The Racing Finn

by Lyz Russo

everybody, he had played here as a child, and some years back had his first encounters of the opposite kind here. The track was round, circling a Racing Green on which he had held a free performance once. That had been in the early days, when he’d had to pay friends on the sly to bring other friends, trying to convince them all that his pitch really had improved. These days he was thankful for the pocket money and free beers from Tim.

  Already spectators were gathering for the race, and the betting office was open and serving a queue. The races turned Kilkee into a sudden, temporary metropolis as people arrived from as far as Limerick. Lady Millen, with Finn limping after her battling Sir Donovan’s boots as much as his own toxic stomach, walked straight to the till, ignoring the queue which ignored her right back (it was bad form to complain if nobility jumped the queue, and everyone adored the impetuous teenager in any case), and bet a sizeable sum on her horse and rider. Finn shuddered.

  She took him to her front-row booth and showed him the racetrack. Her eyes strayed to the horses that were being led around the track. “Oh dear.”

  That didn’t sound promising. “What?” asked Finn.

  “That huge stallion there,” she commented and pointed. “Haven’t seen him here before.” Her red eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. “Can’t let that American hoodlum win this! Get to the inside o’ the track and stick there,” she advised, then glanced at him and changed her mind. “Stay on top. Be sure to remember this.”

  It being Kilkee, the Grandstand doubled for all sorts of other purposes, and its top row was actually a platform a metre wide. What had been the idea of this broad isle nobody could really remember, except that the whole town was inordinately proud of its unique stadium. Next to the stairs ran a comparatively shallow ramp, enabling the wheelchair-bound Sir Niall Mont Nifty, the Lady Millen’s father, to pick a seat anywhere on the top of the Grandstand, a vantage point he preferred. Another ramp led down the back of the seating area – the Sir didn’t always stay the whole race, especially if it seemed as though his horse was losing. Which happened regularly whenever he bet on anyone other than the Lady.

  Finn took it in with aching eyes. Today it felt to him as though this wasn’t really his life; he was just a puppet going through it all. The stadium was filling up; all of Kilkee watched this event. The commentator called the jockeys to the starting boxes.

  Finnegan o’ Flanagan climbed precariously onto the Lady’s back, with Lady Millen steadying her horse, quite unnecessarily. The Lady turned a soft brown eye to Finn. “You’re once, twice, three times a Lady…” he crooned at her. The horse liked that.

  “That’s good,” said Lady Millen, “keep singing.”

  Then the doors were flung wide and the horses lunged forward into the din of the cheering multitude of Kilkee. Finn was still battling to get Sir Donovan’s too-small boots into the stirrups; the Lady lunged forward, but when she realized that her rider wasn’t ready, she stopped and turned her head to give him a stern look. Finn managed to finish struggling into the stirrups without losing his position atop the horse. The Lady gave a soft nicker and started down the track, first slowly, then picking up speed, sensing that she would have to teach this new lover of her mistress the very first principles of riding herself. They were by now far behind; but the mare was by now galloping at full stretch, catching up with the others.

  “Break a leg!” yelled Lady Millen after Finn. His stomach lurched. He was clinging to the Lady’s neck, terrified. In the background he could hear the commentator’s voice over the din as a strange musical line, but he could only barely make out what the man was saying.

  The commentator, Gorm McCladdock, was in fact trying to cover his surprise.

  “It seems as though the Lady has recovered from whatever that was – some troubles there at the start – who is the jockey? Gosh, that can’t be – in fact it is! It’s Finnegan o’ Flannagan, last seen yesterday in O’ Hagan’s pub singing ‘Angie’. I didn’t know that Finn rides horses, did you?”

  No, thought Finn, I didn’t know either! What have I let myself in for? I’m so dead.... Free publicity, the musician in him was cheering.

  Clinging on became easier after the first round, after he ran out of screams. The Lady was clearly enjoying the race and going hellishly fast by now, and her mistress was jumping up and down in her booth there, although Finn couldn’t make out what she was yelling at him every time he passed her. Finn was beginning to relax. Perhaps the stories about the Lady being all that wild, were a bit overblown.

