Ringmaster

The farmer is wearing dungarees with muddy legs. We seem to have caught him in the middle of putting up some fencing or digging the garden. He stands on the other side of the gate, his chest puffing up with righteous anger. “I’ve been farming here for twenty years. Take this lot round by the lane and stay off my land.”

Behind me, Ryah speaks in a timid voice. “We could go around by the lane, Cale.”

I hate the way she sounds, like her father is shouting at her again. When I turn and look at her I see that her face is paper white.

My teeth clench as I try to decide what to do. I think about the lane we passed about a mile back. There were heavy vehicles edging past each other in both directions.

I turn back to the farmer. “No. It’s not safe that way. I’m not taking half a dozen horses and a teenage girl along a road with all that traffic when there’s a perfectly good bridleway right here.”

The farmer grasps the gate like it’s the battlements of his castle. “If you don’t clear off I’m calling the police.”

Just because he takes the signs down and padlocks the gate doesn’t mean a right of way disappears by magic. I cut through the padlock and it falls to the ground. “Be my guest.” I dig in my pocket for a handful of pound coins and toss them at his feet. “For the damage to your padlock. Have a good day.”

I pull the chain from the gate and push it open, driving the farmer back. Then I nod at Ryah to lead the horses into the field. She does so hesitantly, patting Dandelion’s mane and murmuring soothing words to her as the farmer continues to shout. The other horses follow, their ears pinging back and forth.

As I walk Jareth into the field, the farmer follows me.

“Fucking pikey! Goddamn piece of shit.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Ryah whirl around and stare at the farmer, her mouth open. I will her to keep going as I glare at him from atop Jareth, the bolt cutters resting on my shoulder. On the other side of the field I dismount and cut the other padlock off.

“The coins back there should cover this one as well,” I tell the furious man. “Think yourself lucky. If I were the highway authority, they’d be charging you for cutting off these padlocks. See you next year.”

The curse words and slurs follow us along the bridle path and into the woods. My blood is boiling but I force myself to ignore him now that Ryah and the horses are safely through.

“Cale?” Ryah asks timidly, turning around on Dandelion. “Are you all right? That was a horrible thing he called you.”

I suppose it’s the horses and our general air of living off the grid that made him think we’r

e Irish Travellers. I wonder how many times my grandmother heard the slur. Old Meriful, too. I reach back and shove the bolt cutters into a saddle bag, reminding myself that it’s not worth braining every prejudiced idiot I come across. My fingers are itching for my knives, just the same. If Ryah wasn’t with me I might have enjoyed scaring the living daylights out of that man with a few well-thrown blades. I look up and realize that Ryah’s still gazing at me with worry in her eyes. My hands are clamped on the reins and my shoulders are up around my ears. I force myself to unclench.

“I’m all right,” I say, seeing the question in her eyes.

“Are you sure?” Ryah asks.

I make myself smile for her. “You have no idea how often this happens. Landowners remove signs and block public paths across their fields all the damn time. They’re breaking the law.”

She shoots me a lopsided grin. “So were you, technically. That padlock was private property.”

I chuckle, my dark mood finally easing. “I sleep at night. Come on, let’s get these horses home.”

The rest of the ride passes uneventfully, and we arrive back at the circus at six. It’s a race to get the horses settled, watered and fed, and wash up and change into our costumes before the show.

I’m pulling on my jacket as I come out of my wagon and see Ryah powerwalking across the grass in her pink and white costume, still trying to fix an ostrich feather in her hair.

I head toward her. “Ryah? Let me.”

She smiles up at me as I reach her side. “Thanks, I was trying to do ten things at once and wasn’t concentrating.”

As I’m fixing the feather in place, I remember her terrified expression when the farmer was yelling at her. She’s all right now, but after the show, once she’s alone in her bed, will it haunt her then?

“Good work today. That farmer was in the wrong and that’s why he was so angry. Put him out of your mind if you can.”

Her eyes fill with pain. “I was going to say the same to you.”

She was actually worried about me? As I finish with the feather, my fingers trail down her arm to grasp her hand. We’re alone by the dying embers of the campfire, the setting sun burnishing her bare shoulders with golden light.

“People are excited to come and see our shows and applaud our acts,” Ryah says, “but the rest of the time, they’re not very friendly to us, are they? Like that woman with the expensive horses who glared at you like you were suspicious until you showed her that you’re not.”