, isn’t it?” James is standing there, hands in his pockets, his hair disheveled in the wind.

Olive nods, “Yeah. And the wind is awful, too.”

“Are you excited for the races? They’re only in a few days.” From his expression, Olive can tell that he clearly is.

“Not really. I’m just worried.” She responds honestly.

He laughs. “I understand that. I am excited though, against my better judgement. This is the last real day of training. Actually, if you want, I’m going to go and train tomorrow when the beaches is empty. You could come with Morrigan.” His eyebrows are drawn together and he looks almost nervous.

Olive hates training, but the thought of actually leaving the house and meeting someone makes her feel warm. “I would love to. That will be great.” His face relaxes and the corners of his mouth spread apart widely.

“That’s great. I can’t wait.” He walks backwards waving, and then turns toward his capall.

Olive watches his back retreating. Her mouth twitches into a smile and her heart pounds in her ears. She turns her head towards Morrigan, who is eyeing her almost knowingly. She looks at her for a moment before bursting out laughing, drawing in shallow breaths.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 4: make a friend

rider: Olive Callahan

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

The sun is lowering itself in the sky and the riders are slowly leaving the beach. Some are laughing and joking as they walk, but still, what no one can deny, is that with every day of the races approaching, the danger becomes more and more real. Olive now takes extra care to listen to Bea and to sit with her father in the evenings. As she wraps her rope around Morrigan, she thinks of the previous year. 

Jane, her sister, had rode Mor in the races as well. She was so good around the capaill and they were all certain that she would win. That certainty rapidly shifted into horror as they watched her be knocked from the back of the horse and onto the sand. Olive shakes of the threads of fear and guilt about her sister’s death, that are still clinging to her. Morrigan’s eyes have a bit of a mournful quality to them and it gives Olive goosebumps. Evenings on Thisby are bitterly cold and this one is no different. That’s not all though. Some say the island has a kind of “magick” during the autumn, around the old festival of Samhain. Enchantment, curses, and wishes hung in the atmosphere, they said. They, of course, were the old women of Thisby. Bea always referred to them as “the Crones,” which made their father laugh quickly before gently chastising her about being rude. They all lived in the older part of town and had countless children and grandchildren. No one quite knew how long they had lived on the island, however no one doubted that it had been a very long time, either. Olive wasn’t superstitious, but still, she could not even deny that; on the island, the fall felt different, darker and mystical.

Olive’s fingers gently wind the rope around the capaill, twisting and intertwining threads. She is painstakingly careful with it and holds a steady hand on Morrigan’s flank. Once she finishes, she sees that she is one of only two rider’s left on the beach. It’s James, once again. He is the first rider on the beach and the last to leave, nearly always. Nearly always, he is the first rider on the beach and the last to leave it. She watches him for a moment; his clothes and hair are being tugged at by the wind and he is currently fiddling with ropes and cords. He appears to be having difficulty, as he is bent over and his fingers are pulling at a knot nearly the size of his hand.

“Hello,” Olive calls over to him, beginning to take steps towards his direction. “Do you need any help?”

He looks up and smiles softly when he sees her, and then he nods, handing the ropes to her once she is closer to him. Her hands take the knot and begin to deftly work threads and cords in and out.

“You see, you just need to find the place where this part of the rope begins, and then it’s easy.” She softly speaks while working, and soon the ropes have come apart. She hands them back to him.

“My hands are just clumsy. I’ve never been good at it. My mam once tried to teach me to knit. My attempt was pitiful.” He raises his hands and gives a jovial grin, spreading his fingers wide apart

“You just need to learn, is all.”

“With all due respect, I don’t think that teaching makes any difference. Some people can and others just cannot. Thanks for this so much though,”

“You’re welcome. I just like being helpful.”

“And you definitely were. Are you ready for the races?”

“I suppose I’m as ready as I can be.” Olive shrugs a little bit, and tries to avoid her face betraying her unease at the topic of conversation.

“That’s really all you can hope for though. Being as ready as possible.”

Olive nods and smiles a little bit. He appears to notice and he flashes her a wide grin. He looks at the path up to town and back at her.

