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Description
The Mana Farms story line frequently contains mature language, topics, and situations. The characters within are fictional beings with weaknesses and faults, and I cannot promise you that you will like them for what they believe, say and do.

PREVIOUSLY ON:

Nights had never been easy on Santa. Things were quieter. The ambient noises of the day: the pulse of hoofbeats, the rush of traffic, the occasional roar overhead of a passing plane, the steady chatter of work, the spontaneous bark of a dog, someone vacuuming an office, someone cursing, a breeze, a spattering of rain, the trumpeting call of a horse, the coo of a mourning dove, the squeal of someone’s child, the crunch of gravel as a truck passes over it, the sound of hay being tossed over a stall door. Sounds pushing out thoughts, drowning them, squashing them into tolerable levels of volume. If she didn’t have to work, she probably could have a decent rest during any simple afternoon. But night was different. Alone in a hotel room, devoid of conspicuous diversions, the mind of the nomadic jockey would consider events and consider remedies and Santa could never sleep for the incessant agonizing noise of her own thoughts.

At home, in Los Angeles, it might be different. Los Angeles was a treasury of incessant sound, not merely ambient, but obtrusive in the best sense twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It drove out doubt and longing and fear with the meaningless drone of a city trying very hard to convince itself of the existence of opportunity for all.

At home, there was also the dog, her long enormous greyhound inching his way into the bed like a worm, his black nose wriggling ever closer to her face until, at last, she surrendered and found herself awash in his giddy affections.

In Louisville, at night, on Phillips Lane, there was the roar of the interstate and the passing planes, a hotel location she had chosen for this explicit reason, but the voices in her head had proven to be louder, even against the rain. She hadn’t found him, but she had found a familiar black filly that was as much him as she might ever find on a day absent of Laurence LeClerc. Against her warm ribcage, Santa listened to the rush of air into those powerful unconquerable lungs and slipped into the quietest space she had known for months.

Dawn broke over the Twin Spires, draping the track in small curtains of light, little waterfalls of hope spilling over the eastern sides of the barns along the backside. Horses and people began to come to. Santa slowly awoke to familiar sounds...the rustle of hay, the hushed gossip of nearby grooms, the snort and snuffle of a nose in a bucket, boots and hooves splashing through puddles accumulated on concrete, a man humming softly to himself close to her. She blinked a couple of times and looked up into his face.

Laurence was sitting there inches away watching her. She sat up.

“You needed me?” he prompted gently.

“Yes,” she admitted.

He smiled to himself at that. “How much weight do you have to make up before Saturday?” he asked.

She blinked at him. “At least ten.”

He didn’t bother giving her a hard look the way the others had, though she did see a small flicker of distress in the creases that appeared on his face before he turned from her, wordlessly opening up two Styrofoam boxes at his feet and transferring more from one to the other. He handed the heavier one to her. “Mange.”

She couldn’t help the grin when she saw the contents of the menu. She flashed him a genuine smile, relief washing through her. “French toast?”

He shrugged.

“Thank you.”

He raised up his own box and stuck his fork into a slice of toast dusted with sugar. Santa stared at him. “What about you?” she asked, “Can you make weight if you eat that?”

“Don worry about me, Santa,” he demanded without looking at her. She shifted herself towards him so that they were both leaning against the side of the stall watching Imp lick the bottom of her feed bucket. They stayed like that for a few minutes, eating quietly, watching Imp who turned from her bucket and gazed with longing at the sugar dusted triangles piled in their trays.

“Come here, Imp,” Santa waved, and the filly leaned over and accepted a strip of toast which she worked at happily while Laurence watched the two of them together. He gave them an audible sigh.

Santa glanced at him, a little self consciously, “What are you staring at, Canada?”

He smirked, crossing his legs and leaning back against the wall. He nodded at the filly. Santa could guess his meaning without him saying a word. He couldn’t say it without implying something he knew would have made her uncomfortable and she was grateful for his respect of her dignity.

Santa laughed. “Timp is many important wonderful things to me, but my Habs? Not the same.”

Laurence’s face contorted spectacularly at that. “Quoi?”

“My dog.”

“His name is Habs?” Laurence nearly choked. Santa raised her eyebrows at the perplexed look on his face and nodded, taking another bite of her toast.

“Les Habitants?!” he tried to clarify.

Santa shook her head at him, though she was sad to see him deflate slightly, but only slightly, with her explanation. “My baby is a retired racer. A greyhound. His name was ‘Habitual Sinner’ on track, so, of course,” she smiled, “I loved him immediately.” She swung her chain around her fingers at that, then dropped Saint Christopher with a shrug. “I’ve just always called him Habs.”

