Born Winner

Published by Joshua Boers at September 20, 2024

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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

As Trigonos the Soothsayer shambled his way to the pre-race paddock, no one would have ever guessed that he was born to be a winner.

He was an ugly, hunched thing, with a drooling jaw and rickety fetlocks that crackled as he walked. The competing centaurs were slender and strong-backed, with haughty faces that could have been carved from stone. Most looked away or busied themselves in conversation. Trigonos was tolerated here, but he was not welcome.

“I demand entrance!” he cried. “By right of blood!”

And such blood he had. Trigonos was the most thoroughbred centaur who ever lived — the most thoroughly bred. Grammateus the Storm-Footed, whose records at the hippodrome of Delphi had never been touched, was his ancestor thrice-over: his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather.

Before Trigonos was foaled, bookmakers sold short odds on his first race, expecting greatness from Grammateus’ heir. The tickets were worthless the moment he emerged — lumpy and misshapen, unable to stand for days, then lurching and limping on withered legs. He had been a disappointment since before he could remember.

The gatekeeper opened the gate more slowly than was strictly necessary.

Trigonos looked from face to face. They were all family — nearly every centaur alive was bred from the Grammateus the Long-Lived and Prolific. Only his progeny were swift enough to win a race, so only his progeny were studded. Soon enough, only his progeny remained. But no one would meet Trigonos’ gaze. Not his half-brother, not his sister-cousin, not his uncle-nephew.

So he spoke to no one in particular.

“Hear this! You despise me because I tell you what you already know. You have inherited the speed of Grammateus, and yet each generation grows weaker — thinner legs, smaller hearts, feebler minds. The line of Grammateus will strangle the centaur race, if you do not prevent it!”

No one looked at him.

Trigonos turned his attention to a young colt, clutching his shoulder in a desperate, six-fingered grip.

“Heed me, youngster! I have trained my mind as you have trained your body. I have the knowledge of the stars! You will win every race tonight. If this happens, you will have the longest studding career since the great centaur himself. And this, above all, will doom centaurs to extinction. You must not race.”

Had Trigonos spent as much time studying psychology as the movement of the stars, he may have known that this was exactly the wrong thing to say. The colt turned away, hiding a secret smile.

“Annihilation!” cried Trigonos, smiting the ground with his hooves. “Ruin!”

No one listened.

No one ever did.

Trigonos shambled out of the paddock and toward the betting window, secure in the knowledge that he had tried to do the noble thing. The centaurs are gone now, drowned in a dwindling gene pool. But Trigonos — Trigonos the Wealthy, the seer who read racing odds in the stars — lived his remaining years in luxury, and was not much bothered by their fate.

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