Anne McCaffrey
Ring of Fear
1
I don’t know whether it was the June sun’s heat or sheer blinding fury that made me sweat so. Sweat, not the “glow” that ladies are said to show. Like that heavy-handed, brass-haired, buck-toothed society lady on her flashy, hammer headed black horse in the line in front of me, cool in her crisp yellow linen jacket and clinging pipe-stem hopsacking pants. (She must be either bowlegged or calfless.) Could the Sunbury County Fair judges see that the black gelding’s gaits jarred every bone in her body? (How did she keep that smile on her face?) My mare, Phi Bete, had floated so easily through her paces in this Ladies’ Hack Class, and simply hadn’t been noticed. Not with the black pulling stunt after stunt, being “expertly” controlled! (He hadn’t half the wits Phi Bete had.)
It wasn’t fair, I thought bitterly, the sweat dripping down my nose now, my hands swimming in the heavy leather gloves. The white shirt was plastered to my back, because the wool jacket, suitable for winter riding, was the only one I had. (I’d seen Mrs. Flashy-Black in three other outfits so far, and the show was only two days old.) She didn’t need the prize money, and she was taking hay from my horses and peanut butter from me.
Hay bills and Skippy notwithstanding, I had to admit that she was a good rider… even if Phi Bete was the better horse. Certainly as far as confirmation went. Would the judges consider that in the final totaling of points? And Phi Bete’s gaits were as smooth as glass.
The judges signaled all contestants into the center now, and the black cavorted, snorting. Oh, the judges wandered about, appropriately frowning in deep thought. They nodded sagely to each other. I wondered which was the local banker… there always is one asked to officiate if he knows which end of a horse wears the bridle. The thin man with the sad eyes looked like a coroner, but it was the character in the puttees (and he wasn’t ancient enough to have worn them in the First World War, so where did he find them?) who was to be reckoned with. The thin man made a show of considering his verdict, but he finally nodded, and then, of course, the third one-his silvery hair denoted senility, not sense-made the decision unanimous.
Couldn’t they see that the red ribbon of second was going to clash with the sorrel coat of Phi Bete? Not that she cared. But I did. The blue ribbon looked well against the black’s cheek, but the $150 prize money would have looked better in my bank account than second’s $75. Ho-hum, pull the girths in again, Nialla Dunn. You’ve been done in. I grimaced, unappreciative of my own feeble attempts to improve my humor. I managed to turn the grimace into a grin, for the thin judge was congratulating me. It’s very difficult to give the proper picture of good sportsmanship when you’re biting, your lower lip to keep from crying. The rangy gray got the yellow, and the bay had the green fluttering from his bridle.
We winners trotted smartly around, and there was great applause for Mrs. Flashy-Black. I couldn’t help myself. I kept trying to see Dad’s face somewhere in the crowd as I circled. It was silly. But sometimes, I’d see someone whose shoulders also tilted to the right, or the set of a head of curly gray hair, or his way of standing, hip-shot, or a chin jutting in the same belligerent way. But Dad was dead… horribly dead… would I always see the pitchfork swaying, its tines soaked red?
Suddenly a face did stand out from that anonymous mass of mouths and bodiless heads. A short man, in a brilliant blue-ribbon blue body shirt, standing up on the empty end of the bleachers, his legs spread slightly, hands in the slot pockets of his tight black breeches. I’d an impression of delighted amazement, blue eyes, black wavy hair under the white-grass Stetson… and his delight was for my mare! Then we had trotted past.
I was wondering why that one face should catch my attention… probably the color of his shirt… when Phi Bete snorted, tossed her head back at me, and slid to an abrupt halt. I shook my head and realized that the single file had slowed to go out the gate. Phi Bete had her mind on her work, at least. Mrs. Flashy-Black’s friends were complimenting her in droves, crowding around her as she held her horse’s bridle, smiling toothily for her picture. Someone, as Phi Bete and I trotted smartly past her, was stupid enough to approach the black’s rear. Naturally he lashed out, and there were shrieks and oaths and scurryings.
I had to rein in, but I didn’t dismount. It was eminently satisfying to look down on the lesser breeds, gawking and ahing at the exhibits and us Olympian creatures. I could feel safe and superior on Phi Bete’s back.
It was disconcerting enough to have to go back to the stifling reality of G-Barn. I should have expected inferior quarters, of course. An unknown with a two-horse string, a battered trailer and station wagon, no money to grease the fairground steward’s favor for better accommodations. And yet I’d been given D-Barn at first. Did D really sound that much like G?
G-Barn faced south, its T-shape backed against an old granary’s concrete shell. It caught the sun all day long, with nary a tree to shade the sprawling roof. In the back stalls where I’d placed Phi Bete and Orfeo-we had the barn to ourselves-the darkness deceived you into thinking cool.
There were still empty stalls in D-Barn. But once Budnell, the steward, had seen Orfeo, and worse, remembered him… Orfeo couldn’t help that. For one thing, I’d made such a point of unloading him so that his docility would be noted. Noted, yes, but not trusted. I’d even heard the mutter of astonishment when the noble beast followed me, lead-less, his long full tail switching placidly at the June flies, toward the reassigned G-Barn. I’d heard all the tales of Orfeo’s viciousness from the Poiriers, and from astounded hostlers all the way from Florida. The jaws that bit, the claws that snatched-that description applied to the old abused Juggernaut, not to my mild, loving Orfeo.
Well, we were alone, and the small practice ring was right handy to G-Barn. I off-saddled Phi Bete. She was barely damp, though she’d worked hard in that ring for her lousy red. Gratefully I removed my jacket and hard top hat; both were soaked. I pulled my shirt from my pants to let the wind loosen the wet hold on my back. I slipped the bit from Phi Bete’s mouth but left the bridle on, the measly red rayon flapping at her cheek. The bit tinkled pleasantly as I walked her. By the time she was dry, I was somewhat drier myself. Phi Bete drank deeply at the trough, slobbering affectionately down my breeches. Oh, well, I’d have to sponge them anyway before this afternoon, and she was a sweet-tempered dear.
All our horses were good-tempered, because Dad didn’t… I stopped that line of thinking, but it was hard. Hard not to be able to remember him, even after a full year, without bitter, bitter hurt. One day I’d find his murderer. One day I’d make him pay for that death… and the little death in me. Marchmount’s smug face… No, not that memory, too!
“C’mon, useless nuisance,” I said to Phi Bete, and her ears wigwagged at the sound of her name. I jammed the red ribbon in my pocket and gathered up the tack. It was a hot walk in the full sun all the way to the front of the barn, so I led the sorrel to the rear door. As I passed my ancient station wagon, Eurydice sprang alert,, all twenty-pounds of raccoon-marked Maine cat, subsiding with mock incivility. He’d known who was approaching all along.
“Catch any good meeces?” I asked him.
He told me all about his morning’s labors with well-chosen phrases and flirts of his eloquent tail. Then he jumped out of the back of the car on some errand of his own. Nialla Dunn was back in charge. Dice was off duty.
I was looking over my shoulder, amused by the undulating curve of his insolent tail, so that I didn’t even see the man until I crashed into him. Phi Bete’s hooves clattered on the cobbled floor, because she was startled, too. Orfeo’s head came up, ears forward, and he farruped softly before resuming his private meditation.