“I must be going, but once again, thank you for the help.”

She nods, and waves as he walks up the beach, and his figure retreats from view. She is beginning to see why people think that he will win the races. Still, there can only be one winner, and she knows that it has to be her. She turns back to Morrigan, who looks like a shadow on the dim beach. Olive wonders if the waves were always this loud.

The sea in the evening is tumultuous and a deep blue, that’s almost black. She is wild and strong and her arms batter the shore. She is revered like a queen and is worshipped like a god.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

Scorpio Races book reflection post

@thescorpioracesfestival

I am writing this just after having closed the cover of my slightly beaten copy of the Scorpio Races, having completed reading the book for the second time. This time, I was astonished by how much I had completely forgotten about -- it had only been two years since I first read it - and enjoyed it even more. The details were more clear, and some parts that I had missed became my favorites this time around (The Scorpio Festival, St. Columba’s, Malvern’s tea, among others).

Where to even begin?

I think that my favorite part of the book is those chapters in the middle, with the festival and the rider’s parade. Maggie Stiefvater spent her time their slowly and fascinatingly revealing the old traditions of a group of people. Practices that have been in place for years are vividly described and the writing makes it easy to come up with a whole picture of the scene. I love those chapters.

Another aspect that I definitely appreciated more this time was the dynamic between Puck and those in charge of the races. Repeatedly, she is told that she cannot ride, but she does not listen. Instead, she takes Dove and she wins. That plot is very encouraging, but also I was struck by another part of it. In my mind, Puck was the leader of a new Thisby, but was being held back by the old, traditional Thisby.

Despite the obstacles, she overcomes everything and is able to prove herself and take her place among the riders.

Something else became more clear to me was the extreme character development. This was much more evident to me this time because I had already “met” the characters once. In the beginning of the book, Puck is very nervous and does not know what she is doing, but finds that the stables are where she belongs and ends up gaining confidence on the way. Sean is initially very aloof, standoffish, and brusque, but he softens a bit and starts to be more of himself, and allow himself to have friends and to care about things other than racing.

Whenever I have recommended the Scorpio Races to someone, I have been at loss about what to say in order to describe it. Yes, it’s about carnivorous horses, but it’s far more complex than that, which I struggle to convey. Even after reading it again, I don’t know how I would describe it to someone. It’s just a special book, that doesn’t really fit any categories and I think that it should just stay that way.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 3: your reason

rider: olive callahan 

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

Olive walks briskly up the path towards her home, a brown burlap bag full of groceries cradled in her arms. The house is on top of a small hill, and the grey paint on it is weathered and beginning to peel. It is small, with a roof covered in black shingles and a small, low doorway. She walks in, leaning slightly so that she does not hit her head on the tiny doorframe. Sometimes, her father would joke about how the builder of the house must have been the shortest man on Thisby. She puts the bag onto the wooden table and takes off her boots, shaking the dust off outside.

“Bea?” Olive stands in the kitchen. She smiles as her younger sister pokes her head through the doorway. Her gap-toothed teeth are parted in a smile and her freckles stand out making little patterns on her pale skin.

“Did you go to the market?”

Olive nods and points to the kettle, “Tea?”

Bea nods as she enters the room. “Dad’s coming home soon, right?”

“Yeah, why? It’s still early,” Olive responds, glancing at the setting sun outside her window.

Bea nods, absentmindedly, “I know, it’s just that he hasn’t been home a lot recently.”

Their father sold capaill to the racers. Even though he had won the races many years ago, he had used the money for god-knows-what, and had to continue working. Still, he loves the capaill uisce, and Olive reckons that he wouldn’t leave his job even if he could. When the girls were children, he would take them down to the sea and tell them stories, about the first capaill uisce and the Mare Goddess. They would listen avidly and were fascinated by all of the words that came out of his mouth. Their mother laugh, and sometimes she would joke about how he loved his capaill more than he loved her. Perhaps there was some truth in that, and that was why she left.

“How is training?” Bea leans against her elbows on the table and takes large sips of her tea.

Olive hesitates momentarily, then says, “It’s fine.”

