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Katie MacArran
-by John Urie-
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Pursuit!
A Spontoon Island Story By John Urie "Once
having tasted flight, you will walk this earth with your eyes turned
skyward. For there you have been, and there you long to return,"--
Leonardo da Vinci Prologue: Monaco -- 1913 It wasn't the question itself that put Mrs. Fallon off her stride. It was the fact that little Katie asked it of HER. "Mrs. F." she said, using the diminutive she always employed when address her nanny. "Can I ask you something?" There was only one response of course. When had Mary Fallon ever been able to resist this darling little filly when her eyes sparkled like THAT? ( Even if they were two different colours. ) "Why, certainly y'can, dear." said the plump, dun goat, hefting herself onto the edge of Katie MacArran's bed and smiling down at her, "What is it, then?" Katie's ears pulled back a little and her face became as solemn as if she were about to receive communion. "What kind of horse am I?" Mary Fallon's head pulled back slightly and she was unable prevent herself from blinking rapidly. Not because she didn't understand Katie's question. Because she DID. "Now, what d'yer mean by that, Miss MacArran?" she asked, not at all certain she wanted to hear the answer. "Well..." said the little filly, looking up from her bed, more serious than ever, "Am I an English Hunter or a Mustang?" Mary Fallon looked away for a second, wishing to Hell that Ian or Frances were here to answer their daughter's question. What could she say to this? Catherine ‘Katie' MacArran was the product of thw age-old story: An impoverished noblefur marrying an American heiress. Her sire was Ian Robert Duncan MacArran, the nearly penniless 12th Duke of Strathdern. Her dam, Frances Combs MacArran, was the eldest daughter of Joseph "Calico Joe" Combs, onetime prospector and now the world's leading manufacturer of mining equipment -- who, it so happened, had no male get. Where the storyline differed from the stereotype was that Katie's parents had married for love. The title and the fortune that came with their vows had been mere icing on the wedding cake. Ian MacArran was an English Hunter; a big, muscular horse, liver chestnut in color, capable of leaping over tall hedges on nothing more than a whim, ( something he had done more than a little frequently while courting Frances. ) yet, for all his size, he possessed a remarkable refinement. Ian had what was known as a ‘dry' head and neck and lean, muscular body; not a speck of excess flesh showing anywhere. Small wonder that Frances had fallen for him so passionately. Frances Combs MacArran was an American Mustang, and of much smaller stature than her husband. She was not, however, the stereotypical version of that breed, owning a refinement almost equal to that of Ian's Her head was not oversized, her nose was not Roman, and her fetlocks did not resemble feather-dusters. She had a short muzzle with a tiny, ‘teacup' nose and a head every bit as dry as her husband's, ( even if her muzzle was a bit too straight. ) She was pinto in color, what the English call a "piebald", café-au-lait on white, and if Frances couldn't jump fences and hedges as well as Ian, on their frequent rambles over the Scottish Highlands, she regularly took the lead. That is, during those times when she wasn't in foal. By 1913, the MacArrans had produced five progeny; three fillies and two colts, the fourth child being named Catherine, for a long-deceased maternal aunt and more commonly known as Katie. It was Katie's fate to be the ‘black sheep' of the MacArran brood...at least in appearance. She looked nothing like any of her siblings. Without exception they were either chestnut in color like their father, or dark bay like their paternal grandfather. Katie was the only pinto in the lot. True, it was a lovely pinto; The liver chestnut of her sire on the almost pure white of her dam, the fur around each of the flowers blending together around the edges in the pattern known as ‘lacing'. But piebald was piebald and pinto was pinto. No horse of true, British gentry stock owned THAT color pattern. Or the one blue eye that Katie MacArran had inherited from a maternal great-grandmother. Perhaps even more unsettling was the fact that Katie was the only one of her father's get who had not inherited some of his size. While none of the others would ever be quite as many hands tall as he was, they would all soon outstrip their mother in stature, ( those who hadn't already.) Not so, Katie MacArran. Even now, at the age of eight, it was painfully obvious that she would mature to a height co-equal with that of her mother...and that was only in the event of a best-case scenario. And noble horses were never small horses. What Katie DID inherit from her sire was his near-legendary strength. In fact it was the one thing she appeared to have received from him in larger measure than any of her brothers or sisters. Even