  They had left most horses behind, and the only contestant for the first prize was now that huge black stallion of the American. Finn urged the Lady on, singing “there’s a hero” into her ears. It was better than screaming. The two horses were nose to nose now, with the American whipping and spurning his poor stallion to greater speed. All Finnegan did, was sing.

  And then he made a lethal mistake and burped. The Lady’s ears flattened. Her nostrils quivered. She didn’t like what she heard and smelled there. It scared her. In an instant she had forgotten that her rider was actually her new friend, and prime instinct took over. She bucked.

  Finn clung. It didn’t matter about winning now; it mattered about staying on top. It was good that his legs were so long. It made clinging easier. The Lady panicked and bolted. She had been running swiftly, elegantly before the dread noise; now she was stampeding. She flew past the American like a bullet, ran the round of the course and came up to the horses from behind. Several followed their herd instinct and panicked with her. Over the pounding hooves and the roaring of his own blood in his ears, Finnegan heard the commentator’s voice jabber on.

  “…AND it looks as though Finnegan on the Lady is in the lead… the Lady is leading… Jono Cartwright on Stardust hard on her heels – oy, what’s happening there? Here comes Sean on Little Wing, it looks as though he has trouble controlling his horse… Lady still in the lead… what’s going on there? Jono Cartwright has jumped off Stardust! Into the Grandstand, there’s someone rushing to help him… There’s Eamus going flying – Nasturtium has thrown him off, ladies… paramedic Kerin Kilkenny is on the job, helping him off the track – oy, close one there for her… there’s Keagan, jumping too… what are they doing? This is a race, not show jumping!”

  The Lady passed the winning pole for the eight time. She had technically won the race twice by now and was in no mood yet for slowing down.

  “There goes Brian, thrown by his mare Eagle’s Eye… hey! The Lady is leading the herd to the ramp! I would advise everyone who is in their way...”

  Spectators splashed out of the way to all sides as the Lady thundered up the broad wooden ramp, leading the entire stampeding herd behind her. In the fog of her primeval brain only one thing registered right now, like a red flashing alarm. She was trapped, and that predator was still clinging on! Where was the way out? Onlookers cleared the Grandstand in ripples and poured into the deserted race track. The race thundered along the broad wooden walkway on the top of the Grandstand. Finn clung on, eyes shut tightly, hanging desperately onto the horse, his sanity and his stomach contents.

  The Lady completed the round of the Grandstand when a whiff of something caught her nostrils. She glanced in the direction of the white crests on green waves, clearly visible from up here. The Sea! Water! Rolling in the water ought to dislodge this tenacious predator. She stormed down the ramp, hooves clattering like fireworks on the wood, and led the whole mindless herd in the direction of the beach, followed by a noisy crowd of screaming human monkeys. Sea sand whipped up under her hooves, and then beautiful cold saltwater splashed and sprayed as she bolted into the surf with the herd around her. She attempted to roll, got out of her depth, a wave unbalanced her… when she had struggled back to her feet, the water had washed all the stampeding out of her and she was once again the Lady. And the Lady knew one thing: She had abandoned a race she was supposed to win. Without the slightest heed to
her coughing and choking human burden she turned about and headed back up the beach, intent on returning to the track.

  And then a small, authoritative figure stepped right into her way and held up a hand.

  “Brr!”

  *

  The fog lifted from the Lady’s brain. There, like a sunbeam, stood her mistress, her blood sister. She halted and nuzzled Lady Millen’s hand in a rush of affection. The stampeding herd milled to a halt around them as the remaining riders brought their confused horses under control.

  “You silly girl,” smiled Lady Millen, then turned to Finnegan. “What the hell were you doing, Finn? You’ve frightened the Lady out o’ her wits!”

  Finn fell off the horse like a brick. He lay in the sand like an odd piece of driftwood, his mind about the same, his face fixed into an idiotic smile. Lady Millen hugged the head of her horse. “Are you alive, sweetie?” she whispered at the mare.

  “Did we win?” asked Finn just before he passed out.

  *

  To Lady Millen’s credit it has to be added that she did fuss over him quite a bit, after she finished fussing over her horse. For weeks afterwards the commentator was still sucking liquorice bonbons in a futile attempt to get his voice