The black mare

Every night Narcisse tried to “beat the devil.” The soft sweep of three cards in his right hand brushing the table, laid down with a deliberate snap, measured his day as Dehlia measured hers by the rhythmic winding of Big Ben, her thin grey braids swinging in unison. And as Narcisse snapped his cards, she wound her clock; neither of them paused, afraid time would slip away from them as they slept

And they drifted,

Narcisse dream-following his nose to the dry-hay-smell of horses, their fading hooves bidding him further away from his vow at Lent — to give up. While Dehlia pranced, a black mare, forelock lifting in the wind, muscled thighs, ready to spring her beyond, Narcisse, six-and-a-half furlongs, and those two-little-hands marking time, altogether. While Narcisse was hobbled to a fast track, the inside post, his favourite palomino, and the sweet-sweet winning flash of the jockey’s red silks. It wasn’t his palomino, he didn’t own anything, but he might have, if he hadn’t flirted so much before.

And they flirted,

The black mare’s withers flinching at the post, Narcisse edgy at the wicket, combing a sweaty palm through his thick wavy hair. His thoughts tumbling in digits: two-, five-, ten-dollar wagers, two-year-old fillies, and six-and-a-half furlongs. He’s still in reverie when at the starting gun the black mare breaks first, her strides steady on the turns, lengthening on the straightaways while his palomino’s legs, appear to be shortening and slowing. The crowd heaves in surprise when the black mare leads on the final turn, and Narcisse, seeing his palomino in last, crushes the ticket in his pocket and turns away from the track, sucking his teeth.

The next morning, he wakes remorseful to the sounds of Dehlia humming as she stirs the oatmeal in the scarred kettle-of-their-years-together.

He is weak with guilt, knowing Dehlia will chastise him, chide him that all his money ever does is feed the horses, feeds them their oats and hay. He knows she’ll badger him to take confession. So he says nothing.

And they twisted,

Narcisse having lost his savings during the previous night’s dream, wagers with the profits from the sale of his best draft horse the second, but his palomino loses again to the black mare in the ninth race. The third night, he wagers with the money from the sale of his prized buckboard. But the same black-arse-of-a-mare trots into the Winner’s Circle.

Awake the fourth night, he hears Dehlia mumble through a gauze of sleep, “I can’t help it.”

What? He ruminates, suspecting her of cheating.

He’s curious what else she might reveal.

But she is silent after that.

So when he is woken the following night by Dehlia mumbling, “I can’t help it.”

Straight away, he asks, “What? Can’t help what?”

And with the precision of a timepiece, she chimes,

“When I leave this house, I change into a black mare.”

Narcisse is stunned. Her words reel in his head, leaving him to dangle in his thoughts. He watches her the entire night. And just as the moon is in the night-sky-highest, she leaves. He trails; her body, a draft flowing out the back door into the honey-eyed moonlight reflecting off her white flannel gown until she vanishes, dissolving into the blackness of the barn door. Narcisse follows slowly, pauses, looks back to the house, but wills himself through the darkness into the barn. Yet all he sees is the outline of his remaining horses, hears them shifting their weight in the stalls, smells the hay, oats, and horseshit. He calls her name in the moist air. There is no answer. In hopes she will reappear, he sits down on an upturned feed bucket. But he falls asleep, and when he wakes, it’s morning and he finds her back in their bed, her flannel back turned out. His fingers move to brush her back, but recoil at the scent of boiled kidneys, the blood-metal scent stinging his nostrils, spawning memories of relatives bitten by Rougarous, his Mooshom warning him to smudge all used clothes for fear of being marked. Images of Dehlia moving weightless through the night in her hand-me-down nightgown fuse with his Mooshom’s tales of men turning into dogs, flying horses, and crooked spines. Narcisse nervously gathers Dehlia’s vials of Holy Water, her father’s rosaries, and his worn deck of cards. For the first time in a long time he prays fearful they have been tricked, that they have mistakenly crossed over. He prays in Cree: Notahwenan; he prays in Michif: Li Boon Jeu; he prays English: Amen. When she wakes, she’s startled seeing him surrounded by holy water, rosaries, and playing cards; she fears someone has died and he acknowledges the question in her expression.

“You’ve been tricked by a Rougarou,” he says.

“Rougarou?” she scoffs, “Wacistakac, those horses have you charmed.”

Shaking his head, “No, they’ve charmed you — they’ve hooked me.”

“Hooked you?” Her face a sleepy question mark.

“Charmed you,” he repeats, his words an echo.

“Charmed you.”

And they recoiled,

Dehlia, never having known Narcisse to look so terrified, relents and removes the second-hand nightgown he has cautioned her about before. Narcisse bearing it like a dead bat on the end of a broom, takes it to the refuse barrel and sets it ablaze. In the light of the flame, Narcisse broods over what they must do to purge the Rougarou. He knows it will take them all night to haul and heat water, to bathe, to ready their best clothes, smudge, and pray. Not one, not two, not three times, but thirteen times they’ll have to circle the house backwards in their newest clothes, backwards with an Ace of Spades pressed to Dehlia’s forehead, backwards before Mooshom’s time, before Narcisse, before Dehlia, winding them all backwards in time before the Rougarou.