“That’s it?” Bea looks incredulous, “Nothing more happened?”

“Not really, no,” Olive responds, hoping that her sister won’t press for details. Her father would be furious if he found out that she had told Beatrice about the dead man. That would make her fear the capaill, he had said once, when

“Well, do you want to hear about what I did at school yesterday?”

Olive smiles, glad that the topic has changed. She nods and takes a sip of her tea, savoring the feeling of it warming her hands and her bones.

The following morning, Olive walks with Morrigan down to the beach. The weather is less cold than it was the previous day, however in Thisby, that means nothing. It is too early, and the beach is almost empty. The waves are docile, and they quietly and softly flow back and forth. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies another rider descending onto the beach. Next to him is one of the largest capaill Olive has ever seen; it’s hair is mottled shades of brown and its open mouth reveals teeth of astonishing sizes.  He is not tall, but also not particularly short, and once he turns, Olive immediately recognizes him. It is James Henley. His face, with its rounded, boyish features is at odds with his capaill’s. He moves towards her part of the beach and begins tending to his capaill uisce. After a moment, he glances at Olive.

“You’re John Callahan’s daughter, right?”

Olive nods, focused on untangling Morrigan’s lead.

James continues, “He’s the one who sold me Triton.” He gestures to his capaill. “What’s your capaill’s name?”

“Morrigan,” Olive responds, glancing up at him quickly before returning to her work. More and more riders are arriving on the beach for training.

“We’re probably starting training soon. See you around.” He gives her a slight smile before turning away.

Olive returns home tired. In the kitchen, she spots her father at his chair, drinking something from an earthenware mug. When he sees her, he quickly swallows his mouthful of the drink and tells her,

“Your mother just sent a letter. She says she wishes she could be here while you raced, but she can’t take time off from work.”

Olive is slightly stung. She had been hoping that her mother would be able to come at least once this year, but now it was already November and a visit became more and more unlikely.

“That’s fine. We can all be together then.” Olive forces a small smile and pulls out the wooden chair across from him at the table.

“I think that she just doesn’t want to see the races at all, mind you. She won’t even bother to come see her family.” His voice trails off mumbling. “I am very proud of you for entering the races. Following in my footsteps,” he adds.

“Bea is asleep?” Olive nods her head towards her sister’s bedroom, desperate to change the subject. Anything but the races.

“She wanted to wait up for you, but I told her that you would be able to see her in the morning. She did nothing but argue all evening.”

Olive smiled at the thought of her sister, arms crossed, petulantly refusing to sleep. Her father glanced at the clock on the wall, squinting at it slightly.

“I should be off to bed too. Don’t stay up all night.” He clutched his back and mumbled to himself as he stood up. Sometimes, Olive was concerned about him. He was constantly in pain of some kind or other, and he stubbornly resisted visiting a doctor.

“I will. Goodnight.” Olive picked up his mug and put it away for him, smiling until he was out of sight.

She lay on her side, gazing at the wall. It is cluttered with photographs, messily taped up by clumsy fingers. They are images of cities; London, Edinburgh, Dublin, even some as far as Lyon and Calais. They are cut from books and magazines, all sent by Olive’s mother. She feels a peculiar pain in her chest, thinking about those places. It’s a throbbing ache, that always manages to return at the thought of the world. To her, Thisby was the world; it was near impossible to imagine anything lying past it. All of those names of cities, Paris, Venice, Barcelona, Stockholm, Berlin, were just words. There was no image conjured up alongside them. Just vowels and consonants, creating little strings of sounds. Thisby was just so small. All of the people had grown up together, and there was never anything new or exciting. The god-awful smell of the sea was everywhere and the weather was pretty damn horrible, too. Everyday was the same, every year the same. It was unlikely that Thisby had changed that much in the past century, even. All of the moments spent in Skarmouth meant nothing, they were all the same. She had to win the races, win the money, win the opportunity to leave. Olive had spent hours and hours, imagining a different life. Anywhere but Thisby. No matter how much the races repulsed and terrified her, she had to win. She couldn’t stay on Thisby, it would kill her.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

i kind of, sort of, tried to make a snow capall. instead, i have this creature. i hereby apologize to all equine creatures on earth and otherwise.