Laurence gave an amused snort at that. His grin brimmed with so much delight he couldn’t prevent his fingers from drumming out a beat on his knees. Santa thought he looked like an older child who had just discovered that she didn’t know where babies really came from and he couldn’t wait to unleash the secret on her. He kept glancing at her, waiting for her to release the invisible tape holding his lips closed.

“Okay, I’m interested,” she caved, watching him fidget around this new buzzword, “Why is my dog’s name so damn funny to you? What is it? Is that some Quebecois vulgarity? Would my dog be a cursed little shit in Montreal?”

Laurence laughed out loud at that, startling her. He abruptly reached over and pulled her to him, ruffling her hair, and kissing the top of her head as if she were adorable for her naivete. He erupted seconds later.

“De Habs?! De Canadiens? Ice hockey?!”

“Oh no.”

“Hey!” He swatted her. “Don blaspheme. Dis is de Canadiens. A quarter of de Stanley Cups belong to dem! Do you know anything about it at all?”

Santa gave him a sideways glare. In reply he offered her the equivalent of the you-endearingly-ignorant-Colombian-let-me-educate-you look in his eyes. They pleaded with her. Pleaded. She laughed at him. “Educate me, baby.”

Santa sat there and listened as he began his animated story, giving her a full rundown of the game, the team, the religion. He made a small makeshift rink in the straw at their feet, complete with little green ends of strawberries for nets. He showed her the red lines, the blue lines, discussed the penalties, recalling his favorite moments, his hands waving about him, his eyes as bright as they had been when he’d retold the story of her hitting Remy Daigle with a chair. And Santa listened. She listened until he began to get carried away discussing player stats and ancient history, and she began fumbling with the paper of her straw, shoving it absently in one end.

Laurence turned and regarded her with a genuine look of disbelief on his face. “Was dat a spitball?”

“Maybe.”

Santa pursed her lips together, trying very hard not to laugh at him. He nodded his head. He understood. The stall grew quiet again for a few minutes before he murmured, “How did a girl like you end up here?” His voice was distant, but she could tell he was very interested in the reply by the way he grew very still beside her.

Santa sighed and pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. It was the universal symbol among jockeys for pain. Laurence turned his head and looked intently at her again, brushing Imp aside as she pestered them for scraps.

“His name was Rocco Zarate.”

Santa felt his warm brown eyes settling on her as she spoke, studying, it felt, like every little word she said, how she said it, her body language when she said it. And she let him listen and watch and study. It was still warm in the straw of the stall. Comforting. She reached up and scratched at Imp’s ear, tugging softly, as she recalled her own ancient history.

“First love,” she started, “in secondary. Un jinete, por supuesto. You know, a jockey. He was beautiful and clever and strong. I liked him for being....all of those things. Then when I was fifteen he just disappeared,” she snapped her fingers, “No warning. I found him riding at Palmyra and I didn’t go back home when I did.”

“And America?” Laurence asked quietly.

“Eighteen.”

She glanced up into his face and his eyes pressed her for more information: why?

“Rocco asked my father, and,” she reached up and wrapped her hand around Saint Christopher as he hung around her neck. She didn’t finish her statement, but she did notice Laurence giving her a profound look.

“Je comprends.”

“I was eighteen,” she emphasized, more to herself than him.

“Je comprends,” he whispered again.

“I couldn’t give up freedom like that, quise ser diferente, había sido siempre diferente,” she continued on, not really acknowledging him. A silence settled over them again. Santa faced him. “I’m sorry,” she said seriously. He turned and their eyes met. “I was very wrong to ask you the very thing that had hurt me so much, to involve you, to scream at you,” she explained, “I’ve been hurting,” she took a deep breath, “Lately. I wanted to apologize.”

He reached up and took a strand of her hair between his fingers. He gave her a serious nod. “Je comprends.”

Neither of them noticed the single audience member just outside Imp’s stall until he snorted at Laurence’s gesture. “What the fuck are you doing sleeping in a rival barn, woman?” Eddie Ne snapped at them from the stall door.

Santa and Laurence stood up immediately. The Hong Kong jock pointed a satisfied finger at them both as he leaned over the door, unlatching it and swinging it open, his narrow black eyes boring into Laurence.

“A girl in every stall, huh, Laurence? You impress.” Laurence looked away. Eddie noticed the remains of their meal in the trays at his feet and, despite the hard punch he received in reply, he chirped at the blushing girl as she rushed past him. “Well fuck me, did he actually buy you breakfast first? Now that’s just sweet.”

