In the corral, a whip of a man with ears that stick out like maple pods puts the stallion through his paces. A jockey’s cap is pulled nearly to a small hill of his nose. This must be Johnny Fortune, the best jockey in the States. His squinty black eyes track me, his expression landing squarely on disapproving. The two are watched by Merritt and Mr. Crycks, an old cowboy who is all legs, door-knocker mustache, and hat.
Sighting the curly oak where Billy Riggs accosted Old Gin, I squeeze past the low hedge to inspect the trunk. Below eye level, two squares have been carved, one containing four dots, the other, five. They must be dice—maybe lucky numbers. The scratches are small, but it will be hard not to think of them each time I see this tree.
I hurry into the stables, but not finding Old Gin there, I head to the barn next door. Springtime means occasional work helping the caretaker with newborn kids and lambs. In the barn, animals warm the air, their bleating and baaing a peaceful kind of music. I am surprised to find Old Gin, his back to me, in a horse-riding stance. I thought he had given up those strenuous exercises after Hammer Foot left. He holds the stance a full minute before rising. “If you want to sneak up on old men, you should not bring such powerful cheese, hm?”
“I wanted to make sure you ate something.” I hold out the food to Old Gin.
He takes it with a sigh. “Thank you, Jo.” He unwraps the bundle and offers me some.
I shake my head. “That’s for you to eat, and I won’t leave until you do.”
He sits on a bale of hay and takes a nibble so small, I despair of it making it all the way down the hatch. He catches me glaring at him and pats the space beside him. “Let me tell you a story, hm?”
Reluctantly, I sit.
“A farmer whose crops had not bloomed sent his son to buy a peach to entice the bats of fortune. And so the son found a fruit the color of a setting sun, one so large he could hold it with both hands without the fingers touching.” He demonstrates, holding an imaginary ball between his hands.
“On the way home, the son passed a lake. In the lake, a water nymph with golden hair and eyes that looked cut from the lake itself bathed among the lotuses. Noticing the son, the nymph swam to the edge of the lake. She looked at the son with such longing that he felt his heart stir. But it was not the young man she wanted.” Old Gin stretches out his skinny arms and makes his voice high. “‘I must have that peach. I have wished to taste such a fruit for so long.’”
I bury a giggle.
“‘What will you give me in return?’ asked the son. ‘A kiss,’ she said. So his shaking hands passed her the peach.”
“The fool,” I mutter. “Let me guess. She takes the peach, he doesn’t get his kiss, the bats don’t come, and the father’s crops die. Is that the end?”
Old Gin grunts. “For now.” He cocks an ear toward me, waiting for me to dig out the hidden meanings.
“Am I the fool or the nymph?”
“You are too sentimental, and so you are the fool. I am the nymph, because I don’t need the peach, hm?”
I imagine knock-kneed Old Gin as a nymph, his scraggly beard dripping with water, and burst out laughing. Soon, his own acorn face is split in a grin, and we are rocking back and forth like the time we tried balancing on a cut log for fun. But then Old Gin’s laughter sets off a cough, and my happiness drains away.
Ameer screams from somewhere far off, somehow part of this conversation.
Old Gin drinks from his water jug, and then replaces the cork. “You will be okay minding the burrows?” He rubs at his mouth, more as if trying to erase his grimace than dribbled water.
“The burrows will be secure under my watch.” I polish up a smile, despite the worries digging around my skull.
Ameer shrieks again, though more half-heartedly, as if he is beginning to tire. “How’s the new jockey?”
Old Gin’s shoulders stretch the fabric of his coat. “Good at coaxing speed, not so good at coaxing character.”
He lowers himself back into a horse-riding stance.
“You forgot the cheese.”
“I will eat cheese later. It has already waited a long time.”
* * *
—
WHEN I HIKE back up the paved path, Noemi is half riding the safety by the work shed. “This is going to be more fun than a frog race once I get the hang of it. Probably even beats riding a horse.” Her bushy eyebrows wiggle.
“I doubt that.”
“Only one way to find out. Oh, I forgot.” She puts a hand to her cheek. “You ain’t ready to break your legs.”
The safety does look fun, its paint as glossy as a candied apple.
“After a week with the porcupine, maybe I am ready to break my legs.” Jo Kuan might not have taken such risks, but Miss Sweetie embraces the future, including newfangled machinery. “As long as it doesn’t buck, I’m game.” I unclasp my cloak and set it on a stump. Then I take one of the handlebars, laying my other hand on the triangle seat. The leather feels smooth, almost slick, and it’s attached to the frame with metal coils to take the jounce out of the bounce. A metal plate partly covers the back wheel to prevent one’s skirt from being violently “freed” from one’s body. I begin to worry that might be the reason for the term freedom machines.
“They say you’re supposed to coast first, with your feet hiked up to practice balancing.” Noemi holds her hands out as if to imitate her feet. “That means we need to face downhill.” Both the stables and the house lie at a slight decline from where we are standing.
I face the bicycle toward the stables. If I start flying, I would rather break my legs a little closer to Old Gin so he doesn’t have to travel far to rescue me. Noemi holds the seat steady while I climb aboard. The frame curves low, allowing me to pass my leg through to the other side instead of swinging it over as with a horse. I tuck my skirts between my legs so they don’t cause trouble.
The bicycle is heavy. Miss Sweetie assures Jo Kuan that means a more stable ride, like how a frigate feels less turbulence than a rowboat. Jo Kuan points out that heavier could also mean deadlier, as an ant might know when a foot comes along. Miss Sweetie ignores her and take a firm grip on the handlebars. A lever is attached to the right one.
“That’s the brake,” Noemi tells me. “You squeeze it to stop.”
I try it out and feel a mild resistance. “What about this button?” I run my finger along a metal piece the size of a doorknob attached to the left handlebar.
“It’s a bell. Look.” She flips a switch on the doorknob, and a hammer strikes the metal with a satisfying ding!
“What for?”