@thescorpioracesfestival

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 12: reflect

URL: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

rider: olive callahan 

Mornings by the docks chill Olive to her core and make her fingers blush pink. Her breath makes clouds of fog in the air. December swept into Thisby like a gust of wind, with falling snow and freezing temperatures. Beside her, her father and sister are sitting on a bench, watching the ships entering the small stretch of sea in front of them. A gargantuan ferry is perched by the wooden dock, ready to take away the tourists. Olive feels a rush of excitement, as she remembers, not just tourists are leaving this time. 

The ticket she had found had been the cheapest available, to a small city that Olive had never even heard of. As long as it was on the mainland, as far as she thought, there were already more prospects than on the island. The rest of the money would go towards lodging. Her first goal would be to find employment, and then she could find a home of her own. The night before had been a haze of packing, shoving paper after paper into the bag, before finally buttoning it shut and standing back in the doorframe. The walls of her room, formerly hosting her dreams about the mainland, now were blank. The sight felt unusually satisfying, and to Olive, everything felt as if it was buzzing with excitement.

Bea was playing with one of the clasps on her coat. She had been distant, ever since Olive had returned home announcing her departure and bearing a ticket. When she had seen the slip of paper, her face had fallen and she had went still.

Later that night, in a hushed tone so as not to wake Bea, her father had asked her, “Is this really what you want?” Wordlessly, Olive had nodded. Her father looked resigned, but he gently embraced her on his way out of the room.

She watches as the boat is emptied from the cargo it was carrying. The men haul large boxes labeled with black, blockish letters

The day before, she had said goodbye to James. She had seen him in Skarmouth, and stopped him on the street. He was wearing dust-covered clothes, and Olive guessed that he had been riding. For some people, the races never ended.

His smile seemed strained as he said, “Congratulations. Third place. That’s great.”

“Thank you. I didn’t see you after the races. What happened?”

“The accident. Triton got spooked and almost stopped completely. I lost too much time.”

His tone is dry, and Olive can tell that on the tip of his tongue are the words what if.

“That’s awful. I was too far away to see it happen.”

“It’s probably better that way. Even some of the strongest men could barely keep down their breakfast.” He chuckles, but the sound isn’t like his usual laugh; it sounds bitter.

The truth of the matter wasn’t lost on her; she knew that, had Asher not died, she never would have come close to winning the races.

“I’m so glad the races are over. Tomorrow, I’m going to the mainland.” Olive is careful with her words. What if he gets annoyed with me because he didn’t win? She worries to herself and carefully studies his gaze.

“Whoa. So soon. What will you do there?” He looks incredulous, just as many other people in Thisby would. They cannot seem to fathom the possibility of stepping off of the island.

“Hopefully, I’ll find a job and then live there. Once I’m there, I might try to earn enough money to bring my family over,” Olive pauses, “I just can’t see a future for myself here.”

“Oh. Will you be coming back?” He isn’t looking directly in her eyes, but somewhere past her head.

Olive shifts uncomfortably, and then says, “I don’t think so. Sorry.”

“Well, then. I have to go, my mam wants me back by six. Good luck, I suppose.”

A pregnant silence hangs between them for a moment, before they each exchange nods and turn away. All of the possibilities that that quiet had held have dissipated, and Olive has a dreary feeling in her that she won’t see him again.

Loud horns sound from the ferry, a call from the mainland. Already, people were lined up to board, and some were already on the ship. Olive shoulders her bag and stands, turning to her family. Their bearings are hesitant, and Bea’s brow is crinkled in a pout.

She searched in her head for something to say; she was coming up blank The moment was so significant, that anything else she thought of was inconsequential in comparison. “I’ll come back to visit. I promise.”

Her nodded slowly, “You’ve been waiting for this for years. You were like a capall, taken away from the sea. I can’t begrudge you for leaving. I will miss you, though.”

Those words lifted a weight off of her shoulders and made her chest feel lighter. The guilt flew away like a seabird.

“I’ll take good care of Bea. I promise,” he added.

