Pegasus Flies Again

By Atticus Carroll

"There was a dream I had one night. I had a good leg and wore checkered silks, just like a real jockey -- not some broken farm girl with these mud-slick rubber boots and clacking metal brace."

So begins the incredible, haunting story of Calliope Sullivan -- a new novel by an award-winning writer whose work has been featured in the New York Times, NPR, McSweeney's and many other publications. With no money, friends or future and a busted leg that's left her in a clunky brace, Calliope knows she'll never be a jockey -- until she discovers a broke down pasture horse with a secret history, a history that stretches back to the ancients and the myths of winged creatures.

At just 11, Calliope risks everything to save her family farm, as she unravels the mystery of this magical new thoroughbred that seemingly fell from the sky and discovers along the way the magical, healing power of a good friend.

Pegasus Flies Again is a lightning-paced young adult thriller about courage, true grit, new friendships and the secrets everyone buries within. With an anti-bullying message and the heart and soul of "Because of Winn Dixie" -- mixed with a light sprinkling of Percy Jackson -- Pegasus Flies Again is for anyone who ever thought of defying the odds and following her dreams. No matter the risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atticus Carroll
• Release date: May 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458165039

Atticus Carroll

Atticus Carroll is an award-winning writer whose work has been featured in the New York Times, National Public Radio, McSweeney's, Details Magazine, Gawker.com, the Los Angeles Times and many others.Feel free to contact me at [e-mail]

Book preview

PEGASUS FLIES AGAIN

by Atticus Carroll

Copyright 2011 Atticus Carroll

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER ONE

There was a dream I had one night. I had a good leg and wore checkered silks, just like a real jockey -- not some broken farm girl with these mud-slick rubber boots and clacking metal brace.

I rode a gleaming white horse. His breath pounded out of his nostrils like a riot and his legs hammered the gray dirt track. We were sitting last in the pack, with the final turn and the wide open homestretch in front of us.

The crowd in the grandstand began to holler and dance as the horses whipped around the turn and barreled toward the wire, their hooves beating and kicking and sounding like a storm-scarred sky, rolling with thunder. Mud and clods of dirt rose off the ground, churned into bits by the pounding race. The spray fluttered about in a cloud of rocky snow.

I chirped to the white horse.

Come on now, I urged, "This is our race."

The horse stretched low underneath me and grabbed the bit. For some unknown, dreamy reason, I dropped the reins and snatched a piece of the horse's glistening mane instead. The horse shot me a look, and I could have sworn I saw a twinkle swimming in the deep liquid behind his lashes.

And just like that, he bolted.

His ears bent forward, and his legs recoiled and fired again and again, smashing into the dirt. His steady, even breath came blasting out of his nostrils every time his shoes slammed into the track, the weight of his enormous back pushing the air out of his lungs.

In a matter of seconds, we were sitting fourth, then third, then second. Tired, aching horses failed and broke all around, spinning behind in whorls of exhaustion.

We were in the heart of the homestretch. The stands shook. People cheered. The announcer screamed. It was the most magnificent thing I'd ever heard -- the sound of the crowd, the beating of the hooves, the loud, clapping blasts of breath as the horses rose and fell, rose and fell, pushing all that rippling, ropey muscle toward the wire.

There was the lead horse. He was six lengths ahead. Then five, then four, then three. There wasn't much time left. The white horse reached out beneath me, pulling the track under his front legs and kicking it back out again. The lead jockey whipped his horse and chirped and yelled.

With only yards to go, the white horse found some hidden gear within that enormous, barreled chest of his and I gripped the mane even tighter, crouching forward and urging.

As we crossed the finish line, I lowered my head and closed my eyes. For a long, sweet moment, I imagined what it must be like -- to be a real jockey, to hear the crowds and feel the weight of a race horse pumping under my legs. I could almost taste it.

When I opened my eyes, the brilliant white horse had disappeared. The mane was gone, the feet. Surprised, I looked around and saw I was alone -- no other horses, no grandstands, no cheering crowds.

It was just me on a fenceless track, riding a sizzling bolt of lightning.

Someone shouted, Calliope!

I looked around, gripping the bolt. No one was there.

A voice called again, louder.

Calliope! it said, Calliope Anne!

My eyes snapped open.

I was curled atop the cozy, layered hay in the stall of Atlantis Rising, our retired race horse. The chestnut-colored stallion lowered his nose to my cheek and snorted. He smelled like mouth steam and sweet hay and a canvas bag of oats.

I pushed him away.

I'm up, I muttered, I'm up.

Calliope! someone shouted, and I peaked my sleep-frizzled head out of the stall.

It was daddy. He stood framed in the stable door, his hands on his hips and the horrible sky glowering behind him. Big cement-colored clouds loomed above the wilting farm house, threatening to loose a flood.

You get out here, daddy called.

He pushed his chin out like he does, reshaping his face into a landscape of boulders. He tilted up his soiled white Stetson so as to eyeball me better.

Stalls clean? he asked.

Yes.

