The Rider's Fate

Knock, Knock.

I took a breath.

The jangle of bells as I closed the door behind me alerted the girl behind the counter. Nicoletta glanced up from the coffee machine and beamed. The café cap kept her mop of russet hair back away from her face, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. Weaving around the ship-wheel tables, I smiled at all the familiar faces. Mr. O'Toole, daily café visitor and tea addict, raised a heavily calloused palm in my direction.

Tea and scone. A pot of tea. The same old order for the returned builder. In a rough, scratchy voice, he said, "I haven't seen you in ages, Neely."

I smiled fondly at him. "I don't work until Friday, and you never come in on the weekend."

"I go golfing on Saturdays," he defended, waving the newspaper at me. "Besides, Sundays are too busy for me, and I never get my favourite seat."

"You can reserve it," I reminded him patiently, as I did every time he made the same complaint.

"I can?" He frowned, his gaze drifting back to the paper. Sensing that the conversation was over, I moved on to snag my favourite seat in the café. A single table that faced out to the sea. I dropped my bag down and then headed to the counter.

"What are you even doing here on your day off, Neely?" Nicolette began making my usual. "Don't you curse this place like...every day when you're leaving?"

"My car died"—I leaned around the counter to snag the first-aid box—"and it's going to cost me most of my summer savings to pay for it."

Nicolette watched as I disinfected my hands, biting her lip. She had teased me for it before but now usually held her tongue. "Is your mam going to help you pay for it?"

"Doubt it." I scrubbed my hands harder. "She believes in making me pay my way for everything. Makes sense, I guess."

She slid a large, steaming mug of tea across to me. "Didn't she buy Jenna's first car?"

"Jenna doesn't have a job," I defended, red-cheeked.

"So the spawn of Satan doesn't have to lift a pretty finger for anything, but you do?"

"Nicolette..." I stared down at my pale hands, a lump in my throat. "That isn't fair."

"It is fair!" Nicolette flamed.

"I..." I wished that my voice wouldn't turn to wet tissue paper when I tried to argue. "I don't want to talk about this right now.

"Alright." Nicoletta scanned the café quickly before leaning over. "Margaret O'Brien, you know the one who owns the hairdressers, yeah? Well, she said she saw two lads wandering around the village this morning dressed in some kind of leather outfits!"

"Leather?" I winced.

"Yeah, and they're supposed to be quite fine."

I sipped on my tea, the tension seeping from my shoulders at the needed shift in conversation. "Are they here to sweep us away?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."

I rolled my eyes, flashing her a smile as I returned to my table. I set out my things as I usually did in short and measured movements. My sketchbook was my pride and joy, and though I had no hope of ever getting into an art college, that never kept me from smudging my hands with charcoal or staining my hands with paint. I could handle that kind of paint—the kind that I willingly allowed onto my hands.

I brushed the edges of the table and glanced at the already faded nail marks on my wrist. No gangrene. Good.

The bell jingled as it opened to the side of me. I held my mug in one hand, peeled open my sketchpad, and thumbed through past pages of sketches layered upon sketches. They held neatly detailed, dated images of creatures that I knew didn't exist, but I seemed to see all around me. Sharp-eared women who looked like they had stepped from the forests of old or blue-skinned creatures who lounged on the dark rocks at the beach, laughing together with a language that sounded like music. To anyone else, these people looked normal.