Wonder Light

by R. R. Russell

  Chapter 7

  Come on, Twig,” Casey said. “We’ll do it together. First, Story’s stall and then Rain Cloud’s.” She offered Twig a rake. Twig just stared at it, but Casey nudged it at her insistently, her dark, delicate brows furrowed.

  Twig took it. Well, if Mrs. Murley was leaving, she couldn’t leave little Casey to do double the work. And she supposed it was only right that she do something to earn that breakfast.

  The stable doors were left open to let the fresh, cool air in. Still, it was hard, smelly work, and Twig had to stop to unzip her shell.

  After they’d cleaned out both stalls, they dumped the buckets of soiled bedding into a wheelbarrow. Casey grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and jerked at it, trying in vain to tip it up onto its wheel.

  “I guess we should’ve dumped one stall at a time,” Casey said breathlessly.

  Casey struggled with the wheelbarrow. She was sturdy for her size, but she was getting nowhere. Twig examined her own skinny fingers. She wasn’t made for this kind of thing. She glanced around the stable. Everyone else was outside. Twig had no desire to shovel that manure back out of the wheelbarrow in order to lighten it, and nobody else was going to push it.

  “Oh, here,” Twig said. “Just give it to me. I’ll do it.”

  Casey relinquished the handles and blew her bangs out of her eyes with a breath of relief. “Thanks,” she said sheepishly.

  Twig grimaced and put her whole body weight, little though there was, into it. The wheelbarrow teetered sideways, then, mercifully, onto its wheel. She ran with it before it had a chance to change its mind and tip back down. Who would’ve thought two little ponies could produce such a load in just one day? She couldn’t wait to see the size of the muck heap.

  She found the rut worn through the grass by repeated wheelbarrowing and struggled over the bumpy, wet earth toward the edge of the clearing. Had Twig known beforehand what a long a way it was to the muck heap, she might not have offered to push after all.

  “So we don’t smell the stink all the time!” Casey shouted over her shoulder as she ran ahead of Twig and the wheelbarrow, showing her the way.

  But that meant, of course, that they had to smell it all the way there. Her arms shook, and she pushed harder with her legs. The last thing she wanted was to let the wheelbarrow back down and fight with it in front of Regina, who was sauntering back to the stable with an empty wheelbarrow.

  After she finally got to dump it out, Twig gave the wheelbarrow a look of disgust and turned her back on it. Casey could bring it back now.

  Mrs. Murley emerged from the stable. When she smiled at Twig and Casey, her dark eyes glittered. “Looks good in there, girls. A good student and a good teacher.”

  Casey blushed and ducked to hide her smile. Twig zipped her shell back up.

  ***

  After lunch some of the girls went back out to ride their ponies. They’d met all their behavior goals for the week, and Mrs. Murley was going to take them on a ride down to the beach, now that the sun was out and the mist was gone. The others pouted and then resigned themselves to sprawling in the living room with a game of Monopoly. There didn’t seem to be any TV at Island Ranch. Well, Twig was used to no TV, from back when she was with Mom. They hadn’t even had power in their house. Not that it was really their house, as the police had made plain when they came to clear the squatters out—and found the other stuff Mom was doing. And found Twig.

  Mr. Murley suggested that now would be a good time for Casey to help Twig unpack, so Twig followed her back to their room and they both sat on the bed and stared at the suitcase.

  Twig made no move to unpack, and Casey got more and more wiggly and uneasy, until she finally said, “Well, at least get out your pajamas, then, if you’re just going to leave tomorrow.”

  Twig took out some sweats to sleep in and shoved the suitcase onto the floor and crossed her arms. Casey bit her lip and left.

  She couldn’t go back to Keely. But how could she stay here and feel useless and stupid and have a pony just to remind her of that, day after day? Maybe she’d be better off sneaking into the forest and letting the island’s ghosts destroy her first. What would saying something like that do for her behavior goals?

  Twig opened up her backpack and took out several folded-up sheets of paper and flattened them on the bed. She’d printed out these stories she’d found online about Lonehorn Island. The abandoned island. The island that early pioneers had disappeared from, that others had fled, claiming ghostly horses and phantom riders had driven them out. In the 1990s, a family had tried to camp on the island. They’d come back with stories of ghost horses and riders, and strange, deadly, flashing blades.

  Some said the riders were armed with these weapons; some said it was the horses. Some said the ghosts were Edward Murley, who bought the whole island for a steal in the 1890s, and his three sons, who’d died, along with their horses, in mysterious riding accidents, one after the other, before the family finally gave up on the island. They were the ones who’d named it, the ones who’d passed it down from generation to generation, to the current owner, Mr. David Murley.

  Twig didn’t come out until dinner, and no one tried to make her. Dinner was pot roast dripping with gravy, and potatoes and carrots that had simmered in the Crock-Pot all day. At Mom’s, she’d gotten by on canned tuna and dry cornflakes and plain white bread. Keely fed her pasta drizzled with olive oil, accompanied by a few skimpy strips of grilled chicken.

  When the beef was all gone, Twig resorted to sneaking finger-swipes of gravy from her plate. Mr. Murley winked at her, passed her the basket of dinner rolls, and showed her how to use them to sop the gravy up.

