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Authors: Niall Williams
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horse-boy, would ride the white pony bareback on the horseshoe bay of Kilkee in Corca Baiscinn, how he would cling
to the mane and slice the air on his way to victory. The women had rocked in their places on the ground, swaying softly backward
and forward to the words of their men as white ponies ran across their minds and won the fortunes that would make easy the
winter. By the low burning of the end of the fire they had lain down to love in blankets that smelled of smoke and horses,
caressing each other’s thighs as though they were the glistening flanks of the steeds of victory. Then, in the morning, the
world spoke to them. Mario fell ill during the night. He ran a fever and could not get up from his bed. His breathing was
thin with a disease they did not know. The diphtheria made histhroat narrow as though a leather thong were wedged inside it. His eyes watered a yellowy mucus. The gypsy women had gone
out and gathered the flowers of the hollyhock and leaves of coltsfoot and made him a tea. They had made a poultice and placed
it on Mario’s throat and sat in the dead air of the caravan. They sung softly as was their custom, a singing that was neither
song nor hymn but a wordless prayer that belonged to their own great-great-grandmothers. It was the low music of despair and
sounded out from that caravan to the rest of them with the dread knowledge that the boy was dying. The women sang on through
the night and watched the dim light of the boy’s life flicker around beneath the canvas. When, near daybreak, the light slipped
away, the boy was dead. The women stopped singing. The hush travelled out across the camp and the men spilled their drinks
into the fire. They sat with stones of silence hanging from their necks. On the long rope that linked them, the horses neighed
and beat the muddy ground and twisted their necks about as if to see one who had passed. When the light had come up enough
to force the men to see each other’s faces, they moved away. They suffered a double grief, for beyond the ordinary loss the
boy had been their talisman. They felt the guilt of those who imagine they have tempted fate by dreaming too hopefully of
the future; it was as though they had brought the illness upon him through the outrageous good fortune of their dreams. Four
days later, three more of the gypsy boys had died. The low singing sounded each night then, and the gypsies wondered if they
had ridden into a valley of bad spirits. When the fourth boy died, Elihah announced they must leave there. They marked the
place by scorching the ground so that others might know it was the site of death; then, fearing the disease would not leave
them but would chase their vanity, they had released the white pony.
No more of them had died. They had journeyed onward towards the races with no rider and no pony and no intention of entering
the sports. They had gone there rather as a form of purgation, as though they bore witness to something larger than themselves,
and the final act required of them was to watch the races Mario should have won.
Ahead of them the winter grew teeth. They felt it bite already in the cold rains that fell out of October. By the time they
had arrived on the borders of Clare, they were bedraggled and weak.
Then, the previous evening, when they were camped near theShannon River, the white pony had returned and brought with it three riderless horses.
The old man, Elihah, was asked if they were to fear them. Was it a portent of further deaths? they asked him. The storm was
already moving in the sky. The wind whistled. The birds flew back into the trees. The old man said only the universe could
answer. He said they should ask it and wait. He said death was not easily outrun.
Then the rain began. The skies fell in sheets. When the lightning crashed in the hour near dawn, the gypsies came from their
beds and watched it like the ending of the world. The horses’ eyes
to the mane and slice the air on his way to victory. The women had rocked in their places on the ground, swaying softly backward
and forward to the words of their men as white ponies ran across their minds and won the fortunes that would make easy the
winter. By the low burning of the end of the fire they had lain down to love in blankets that smelled of smoke and horses,
caressing each other’s thighs as though they were the glistening flanks of the steeds of victory. Then, in the morning, the
world spoke to them. Mario fell ill during the night. He ran a fever and could not get up from his bed. His breathing was
thin with a disease they did not know. The diphtheria made histhroat narrow as though a leather thong were wedged inside it. His eyes watered a yellowy mucus. The gypsy women had gone
out and gathered the flowers of the hollyhock and leaves of coltsfoot and made him a tea. They had made a poultice and placed
it on Mario’s throat and sat in the dead air of the caravan. They sung softly as was their custom, a singing that was neither
song nor hymn but a wordless prayer that belonged to their own great-great-grandmothers. It was the low music of despair and
sounded out from that caravan to the rest of them with the dread knowledge that the boy was dying. The women sang on through
the night and watched the dim light of the boy’s life flicker around beneath the canvas. When, near daybreak, the light slipped
away, the boy was dead. The women stopped singing. The hush travelled out across the camp and the men spilled their drinks
into the fire. They sat with stones of silence hanging from their necks. On the long rope that linked them, the horses neighed
and beat the muddy ground and twisted their necks about as if to see one who had passed. When the light had come up enough
to force the men to see each other’s faces, they moved away. They suffered a double grief, for beyond the ordinary loss the
boy had been their talisman. They felt the guilt of those who imagine they have tempted fate by dreaming too hopefully of
the future; it was as though they had brought the illness upon him through the outrageous good fortune of their dreams. Four
days later, three more of the gypsy boys had died. The low singing sounded each night then, and the gypsies wondered if they
had ridden into a valley of bad spirits. When the fourth boy died, Elihah announced they must leave there. They marked the
place by scorching the ground so that others might know it was the site of death; then, fearing the disease would not leave
them but would chase their vanity, they had released the white pony.
No more of them had died. They had journeyed onward towards the races with no rider and no pony and no intention of entering
the sports. They had gone there rather as a form of purgation, as though they bore witness to something larger than themselves,
and the final act required of them was to watch the races Mario should have won.
Ahead of them the winter grew teeth. They felt it bite already in the cold rains that fell out of October. By the time they
had arrived on the borders of Clare, they were bedraggled and weak.
Then, the previous evening, when they were camped near theShannon River, the white pony had returned and brought with it three riderless horses.
The old man, Elihah, was asked if they were to fear them. Was it a portent of further deaths? they asked him. The storm was
already moving in the sky. The wind whistled. The birds flew back into the trees. The old man said only the universe could
answer. He said they should ask it and wait. He said death was not easily outrun.
Then the rain began. The skies fell in sheets. When the lightning crashed in the hour near dawn, the gypsies came from their
beds and watched it like the ending of the world. The horses’ eyes
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