now, at the age of eight, she could outjump and outrun every single one of them. ( except for the eldest, Ian Jr...and that only was because he was twice her age. ) That, combined with the toughness she had acquired in equal portion from her dam's side of the family made her a filly to be reckoned with. Woe to the new schoolmate foolish enough to think she could pick on Katie ‘Macaroon' without fear of reprisal. More than once, Katie had been caned by the headmistress of Redfield Girl's School for the retribution she had exacted upon a tormentor...and never once had she received her punishment with so much as snort or a single tear. And never had she changed her ways when a new adversary appeared. It was thanks to the latest such incident that Katie was here in Monaco with her folks, instead of back in the Midlands learning ‘proper' behavior for a young lady. If she'd known that she'd end up HERE for what she'd done, Mary Fallon suspected, little Katie would have knocked out TWO of Margot Minnington's teeth, just to make sure of it. Of course, she would not be allowed to attend the event with her parents...but that was hardly a punishment when Katie had panoramic view of the entire course right from her bedroom window. In fact, she'd be able to see better than most of the paying spectators. But when the race was over and the spectators gone, everything would change for her. Though Mrs. Fallon was well aware of the plans her folks had made, Katie herself would not be informed until tomorrow. When they left Monaco for Strathdern, Katie would not be going with them. Instead she would be boarding a steamer for New York and taking the train to Boulder, Colorado where her Grandpa Joe lived. And that was where she would be living from now on. "We've tried and tried father," Mary had heard overheard Frances saying, "But Katie simply will not try to fit in. No matter what we say or do, she won't accept the idea of what is and isn't done here,. She's just not an English Hunter and never will be..." "She's a Mustang." Was Katie also aware of that exchange? Was that why she'd developed such a sudden curiosity about what kind of horse she was? Well, there was only one way to find out, wasn't there? "Now, what y'askin' a question like that for then?" Mrs. Fallon queried, reaching down to tuck Katie in a bit more snugly. "Well..." Katie started to say, and was interrupted by a loud banging from just down the hall. There was another report, this one much closer. Then all at once, Katie's door was thrown open and then loudly thrown shut again, so hard it made the window-frame shudder. Just before it did, Mary Fallon caught a glimpse of a dark, rawboned, adolescent colt, framed in the doorway. She recognized him at once. "That'll be enough of that, young Mister Colin!" she shouted through the closed door. "I've not got to do what YOU say!" Katie's unseen twelve-year-old brother shouted back, and then resumed running down the hallway, opening and slamming the doors. Mary shook her head, wondering what had provoked it this time. No, he couldn't have a sweet before bedtime perhaps? A small, grave voice suddenly reminded Mrs. Fallon that she wasn't alone in the room. "Well yesterday, Corinne told me that she's a Hunter and so are Ian, Colin, and Rebecca." It was at this point that Katie's voice finally began to crack...only a hairline crack to be sure but there it was. "But not me...I'm a Mustang." Mary Fallon barely suppressed a snort...and had only slightly better luck with the urge to storm into Corinne's room and... How the HELL had Katie's eldest sister ever gotten to be her parent's darling? This kind of thing was so typical of her. Listening in where she wasn't supposed to and then waiting for just the right moment to... Easy...Easy. Getting angry wouldn't help Katie. But what could she say? "Well," she said, dropping a hoof out of sight and crossing her fingers, "I hope ye remembered to thank your sister for the compliment." Katie's ear rotated back and forth, and she snuffled a long, slow breath. "Compliment, Mrs. F?" The goat-femme lifted her hooves in feigned surprise, "Well, ‘tis a compliment, I shouldn't wonder. Bein' as bein' a Mustang's sumtin' to be proud of." Katie sniffed again, louder and began to blink. "It is...really?" "‘Course ‘tis, young Katie." said Mrs' Fallon, her brogue becoming more pronounced as she warmed to her subject. Speaking as though this should be painfully obvious to filly she queried, "I should think ye'd be honored to come from stock what never laid down fer nobody." The smile that split Katie's face told Mary Fallon she'd hit the mark spot on. She was about to add more, when the door opened again, this time more slowly. And Katie's father entered the room. The years following his marriage had not been unkind to Ian Robert Duncan MacArran. If anything, his suspension-bridge shoulders were more massive than ever, and the withers that bulged from beneath his burgundy smoking jacket were so large, they made him appear