NEXT ON:

Description
The Mana Farms story line frequently contains mature language, topics, and situations. The characters within are fictional beings with weaknesses and faults, and I cannot promise you that you will like them for what they believe, say and do.

PREVIOUSLY ON:

Nights had never been easy on Santa. Things were quieter. The ambient noises of the day: the pulse of hoofbeats, the rush of traffic, the occasional roar overhead of a passing plane, the steady chatter of work, the spontaneous bark of a dog, someone vacuuming an office, someone cursing, a breeze, a spattering of rain, the trumpeting call of a horse, the coo of a mourning dove, the squeal of someone’s child, the crunch of gravel as a truck passes over it, the sound of hay being tossed over a stall door. Sounds pushing out thoughts, drowning them, squashing them into tolerable levels of volume. If she didn’t have to work, she probably could have a decent rest during any simple afternoon. But night was different. Alone in a hotel room, devoid of conspicuous diversions, the mind of the nomadic jockey would consider events and consider remedies and Santa could never sleep for the incessant agonizing noise of her own thoughts.

At home, in Los Angeles, it might be different. Los Angeles was a treasury of incessant sound, not merely ambient, but obtrusive in the best sense twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It drove out doubt and longing and fear with the meaningless drone of a city trying very hard to convince itself of the existence of opportunity for all.

At home, there was also the dog, her long enormous greyhound inching his way into the bed like a worm, his black nose wriggling ever closer to her face until, at last, she surrendered and found herself awash in his giddy affections.

In Louisville, at night, on Phillips Lane, there was the roar of the interstate and the passing planes, a hotel location she had chosen for this explicit reason, but the voices in her head had proven to be louder, even against the rain. She hadn’t found him, but she had found a familiar black filly that was as much him as she might ever find on a day absent of Laurence LeClerc. Against her warm ribcage, Santa listened to the rush of air into those powerful unconquerable lungs and slipped into the quietest space she had known for months.

Dawn broke over the Twin Spires, draping the track in small curtains of light, little waterfalls of hope spilling over the eastern sides of the barns along the backside. Horses and people began to come to. Santa slowly awoke to familiar sounds...the rustle of hay, the hushed gossip of nearby grooms, the snort and snuffle of a nose in a bucket, boots and hooves splashing through puddles accumulated on concrete, a man humming softly to himself close to her. She blinked a couple of times and looked up into his face.

Laurence was sitting there inches away watching her. She sat up.

“You needed me?” he prompted gently.

“Yes,” she admitted.

He smiled to himself at that. “How much weight do you have to make up before Saturday?” he asked.

She blinked at him. “At least ten.”

He didn’t bother giving her a hard look the way the others had, though she did see a small flicker of distress in the creases that appeared on his face before he turned from her, wordlessly opening up two Styrofoam boxes at his feet and transferring more from one to the other. He handed the heavier one to her. “Mange.”

She couldn’t help the grin when she saw the contents of the menu. She flashed him a genuine smile, relief washing through her. “French toast?”

He shrugged.

“Thank you.”

He raised up his own box and stuck his fork into a slice of toast dusted with sugar. Santa stared at him. “What about you?” she asked, “Can you make weight if you eat that?”

“Don worry about me, Santa,” he demanded without looking at her. She shifted herself towards him so that they were both leaning against the side of the stall watching Imp lick the bottom of her feed bucket. They stayed like that for a few minutes, eating quietly, watching Imp who turned from her bucket and gazed with longing at the sugar dusted triangles piled in their trays.

“Come here, Imp,” Santa waved, and the filly leaned over and accepted a strip of toast which she worked at happily while Laurence watched the two of them together. He gave them an audible sigh.

Santa glanced at him, a little self consciously, “What are you staring at, Canada?”

He smirked, crossing his legs and leaning back against the wall. He nodded at the filly. Santa could guess his meaning without him saying a word. He couldn’t say it without implying something he knew would have made her uncomfortable and she was grateful for his respect of her dignity.

Santa laughed. “Timp is many important wonderful things to me, but my Habs? Not the same.”

Laurence’s face contorted spectacularly at that. “Quoi?”

“My dog.”

“His name is Habs?” Laurence nearly choked. Santa raised her eyebrows at the perplexed look on his face and nodded, taking another bite of her toast.

“Les Habitants?!” he tried to clarify.

Santa shook her head at him, though she was sad to see him deflate slightly, but only slightly, with her explanation. “My baby is a retired racer. A greyhound. His name was ‘Habitual Sinner’ on track, so, of course,” she smiled, “I loved him immediately.” She swung her chain around her fingers at that, then dropped Saint Christopher with a shrug. “I’ve just always called him Habs.”

