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Hoof Hearted
Call me Skeeter. I been working this dock since I was a boy, like my
father, Scooter Plimsoles, and my grandfather, Scutter Plimsoles, before
him. Aye, Skeeter can tell you about the island, but you probably won't
heed any better than the others.
Scotty MacTavish doesn't use this skiff anymore. Not since he started
wearing steel shoes. 'It's All Hallows Eve, mate," I told him while I was
loading the cooler with bait and brewskis. "You shouldn't go out there
tonight of all nights."
"Rubbage," said Scotty. "It's a fine night for fidging." He inherited his
forefathers' speech defect. "The moon is full and I'll put an end to the
mystery of the island horses forever."
"They're not ordinary horses," I told him. "Nobody knows how they got
there. Some say my Great Great Grandfather, the Pirate Captain Skeezer
Plimsoles wrecked a galleon full of stolen Spanish horses there. Some say
they're not horses at all, but pookas, who have adopted the horse form to
survive until the dark ages return and magic rules the earth again. Some
say they're were-horses: horses by day, humans by night, gallop till dusk,
run until light." I had half a dozen "some says" left, when we was
interrupted by Zebra Butt Betty, stampeding her behind down the dock, a fine
pair of juicy rump roasts that no gape-jawed crocodile could wrap its jaws
around, pitching and rolling in her stripedspandexhotpants like, "Ride me
cowboy."
"Wait," said her royal hiney as she hung a leather lanyard with a mojo bag
and a black cat bone around Scotty's neck. "Wear this for luck."
"Widge me well, Darling," sighed Scotty as he hugged her close and squeezed
her big buttocks with his ham-fingered hands, but he snagged a fingernail in
the fabric and it took them until sundown to get loose, not that they tried
that hard to make it quick. All of the MacTavishes had snaggly nails that
not even a first class farrier could save. He nibbled her ear and she
giggled until she screamed, because pointy teeth was the curse of the
MacTavishes.
"I'd marry that man," she said as he sailed into the dark, "if it wasn't for
all of his genetic defects."
If Scotty learned the secret of the island horses that night, no one ever
knew. When he returned the next morning, he could only whinny and neigh and
scuff and stomp his hooves in the dust, hooves as smooth and strong as
marble. He had a fine set of high crowned teeth in his centaur mouth, teeth
that Betty swore had a bite as light as a Labrador Retriever's.
He and Zebra Butt married immediately. In spite of his loss of speech,
there were benefits to being a stallion that Betty adored. They moved out
to the island and some say he and she became the king and queen of the horse
people, but nobody knows for sure. Them as go, never come back.
John A. Ward was born on Staten
Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to
Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio
running, writing and living with his dance partner. Links to his work can
be found at Boogerjack.
Email: John A. Ward
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