to be slightly hunchbacked. In preparation for attending the race tomorrow, Mrs. Fallon could see that he'd had his mane clipped and braided -- using plain black thread, rather than the vibrant colours that were becoming so fashionable amongst Younger equines. She began to suspect that this was what lay at the root of Colin's latest eruption. "I've just come to say good-night to young Catherine." said Ian, assuming the formal as he always did when one of his children displeased him. He came over to Katie's bedside, crossing the floor in what seemed like a single stride. He then reached upward and twirled the switch on the gas-lamp above her bed, filling the room with a rich, amber glow. What the light revealed was not the typical bedroom of an eight-year-old filly. There were no frills, no lace, no gingerbread, no shelves packed end-to-end with dolls. In fact the only doll in the room was the one Katie now clutched in her arms...and it was hardly the sort of doll most young girls preferred these days; cherub-faced, curly-headed, dressed in a bonnet and hoop-skirt. What Katie was holding looked as crude as a voodoo-doll; a simple, sexless, mannequin of indeterminate species that she had fashioned from rags and discarded stockings and dressed up herself. It...HE, Katie always insisted, was clad in a high-collared pinstriped suit she had made from an old handkerchief and a starched section of discarded bedsheet. In the center of his chest, a miniature tie made of paper was held in place by a tiny straight-pin. ( "That's his diamond stickpin." ) On the doll's head was perched a miniature golfing-cap, turned backwards in the manner of a silent-film camera-fur. "He" was known as Linc...after Lincoln Beachey, Katie MacArran's all-around hero. Although in 1913, the term ‘barnstormer' had yet to enter the American lexicon, that was what Lincoln Beachey was. A ferret by species, he was a daredevil pilot of almost breathtaking skill and courage. He flew in and out of tiny ballparks, zipped under telephone wires, and would go tearing past the grandstands in his Curtiss racer with the wheels only a foot off the ground and the stick held between his knees -- and his arms flung open wide to thrill the crowds. He was also, however inadvertently, something of an aircraft designer. Up until 1911, the prevailing wisdom amongst airplane builders said that both a front and a rear stabilizer section ( as in the Wright flyer) were necessary to maintain aircraft stability. When Lincoln Beachey tore the front boom off his Curtiss in a mishap and it proceeded to fly better than ever, the forward stabilizer was soon discarded by the flying community at large. In 1912, Lincoln Beachey prepared for what was billed as the most death-defying stunt ever attempted in the air – a drop over the edge of Niagara falls. Before an estimated crowd of 150,000, he plunged his Curtiss biplane into the mists on the American side, pulled up just above the whirlpools, raced on downstream under an obstructing bridge, then zoomed up and over the cliff on the Canadian side, coming down to earth dripping wet, but otherwise none the worse for wear. There, amongst the wildly cheering throng, had been a young pinto filly on summer holiday with her family. And at that moment, Catherine, "Katie" MacArran was filled with an ardor that still burned bright within her eight-year-old soul. Framed on the walls around her were newspaper clippings detailing the escapades of Lincoln Beachey, Louis Bleriot, and a skein of other fliers. On the shelf closest to her bed was a balsa-wood model of a Curtiss racer, like the one piloted by her champion, which she had gotten as a birthday gift. Her model had originally come in the form of a kit...one that had held nothing like the pre-sectioned plastic models of a later era. When Katie had opened the box she'd found, much to her dismay, that it contained nothing more than, three wooden dowels, two sheets of instructions, five sheets of rice paper and ten sheets of balsa wood with the outlines of the parts stenciled over them. The glue and the knife for cutting out the parts were not included in the kit. For three months Katie had begged her father to help her put the Curtiss Racer together... and on every occasion he'd promised to assist her, ‘tomorrow', ‘Saturday', or on some other later date. Invariably, when that later date arrived, he was unavailable. Then, one morning while Mrs. Fallon was changing the sheets in Katie's room, Ian had entered, and spotted the finished model sitting on the table, next to his daughter's bed. "Hullo." he'd said, picking it up and turning it over in his hooves, "Who was it, helped Catherine put her aeroplane together, then?" "I hope ye don't mind my takin' the liberty, Yer Grace," Mary Fallon had answered quickly, "But the child...well, she just wouldn't be quiet about it." "Quite right, y'are." the Duke of Strathdern had replied, and then holding up the model for closer scrutiny, he'd added, while examining it minutely, "But I