Laurence gave an amused snort at that. His grin brimmed with so much delight he couldn’t prevent his fingers from drumming out a beat on his knees. Santa thought he looked like an older child who had just discovered that she didn’t know where babies really came from and he couldn’t wait to unleash the secret on her. He kept glancing at her, waiting for her to release the invisible tape holding his lips closed.

“Okay, I’m interested,” she caved, watching him fidget around this new buzzword, “Why is my dog’s name so damn funny to you? What is it? Is that some Quebecois vulgarity? Would my dog be a cursed little shit in Montreal?”

Laurence laughed out loud at that, startling her. He abruptly reached over and pulled her to him, ruffling her hair, and kissing the top of her head as if she were adorable for her naivete. He erupted seconds later.

“De Habs?! De Canadiens? Ice hockey?!”

“Oh no.”

“Hey!” He swatted her. “Don blaspheme. Dis is de Canadiens. A quarter of de Stanley Cups belong to dem! Do you know anything about it at all?”

Santa gave him a sideways glare. In reply he offered her the equivalent of the you-endearingly-ignorant-Colombian-let-me-educate-you look in his eyes. They pleaded with her. Pleaded. She laughed at him. “Educate me, baby.”

Santa sat there and listened as he began his animated story, giving her a full rundown of the game, the team, the religion. He made a small makeshift rink in the straw at their feet, complete with little green ends of strawberries for nets. He showed her the red lines, the blue lines, discussed the penalties, recalling his favorite moments, his hands waving about him, his eyes as bright as they had been when he’d retold the story of her hitting Remy Daigle with a chair. And Santa listened. She listened until he began to get carried away discussing player stats and ancient history, and she began fumbling with the paper of her straw, shoving it absently in one end.

Laurence turned and regarded her with a genuine look of disbelief on his face. “Was dat a spitball?”

“Maybe.”

Santa pursed her lips together, trying very hard not to laugh at him. He nodded his head. He understood. The stall grew quiet again for a few minutes before he murmured, “How did a girl like you end up here?” His voice was distant, but she could tell he was very interested in the reply by the way he grew very still beside her.

Santa sighed and pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. It was the universal symbol among jockeys for pain. Laurence turned his head and looked intently at her again, brushing Imp aside as she pestered them for scraps.

“His name was Rocco Zarate.”

Santa felt his warm brown eyes settling on her as she spoke, studying, it felt, like every little word she said, how she said it, her body language when she said it. And she let him listen and watch and study. It was still warm in the straw of the stall. Comforting. She reached up and scratched at Imp’s ear, tugging softly, as she recalled her own ancient history.

“First love,” she started, “in secondary. Un jinete, por supuesto. You know, a jockey. He was beautiful and clever and strong. I liked him for being....all of those things. Then when I was fifteen he just disappeared,” she snapped her fingers, “No warning. I found him riding at Palmyra and I didn’t go back home when I did.”

“And America?” Laurence asked quietly.

“Eighteen.”

She glanced up into his face and his eyes pressed her for more information: why?

“Rocco asked my father, and,” she reached up and wrapped her hand around Saint Christopher as he hung around her neck. She didn’t finish her statement, but she did notice Laurence giving her a profound look.

“Je comprends.”

“I was eighteen,” she emphasized, more to herself than him.

“Je comprends,” he whispered again.

“I couldn’t give up freedom like that, quise ser diferente, había sido siempre diferente,” she continued on, not really acknowledging him. A silence settled over them again. Santa faced him. “I’m sorry,” she said seriously. He turned and their eyes met. “I was very wrong to ask you the very thing that had hurt me so much, to involve you, to scream at you,” she explained, “I’ve been hurting,” she took a deep breath, “Lately. I wanted to apologize.”

He reached up and took a strand of her hair between his fingers. He gave her a serious nod. “Je comprends.”

Neither of them noticed the single audience member just outside Imp’s stall until he snorted at Laurence’s gesture. “What the fuck are you doing sleeping in a rival barn, woman?” Eddie Ne snapped at them from the stall door.

Santa and Laurence stood up immediately. The Hong Kong jock pointed a satisfied finger at them both as he leaned over the door, unlatching it and swinging it open, his narrow black eyes boring into Laurence.

“A girl in every stall, huh, Laurence? You impress.” Laurence looked away. Eddie noticed the remains of their meal in the trays at his feet and, despite the hard punch he received in reply, he chirped at the blushing girl as she rushed past him. “Well fuck me, did he actually buy you breakfast first? Now that’s just sweet.”

NEXT ON: