This book was originally published in 1987, which, wow, is an awfully long time ago now. It’s set in Ireland, and the grey horse is a pooka — mischievous in this case, but not willfully cruel. At least not to people who don’t deserve it.
I’m noticing so much about this book now that I re-read it, stuff that really I wasn’t capable of noticing almost thirty years ago. Like: I love how important characters are seventy years old. And another important character is nine or so. Both feel right, both the old Anrai and the young Toby.
I love how the romantic interest is not conventionally pretty, and has a “punch on her like the kick of a horse.” I love how the Catholic priest is presented, and how the conflict between Christianity and the fairy world is presented as . . . far from irreconcilable, shall we say.
Some of the family relationships are pretty sad, though. In fact, every single family is shown as having one serious conflict: Blondell and his snobbish English wife, Maire and her unkind father and sister, and most of all Anrai and his wastrel son. All of these relationships drive the real conflicts in the story and lend the whole novel depth, which would be lacking if the major conflict was, say, the race between the “native-bred” pooka and the English Thoroughbred.
I really enjoyed all the characters — I appreciated even the characters I didn’t like. I already knew I loved Ruairi MacEibhir, the pooka. That, I remembered. I love how he is not conventionally heroic, drawing instead from the Trickster tradition, but nevertheless has a good heart. The first scenes, where he seduces Anrai into sitting on his back and then runs away with him in a good-natured but slightly malicious way, is priceless. Anrai is not in the slightest danger of anything but embarrassment, since he’s a fabulous horseman and the pooka isn’t trying to drown him or anything. There is so much for horse lovers to enjoy in these scenes.
I love how Ruairi courts Maire, too. I love the house he builds for her, and how he had no idea one could buy slate tiles for your roof as you can buy cabbages — such a baffling problem for him until someone explained it.
And, yes, I enjoy MacAvoy’s writing. “A little moment later, as the horse was rising up (very fast, as though on springs), it occurred to Anrai that the thing to have done was to put the halter on the horse before climbing on. Simple mistake. Because now the animal had bounded off, striking sparks from the road in its flight, so there really would be no opportunity to do so now…. Anrai sat the wild gallop of the wild horse with his hands in his lap, thinking that he had done a very silly thing, for an old man.”
And here, in Chapter Two: “Aine said the pig trotters were ruined. This was not true, of course, but it was the closest she could get to scolding Anrai for coming home wet and weary, when that had been no fault of his own. Anrai, wrapped in a blanket and with his feet in wool over a hot stone, sat by the kitchen fire and ate two of the trotters and a great heap of mash, both of which he covered in buttermilk and a crystalline layer of salt. He told her about the horse, but not that he had mounted it without bridle or halter. She told him the chestnut filly had kicked Donncha, and what liniment she had used, but she did not tell him about the letter from Seosamh, their only child. Aine and Anrai had been married for forty years.”
They had been married forty years. That is a very, very nice way to end that paragraph.
If you love horses, or for that matter fairies, or Irish settings, then this a story that’s well worth looking up.