daresay, ye've a wee bit of talent for this sort o' thing, Mrs. Fallon. ‘S a fairst-rate piece of construction, if ever I've seen one. Look here, how well the joints all fit." "Thank ye, sorr," Mary Fallon had answered, wishing more than anything that she could tell her employer the truth. Little Katie had put the aircraft together completely unassisted. She had even painted it herself. But...she had also been strictly forbidden by her father to do so. ( "A wee lassie your age is too young t' be playing wi' things like sharp knives, Catherine." ) And so Mrs. Fallon had chosen to take the credit rather than let Katie take the blame. It was by way of her Curtiss racer model, that Katie had come to acquire Linc as well. The kit had come without a pilot, so Katie had created one of her own...and if he was bit too large for the Curtiss's seat, well that was all right. He was the perfect size to snuggle up with at bedtime. Now, Ian MacArran sat down upon the bedside. When he did, the mattress seemed to compress to the thickness of a table top. More than once, Mrs. Fallon had wondered how he managed to avoid suffocating Frances when they... "Katie," he said, looking gravely down at his piebald daughter, "After races t'morrow yer mother and I have something t' discuss with ye. I'm afraid this business of ye always gettin' sent away from school canna go on, young lassie." "Yes, Papa." Katie responded, looking up at him with longing in her eyes...not for his love, or even his affection...just that he would let her tell her side of the story for once. Ian was not a cruel parent, nor wholly indifferent to his children...but he was definitely of a school which held that young furs did not talk back to their elders, not even when they knew they were in the right. Then somewhere down the hall, another door slammed, and Mrs Fallon knew that this wasn't entirely true. If Katie had been a colt instead of a filly...or an English Hunter in appearance, instead of... Well if that had been the case, the incident which had brought Katie here in the first place would never have happened now then, would it? "I'll see y' in the morning at breakfast, Catherine." Her father told her, rising from the bed. "Good night, then." He did not lean down to kiss her goodnight, just walked out the door and did not look back Mary Fallon's heart ached as she compared this with the bedtime scenes she had witnessed many a time in Corrine's room. So, as soon as he was gone, Mrs Fallon said, "Would yer like to ‘ave a story before yer turn in, young Catherine?" "Oh yes." the filly practically squealed. "All right then," said Mrs. Fallon, plopping herself onto the quilt beside her, "What shall it be?" Of course, she already knew. "The Little Railway Engine." Katie responded at once...and as she always did, Mary Fallon pretended to frown. "Eh? Now what for would ye want to be hearin' that tale AGAIN, Miss Katie? I've only told it a thousand times. Would ye rather not hear the story of Aladdin or Finn McCool?" "No...please, Mrs. Fallon." said Katie, a plaintive note entering her voice as she clutched at Linc more tightly. "The Little Railway Engine...please?" This was what SHE always said. "Welllll, I dunno." said her nanny, turning partially away and stroking her chin. "Pleeeeeease?" "Oh, all right..." said the plump goat femme, heaving a mock sigh, as she turned back to face the little filly, "Oi suppose if I must, then..." It was no surprise that The Little Railway Engine was Katie's favorite bedtime story. Mrs. Fallon, a marvelous storyteller to begin with, was particularly adept at recounting this tale... especially when she came to the part where the Little Engine began his famous ascent of the hill "...An' that was when th' Little Engine first began to feel the weight of all those railway cars." Here, she shook her head, soberly, "So many cars...such a ponderous weight. He could feel himself beginnin' to slide backwards...back...all the way back to the bottom o' the hill where the other railway engines were all ‘avin' themselves a good snicker at ‘is expense." "‘Toldj'yer ‘e'd never make it," said the Big Steam Locomotive." "Well, I daresay, what else should you have expected from a little engine like him?" asked the Sleek Express Engine." "‘E was daft t' even try it." chimed in the Double Boiler Heavy Engine. Mrs. Fallon stopped for effect...then leaned close to Katie and began to speak again, this time in a low, almost conspiratorial voice. "But then...then young Katie, the Little Engine began to say somethin' to himself. He began to say..." The words ended in an abrupt grimace, and snap of Mrs. Fallon's fingers. "Oi! Must be gettin' old. Miss Katie. ( She was actually thirty-eight) "Oi've completely fergotten what t'was th' Little Engine said. D'yer think ye could help me out wi' it?" "He said "‘I think I can.'" Katie answered at once. Mrs. Fallon pretended to slap her head. "OH, that's right...'I think I can' Yes...an' then the little railway engine began t' say it over an' over