Olive stilled, “What about your health?” Her tone was wary.

“I’m fine, really. I’ll write if anything goes wrong. For now, it’s just old age.”

Those words did little to set her at ease, but she was too excited to argue. “Fine. I’ll send money if you need it.” She turned her gaze to her sister, “Bea? You’re going to be okay without me?”

“Not really, but I’ll manage.”   At those words, Olive swooped down and embraced her sister. Her head was a flurry of what-ifs and worries, but she pushed them away and straightened back up.

“I suppose it’s time to go. See you soon. I’ll write.”

Her father called out a loud “goodbye” as Bea waved madly.

In the time that she had been saying her farewells, the line of people waiting to board had thinned, and she quickly walked past, onto the boat. The air was salty and sticky, clinging to her like wet cloth, and the gulls circling on the beach were as loud as thunder. As she stepped onto the deck of the boat, she felt her heart in her chest, squeezed tight between a fist for so many months, loosen and her lungs open to let her finally breathe.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 11: race day

rider: olive callahan

url: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival​

Olive stands before the mirror on the morning of the race. Her fingers are slowly and intricately braiding her dark hair. The monotony of the twisting movement is comforting and lulls her into a sort of stupor. In between deep breaths, she whispers to herself. Whatever happens, it will be fine and Thisby is a place of the past. Once she reaches the tips of her hair and ties a band around it, she rests her arms at her sides and stares into the mirror. Looking back at herself, she notices the freckles on her now weathered skin, the results of those days in the sun on the beach. Her eyes are tired and dull, and her skin is dry and rough. Olive sighs and runs her fingers over her face, before smoothing her clothing, a sweater and brown trousers, and turning away, towards the picture-covered wall. She takes a close look at the images. Tall, grey, foggy London, with its intricate buildings and monuments. Verdant, beautiful Edinburgh, with castles and trees. Vibrant, festive Dublin, full of garish painted walls and signs. In that moment, she made up her mind; she was going to see the world, or she was going to die trying. Thisby was just a stop along the way to her future.

Olive enters the dimly lit kitchen and turns on the kettle, grabbing an earthenware mug with her other hand. She sits down to a cup of tea, and lets the steam hit her face before taking a sip. The warmth calms her nerves slightly, but not nearly enough. The sun is barely up, and Olive can hear her father’s light snoring in the other room. The races won’t begin for hours, but the time is important in order for her to steel herself. She absentmindedly dangles a hand over the cup, feeling the hot air turn to condensation on her hand. Outside, the wind is blustery and threatening.

All of her qualms about the races have given way to fears about her father, and she just feels tired and drained, like a piece of fabric or a tree, battered by the ocean wind.

Behind her, she hears a door creaking and the sound of her father’s slow, heavy footsteps on the wood. She twists to face him. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

“I slept as well as I always do, What are you doing awake so early?” He moves to the cupboard and removes a mug, without taking his eyes off of her.

“I couldn’t sleep. Today was just far too important.” Olive can feel a little bit of giddiness creeping into her words. Don’t. You don’t like riding. Remember? She thinks.

“I know exactly how you feel. When I raced, I barely slept a wink the night before. Are you excited?”

“I suppose. I’ve been waiting for this for a month.”

Her father chuckles, “Don’t ever wish away time. Everything comes before you even have a chance to look around and realize.”

His voice has a note of sadness, a feeling of loss.

“I won’t. Will you be watching?”

“Of course! My daughter is participating in the Scorpio Races! Who do you think I am?” he jokes.

“I wasn’t sure,” Olive pauses, “When did Mum say she would visit next?”

Her father thought for a second. “I can’t quite remember. When was the last time she came home? Last spring?”

“It was a over a year ago. September.”

He looks surprised and wistful at once, as he responds, “Well, we can do fine without her. You, me, and Bea. We’re a family of our own.” He sipped from his mug, “You know, you look so much like her. Your mother, I mean.”

Olive frowns, picturing her mother. She had always been so focused on everything she had done and wanted that she barely even considered her daughters and husband. Olive now felt disheartened being compared to her, as if her father was subtly insinuating that she, too, was careless like that.

