Sundry Efforts
TRACY'S RIDE
by Frank Swales
A short story, Word Count = 1174
"Giddup, Streak. Come on, boy."
Tracy dug her heels into the pony's flanks and he quickened pace, fighting the pull of the wet sand on his hoofs. She'd ridden him at only a light trot along the beach from the old Hartlepool pier, but now the amusement arcades of Seaton were in sight and she wanted some speed out of the little piebald. She didn't get it; a racer he wasn't.
"Oh, come on, Streak," the teenager yelled, "I can walk faster."
She looked back over her shoulder. He was getting closer: that strange dark figure crouched low over the neck of the black stallion, urging it on faster and faster. A minute ago he had been a speck far behind her as he skirted the concrete ridge of the outfall sewer and trailed Streak's hoofprints along the shoreline. Now barely fifty yards separated the riders. If it was a race he was after it was no contest; Tracy didn't even try.
She could hear the stallion's splashing thuds in the wet sand over her pony's leisurely plodding, and she felt his steaming breath as he came alongside, then was awash in his slipstream with clumps of clotted sand in her face from his flailing hoofs and he was way in front, thundering along the beach and getting smaller and smaller.
Tracy sighed and slowed Streak to a walk. Now that's a horse, she thought. Not a reject from the knacker's yard.
"I'm sorry, boy," she murmured, patting her pony's neck. "I didn't mean it, really. It's just that everything I have is second hand and second class. I have nothing stylish, nothing top drawer."
She gazed longingly at the black stallion; it reared in silhouette against the afternoon sky as his rider paused atop the slag wall that reached into the bay from the sand dunes.
"Nothing exciting ever happens to me -- nothing like that."
When Tracy finally reached the slag wall she found the stallion on the beach below it, pawing at the sand and nuzzling into his rider's hands. She was surprised to see that the man in black was hardly a man, but a youth not much older that herself.
"Hi," she said as she dismounted. "He's a beautiful horse."
"Thank you, mistress. And your mount is...is a sturdy animal."
Tracy laughed. "Enough said."
She gave the boy the once over; his black knee-length cloak, white silk cravat and leather riding boots seemed a bit over the top for Hartlepool in the nineties. His clothing contrasted starkly with her own crimson sweater, faded jeans and scuffed trainers.
"Well, you're a bit late for the new romantic look. Or are you going to a fancy dress do?"
He smiled. "I have an assignation."
She shot him a puzzled glance. "Pardon me?"
"I'm waiting...for a friend."
"Oh. Way out here? Must be a secret, huh?"
He smiled again and touched the side of his nose.
"Don't worry," she said. "I won't tell anyone. Hope she's worth it."
"Oh, she is indeed." His dark eyes twinkled mischievously as he stroked the stallion's wild mane. "A most captivating woman. She has fair stolen my heart, mistress."
Tracy's eyebrows met in a frown. There was something not quite right here. His accent was strange, like nothing she'd heard in Hartlepool, and his phrases -- well, catch any of her gang talking like that!
"Do you come out here a lot?" she asked.
"I have been here many times," he replied, his eyes clouding. "I come, and I wait...and then --."
His face contorted in anguish and he backed away from her, bumping into his horse. The stallion snorted and reared up skittishly, but calmed down when the youth grabbed the reins and spoke to him, stroking his neck and blowing softly into his ear.
"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Tracy said as she climbed back into the saddle.
"Good day to you, mistress," the youth said, forcing a weak smile and doffing an imaginary hat. "We may meet again?"
"Sure. See ya." Tracy glanced wistfully at the powerful black stallion as he pranced, head bobbing, at his master's side. "Bye, big boy." She dug in her heels and Streak headed off at a walk back down the beach towards the amusement arcades.
The boy watched her for a hundred yards or so, then he turned his face to his mount. "A pleasant diversion," he said softly, "but now it starts."
He swung up into the saddle and the horse climbed up the slope onto the slag wall to stand facing inland on the rough screed. The youth knew that he wouldn't have long to wait; it always happened the same way.
He sat up straight in the saddle and peered across the dunes. Yes, there she was, blue cape flowing and petticoats snagging as she ran, getting nearer and nearer to him. And just behind her and gaining, the bulky figure in that same olive green frock coat and tricorn hat and brandishing that ugly twin-barrelled pistol.
"Run, Beth, run!" the youth shouted. But he knew he could do nothing to help her, just as he had done nothing on that first night, so long ago.
Olive green merged into blue as the brawny pursuer caught and grappled with the young girl.
"You're going nowhere, my lass."
"Father, let go. You're hurting me!"
And now the boy found his voice, just as he knew he would. "Let her go, sir. You can't stop us."
The man glared up at this arrogant boy astride the black stallion. "Can't I?" He took careful aim and fired both barrels.
The youth felt the pain in his chest, as he had done so many times before, and he knew as he yanked back on the reins that his horse would rear in terror and bolt; not into the dunes or onto the beach, but along the slag wall. He would gallop blindly to the end of the screed and keep going, sailing through the air in a graceful arc until they both hit the sea. But by then the boy would be dead.
Murdered again, as he had been on every anniversary since that first time over two hundred years before.
But this time there had been a change: he had met someone new....
Down the beach Tracy sat loosely in the saddle as Streak plodded over the wet sand in the direction of the old wooden pier. She thought about the strange boy she had met at the slag wall, and wondered if she would see him again. It was rather romantic in a way, she mused, if you were into that kind of thing. The lone figure on his big black stallion, waiting out on the dunes for his girl. Yes, quite romantic, wasn't it? But not something that should happen today...I mean, the gang would laugh at you, wouldn't they?
She sighed. That's what was wrong with her life: nothing exciting ever happened to her.
The End
© Frank Swales
