Bridge of Clay

And she knew.

The horse was going to win.

Sometimes, she said, you just feel it.

McAndrew felt it, too.

He was quiet but witheringly forceful:

“Take him straight to the front, and don’t stop till you hit Gloaming Road,” and Carey Novac nodded.

He smacked her on the back as she went.

* * *

—

In Silver, at the Amahnu, they heard the late inclusion, and when Clay stopped work on the molding, Michael Dunbar fully realized.

It’s her.

Carey Novac.

That’s the name.

For the race they sat and listened, and it was just as McAndrew had said; she took him to the front. The horse was never headed. He was big, deep brown—a bay. He was courageous and full of running. He won by four good lengths.

* * *

—

From there, this is what happened:

Through September, at the river, whenever Michael returned from the mines, they shook hands, and worked like madmen.

They cut and measured and sawed.

They sliced off edges of stones; they worked in perfect rhythm.

When they finished up work on the pulley system, they tested the weight of a spandrel. There were half nods—then nods—of happiness; the ropes were as tough as the Trojans, the wheels were discounted steel.

“Sometimes the mines are good for us,” said Michael, and Clay could only agree.

There were moments when they noticed the light change; of sun being swallowed in the sky. Dark clouds would meet at the mountains, then seemingly trudge away. No business yet to be here, but their day was surely coming.

In time, they planned the deck—what to lay on top:

“Wood?” said Michael Dunbar.

“No.”

“Concrete?”

Nothing but sandstone would do.

* * *

—