t' himself...like...like...errr, how'd that go again, Katie?" "I think I can." chirped the filly, and then began to chant, "I think I can....I think I can....I think I can....I think I can....I think I can." Now, Mrs Fallon began to chant with her, "I think I can....I think I can....I think I can....I think I can....I think I can." Then their voices rose, blending together to become a seamless mantra, the two of them beating their fists tightly in the air with each repetition "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can." Faster and faster the mantra became, until it seemed as if the two of them must surely pass out from lack of oxygen. Finally, Mrs. Fallon did stop...suddenly and without warning. "An' what happened then?" she asked, raising a finger for emphasis. Katie's answer came in a high rush of words...not a hint in evidence of the breath she'd just expended. "An' the Little Railway Engine pulled the coal-train all the way over the top of the hill an' down into Glasgow, an' all the furs who lived there were nice an' warm all winter, an' nobody got the flu or pleurisy, thanks to the Little Railway Engine." "Why bless me, so they DID." Said Mary Fallon, slapping a hoof into one knee as though this were some great epiphany. And then raising her hooves to the ceiling, she proclaimed, "Three cheers for the Little Railway Engine! Hip, hip...!" "Hooray!" shouted Katie, also throwing up her hooves. "Hip, hip...! "Hooray!" "Hip, hip...! "Hooray!" And then Katie's arms were around the neck of her beloved nanny-goat, hugging her tight. It was a familiarity that would have had Mrs. Fallon dismissed at once if Katie's parents ever got wind of it. Mary Fallon didn't care. SOMEONE had to do it. "All right, then." she said, pulling the covers up once more and giving Katie her final tuck-in. "Now, yer've had yer story, young Miss Catherine...so's now it's time for all good little fillies t' go t' sleep, right?" "Right." said Katie, nodding firmly, as if it were some OTHER little girl her nanny was talking about, and regarding her the with THAT look again, "Good night, Mrs. F." "G'night, Katie." said Mary, rising from the bedside. She did not offer to kiss the filly good-night. There were some lines even SHE dared not cross. She was just closing the door behind her when she saw Katie's mother coming down the hall towards her. "Good evening Mrs. Fallon." said Frances Combs MacArran, nodding quickly and then passing by without stopping or even glancing in the direction of Katie's door. "Good evenin'. Mam." answered Mary, bowing slightly. She waited until Frances was out of earshot, then allowed herself a good sneer and a sniff of derision. She could almost excuse Ian's reaction to his daughter. He was who he was after all; a high-born English Hunter. But Frances? She was every bit the Mustang that Katie was...no, even MORE so, because she was full-blooded. "So where d'YOU get off puttin' on airs wi' yer little filly like that?" Mrs. Fallon snarled silently, throwing in that favorite Irish charm against all things snobbish. "Knew yer da!" Another thought came into her mind then and she looked towards Katie's door. Mary Fallon was not a particularly religious goat. She attended Mass only intermittently, and went to confession only to fulfil her Easter duty. Nonetheless, a fragment of the Gospel somehow found it's way to the forefront of her consciousness, and she repeated it somberly, under her breath. "‘Th' stone which the builders rejected...turned out' t' be the most important stone.'" Somewhere, another door slammed. Mrs. Fallon sighed, shook her head, and hurried down the hall. When they caught up with Colin, her help might be needed. Behind her, in the darkness, Katie was out of her bed, arms folded on the windowsill as she gazed out through the window, and over the harbor Below her, she could hear intermittent laughter, the faint sound of an accordion. Somewhere in the room, a cricket was chirping. None of that mattered to her. She couldn't see them, but she knew they were out there...out beyond the amber glow of the street-lamps, waiting in the water as prescribed by the rules of the competition: Roland Garros' boxy Moraine-Saulnier, Charles Weymann's elegant Nieuport, Maurice Prevost's streamlined, brutishly powerful Deperdussin...and all the other entrants. Tomorrow, they would take to the sky in the first Schneider Cup seaplane competition...and she would get to see it happen. There was a noise outside her door. It came and went quickly, but it was enough to convince Katie that she had best not press her luck. Moving quietly away from the window, she slipped back into bed. And somewhere between the time she closed her eyes and sleep overcame her, Katie MacArran began to whisper into the darkness. "I think I can....I think I can....I think I can....I think I can....I think I can." she said, and hugging Linc firmly, like the talisman he was, she murmured her final words in a voice half reverent, half defiant. "Coz I'm a Mustang." next |