“We should go down to the beach.” Olive abruptly pushed back her chair and gathers her bag.

On the beach, the white autumn sun casts bright streams of light onto the sea and the sand. It is deceptive; there is no warmth present. Many of the riders are already on the beach, buzzing with anticipation of the races. They all wear their rough leather and their dark-colored sweaters, and they blend in with each other. Olive had tried to do so as well, so that she could be mistaken for the others. It worked save for a pale blue ribbon knotted around her wrist, a good luck charm courtesy of Bea. Soon, the remaining riders filter onto the beach, dragging their capaill behind them. Olive glances to her side, at Morrigan’s pale grey head. The capall’s eyes are dark and alert. She puts a hand beside Mor’s ear and leans to whisper, “Thank you. It’s almost over.” Her voice is soft and quavers a bit. The days toiling on the beach had led up to this. She is almost done, but the thought of leaving behind Morrigan, and even James, her newfound friend, made her feel surprisingly disappointed.

The calls to the riders, to mount their capaill echoed, a death knell in the autumn air.

Olive slowly climbs onto Morrigan’s back, and held on tightly to the creature. The capaill racing to the sound of the clamorous gull cries, and the noise and movement on the beach agitated the sand, creating clouds of dirt and silt.

At the front, she can barely make out a piebald blur. He is faster than all of the others, and reached the front within seconds.

Nearer to her, Olive can catch a glimpse of a red-brown capall, belonging to the other rider that James had warned about. The rider is tall and burly, intimidating to Olive. His capall has muscles rippling under taut auburn skin. Olive breathes deeply, whispering little prayers to herself under her breath.

The  fear of death is enough to make even the most cynical believers.

She glances to her sides, trying to recognize any other riders. They all look the same, with grim determination, but she manages to spot a stoic James further in front. Seeing him like that, with his expression devoid of emotion was unsettling, and made Olive think of masks.

Within the mess of riders, Olive surges forward, taking care to think of all of the advice she had given, all of the hours riding on the beach.

She focuses her eyes on a point in front of her, unflinching, not looking at the throng on either side of her. The edge of the beach is gradually into view as, right in front of her, a group of riders erupt into yells.

“He fell!”

Olive’s blood turns to ice, and her body becomes rigid. She keeps her eyes level and refuses to glance down at whoever it was that fell.

Don’t look. It’s almost over, she repeats. Don’t look.

In front of her, as she gains speed, the group of riders in front of her thins, until all she can see are the piebald and another black mare.

Morrigan rocks back and forth as her legs make strides forward and forward. The dark cliffs draw nearer. In Olive’s ears, there is a cacophony of yells and of cries and of hooves landing blows onto the ground. She is near the front, and she tightens her grip on Morrigan. The capaill gains speed, and Olive angles her head up, feeling the wind on her face and stirring the strays hairs near her face, and then she sees the end of the race.

Above, the onlookers are yelling and cheering. The sound shakes her out of her dazed stupor, and she tugs at Morrigan, prompting her to stop. Olive tentatively climbs off and sends a glance up at the people. Their faces are pale ovals and she cannot make out any particular person.

There are only two other riders near her. Third place. It may not have been the best, but it was enough.

Her blood roars in her ears and her legs quiver a bit, standing on the hard ground.

Disoriented, she watches the rest of the riders finish and dismount. Some of them look visibly disappointed at not winning, but most just seem gratified to have finished.

Olive pushes through the crowd and walks along the beach, to the place where the rider fell.

She feels a pain in the pit of her stomach as she sees the hunched people around the body. Without approaching them, she can already tell who they were. She had spent hours at their house as a child. Asher’s mother was wailing over the crumpled, marionette body of her son, and his father stood, a lonely figure against the backdrop of the sea. Olive stands, watching them, too shocked to even move. She turns away, and slowly makes her way back to the commotion on the beach.

[novelsandknittingneedles]

rider challenge 10: weakness

rider: olive callahan 

url: novelsandknittingneedles

@thescorpioracesfestival

“I wasn’t sure that you would come!” James is grinning and waving as Olive clambers down the rocks onto the beach, carefully and slowly leading Morrigan. Beside him, is a huge capall, with menacing teeth lined up like dominoes, that make Olive feel uneasy. Still, his smile is pleasant, and it catches, like a disease.