Horses fed?

Yes.

You been riding Atlantis again?

I paused.

I thought so, he said, gritting his teeth. How many times I got to tell you not to run the wheels off that horse? Atlantis Rising is the only money we got flowing into this place, and I ain't going to let you break his legs in some muddy slop hole, you hear?

He needs to run, I said quietly.

Daddy just stood there, saying nothing. He wasn't much of a debater, daddy.

Finally he said, Well you ain't the one to run him.

He jabbed a finger at me.

You ain't no jockey, he said.

My face felt hot and angry. I wanted to get away. Instead, I just stood there studying the dirt for a moment, grinding into it with the toes of my good leg. I left my brace back in there with Atlantis, and it was times like this I hated for daddy to see me limping about and looking so weak. The thought of it made my ears burn.

In the silence, daddy checked his watch. His face twisted into an awful grimace, as if the thoughts crossing his mind caused him physical pain.

We got to get moving, he said, Can't miss the auction. Got everything riding on it.

I collected myself, smoothing my dirty jeans and picking hay out of my long hair.

Everything? I asked.

Daddy opened his mouth like he was about to say something but then clamped it shut again. He stuck his chin out a little more.

Just get the truck, he ordered. Then he stomped to the house, checking his watch again.

I limped back to the stall and slipped on my brace. All that leather and metal, it reminded me of a bridle. I clacked over to Atlantis and stroked his big long face and worked my way down his neck, the black hair of his mane shining like silk.

Someday, I whispered, You watch.

The dream of an open homestretch and the roar of the steepled grandstands and the feel of thunder pounding under my legs came crowding back into my mind, as I shut up the stable and clanked back to the house. It used to look so big and shiny, that house. But now it looked tired and in need of a good bath, like a just run horse.

Lightning flashed on the horizon and thunder boomed a second later. I stopped with one hand on the kitchen screen door. Gray clouds gathered over the green pastures and the squared-off horse paddocks. They used to shine and glisten, too, all those pasture fences, but that was long ago, back in the rich days before my brother died. Now they were just like the house, tired and sad -- a maze of soggy, wilting lumber looking like a patchwork of traps.

I let the screen door slam behind me, clacking and clanging my way upstairs to get ready and thinking about that dream again and all that open, free track in front of me. I turned to the window as lightning ripped a hole in the sky and thunder bellowed. I stood there for a moment, staring at our practice oval beyond the stables and repeating in my head the words, Someday. Someday. Someday.

CHAPTER TWO

That was the day I brought home Peg.

I met him at the horse auction, the big annual one down in Cordelia where everybody goes to buy the best race horses. The draw that year was Regal Warrior, a rangy, oil-colored two year old who traced his ancestry back to Eclipse and was supposed to be just as ornery. Daddy wanted to buy Regal Warrior for the county races. And so we set out early with me driving the pickup and daddy counting his money and my brother, Sam, fast asleep in the back.

Daddy stopped thumbing his bills every now and then and sighed, looking out the window at the rolling hills and the armada of clouds loitering above them.

What is it? I asked.

Daddy never answered. He thrust out his chin in the way he does and continued to stare off into the distance. Sometimes he gets like that when he's thinking of momma, and soon I fell to thinking about her too, wondering if she could see us and what she'd think of my dream.

Lightning suddenly flashed in the sky, and thunder clapped its hands among the clouds. I wondered if we'd make it back before the storm hit.

It was not shaping up to be a good day.

When we arrived at the auction house, daddy turned around in the seat and nudged Sam. At 12, Sam was only a year older than me, but he was the jockey now and allowed to get away with things, like sleeping, while I did most of the work.

Listen here, Samuel, daddy began, When we get there, I don't want you saying nothing about that horse. Nothing, you hear me? No Oohs. No Ahhs. Nothing. We got everything riding on that horse and I got to bring him home. For cheap.

Sam must have sensed how important this was, because daddy never called him Samuel, and so he silently nodded. I nodded, too, even though daddy wasn't talking to me. I drove up to the front gates and daddy opened the door and hopped out practically before I had a chance to stop. 

Crowds poured through the gates and there was a great murmur of excitement. The whole place smelled electric.

I'll catch up to you, I called.

Daddy waved his hand.

Fine, fine, he mumbled, Come on, Samuel.

Daddy and Sam disappeared into the river of people, while I eased the lumbering pickup back around to the lot and cursed under my breath when I saw that all the handicap spots were taken, some by cars without handicap tags at all. My face turned to red again and my cheeks felt ablaze. I was grateful daddy wasn't in the car because he would have told me what's what if he'd seen my punch the steering wheel like I did. But it just made me so angry sometimes, dealing with this leg. I wheeled the truck to the back lot and finally found a spot way back by all the horse trailers, trucks and piles of endless hay. I hit the wheel again.

It was a long way back to the crowds, and my leg went clacking the whole way on the asphalt. I didn't want to be late, but the faster I went, the more noise I made -- ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk -- and people started to stare, which I hated even more than my leg. I cursed under my