“Of course I came. I told you I would, didn’t I?” Olive walks closer to him, a cautious hand lingering on Morrigan’s side.

“People don’t always do what they say they will. Anyway, you’re a bit late and I was beginning to doubt that you would grace me with your presence.” His voice was a low but gentle brogue, similar to the way Olive’s father would speak. It made her feel more at home on the cold, barren beach.

“Who do you think are the people to beat in this year’s races?” She restrains herself from adding other than you.

“You know the man with the big capall with the reddish hair? I’m not quite sure of his name, but he’s quite the beast during training. I would watch out for him. Also, the older man with the piebald. That mare could rip even the most savage capall into pieces.”

Olive nods, thinking of the two men. The first, the younger one, had been among Asher’s group of friends. He and his capall had always been at the front. He went so fast that he and his capall were just a red-brown blur on the beach. The other, with the piebald, was a loner. He seemed to keep to himself, and while he was never the fastest, it was no secret that piebalds were wild creatures, capable of killing even the most careful rider.

“What about William, with the black capall?” Olive questions, “I remember him from school. He always talked of how he would be the fastest in the races and how he would win year after year. So far, it looks like that may come true.”

James laughs, “Oh, him? He’s nothing. It’s all a display of strength. Wait until the races. You’ll see. He speaks far too highly of himself.”

Olive wrinkled her brow and looked at him confused. “Why’s that?” She knew William and had seen him riding. He might not have been as fast as the man on the red horse, but he was still quite fast nonetheless.

“I’ve watched boys like him before. They give everything they have in the practices and then are left in the dust once the races come. Many of them have been holding back, only going at half of the speed of what they could go at. It’s a good tactic. Make sure that no one expects anything from you, and then once the races come, show them. Will, though, was going at the fastest speed he possibly could; it was clear. On the day of the races, that won’t be enough.”

Olive makes an oh sound, but James is already preparing Triton for riding. She acknowledges that and does the same with Morrigan, busying herself with the capall. As he climbs onto the creature’s back, she does as well. His graceful, smooth movements are even more evident beside her clumsy movements. Still, she reminds herself, you’re far better than you were.

On the capall, with his hands by Triton’s neck, James grins. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I can be.” Her legs are tight around Morrigan’s flank and she hopes that it isn’t causing any discomfort to the capall.

The two capaill rode side by side, two streaks of grey and brown. James was leaning far forward, his body close to the side of his capall. His eyes are determined, glinting and small, squinting in the wind. While rides, Olive notes that it was hard to tell where the creature ended and the human began. She tried to keep up but he just got further and further ahead.

Is he trying to go that fast to scare me?

A flare of distrust rises in her, but she shook it off, chastising herself.

It’s fine. She insists forcefully, he’s just being nice. Don’t be so nervous.

Olive returns her focus to the riding, taking steady breaths and leaning forward in an attempt to emulate James’ bearing. Morrigan is fast, but she is far behind Triton. Olive’s face feels hot as she thought of losing. She lowered her head and whispered into the capall’s grey ear, please, run. For me. She tentatively puts a gentle hand near the capall’s head, hope and fear surging within her at once. Her body is rigid and the wind pushed against her. She closes her eyes, inhaling and exhaling. Then, her eyes are open, and she is surveying the beach, ignoring the streams of wind hitting her face. With every second, Morrigan’s legs move faster, until James is mere feet away. They continue, a small distance from eachother until the rocky cliffs at the edge of the beach rise into view. On the grey-black crags, a number of sea birds have taken up residence, building nests among the stones and winding shrubs. Their loud cries echo all the way out to the sea.

Has Thisby always been this beautiful?

Olive comes to a halt beside James and slides off of the capall. His hair and clothes are windblown but he is smiling widely and breathing heavily.

“That was amazing. How did you get Morrigan to go that fast?” Behind his eyes, there is a surprised look that makes Olive feel proud.

“We came to an agreement. That’s all.”