  After dinner, it was back to the ponies. The mist had returned, a light fog that watered down the setting sun. Twig followed the girls to the pasture and stood there with her hands in her jacket pockets, watching their ponies come to them and nuzzle them.

  In the woods behind the pasture shelter, Twig caught a glimpse of movement. She ran over to the fence and peered into the trees, just in time to see the back of someone disappear swiftly, quietly, into the brush. Ghost Boy! Twig held her breath. She stood still and she looked and looked, but he was gone. No horse this time as far as she could tell. Maybe he was trying to be more careful. But careful of what? What did a ghost have to be careful of?

  Regina walked by with her pony’s lead in hand and caught Twig frowning at the trees.

  “I like it here,” Regina admitted with a shrug, “but those woods give me the creeps. Like there’s something out there. I’d stick to the clearing if I were you.”

  Twig nodded vaguely. She didn’t think Regina had seen Ghost Boy. Maybe she was like Mr. Murley—just had a feeling something wasn’t quite right.

  “There’s some nice paths where we ride.” Regina pointed across the pasture. “That way, there’s a little meadow. Mr. Murley was planning on clearing more trails through the woods, but now, I don’t know.”

  Twig looked at her questioningly.

  “He keeps finding some reason to put it off.” Regina ran her fingers absently through her pony’s mane. “Your mom’s coming tomorrow?”

  “Stepmom.”

  “Are you going back with her?”

  Twig shrugged. Could she really do this every day? How long would it be before they expected her to do it all herself, like the other girls? How long would it be before Rain Cloud made his dislike for her painfully clear?

  ***

  Mrs. Murley approached Twig. Casey had gone into the stable without her, without offering to help. She hadn’t said a word to Twig since the suitcase.

  “Why don’t you try to catch him this time?”

  Rain Cloud was the last pony left in the pasture. Twig shook her head, so Mrs. Murley called Rain Cloud. She rubbed his forehead and clipped on his lead rope. Then she handed it to Twig. Reluctantly, Twig pulled her hands ou
t of her jacket pockets and took hold of the lead. She stepped toward the stable. Rain Cloud followed, keeping a scornful eye on Twig. Twig was certain the pony was dragging his feet just a little, but Mrs. Murley didn’t seem to notice.

  Twig got Rain Cloud settled with fresh water and feed, then slid past him, out of the stall. She shut the door with a sigh of relief. She’d survived her first stint at pony managing.

  Casey was just finishing up with Story. Twig offered her a small, apologetic smile, and Casey plunked a brush back into Story’s grooming kit and smiled back weakly.

  Twig leaned her back against Rain Cloud’s door and noticed something she hadn’t seen before at the end of the row. There was the stall for Mrs. Murley’s horse, Feather, much bigger than the ponies’ stalls, and right next to it, another large stall with a plaque engraved by a grown-up hand that read “Caper.”

  There was no head peeking over this stall, no nickering from the other side of the door. And while Feather had been a part of the chore routine just like the ponies, Twig had yet to see another horse or to hear any mention of the name Caper.

  Across the walkway, Taylor gave her pony a last rub on the nose and latched her stall door. “That was Mr. Murley’s horse,” she said, even more seriously than usual.

  “Was?”

  “He died. Something…got him. That’s why Mr. Murley rebuilt the fence. That’s why it’s so high.”

  Casey whispered in Twig’s ear, “The wild horses ate him.”

  Prickles ran down the back of Twig’s neck. Something shifted behind her, grabbed her by the ear. She shrieked, pulled back, and banged her head against the stall wall. She turned around to face the ghost horse, the wild creature, whatever it was that was trying to eat her.

  Twig found herself looking right into one of Rain Cloud’s dark, skeptical eyes.

  “It’s just Rain Cloud,” Taylor said with the slightest hint of a smile.

  Regina erupted in laughter.

  “Trying to taste you.” Casey patted Twig’s hand. “He just wants to get to know you.” Then, in the lowest of whispers, “He’s a good pony. Not like those things in the woods.”

  Chapter 8

  Twig shoved her still-unpacked suitcase a little farther toward the foot of her bed. She peeled the green comforter back. The sheets were cool, and she was tired.

  Casey’s doll fell to the floor, and one fake eye rattled open, the other shut. Twig picked it up so that Casey wouldn’t have to reach down for it. You never knew what was under the bed, especially when you were only eight. Twig tucked it next to Casey.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.” Twig turned back to her own bed, then hesitated. “I saw him again.”

  “The wild boy?”

  Twig sat on the edge of her bed and folded her arms across her chest. “Do you know who he is?”

  Casey shook her head. “He’s been here all along, I think. But I never seen him until a couple days ago. I think he’s looking for something.”

  Casey didn’t seem to know about the ghost stories, didn’t seem to think the boy was a ghost. Twig decided it was best not to mention that possibility just yet. “I wonder what he could be looking for,” Twig said, then, more to herself, “and why’s he looking here?”

  When Casey didn’t answer, Twig curled up on the top half of her bed and pulled the comforter up over her shoulders.

  “Mr. Murley has a gun,” Casey whispered into the silence. “Just in case. Regina told me. He keeps it locked up somewhere.”

  “Hmm,” Twig said. Somehow she didn’t think Ghost Boy would care one whit about Mr. Murley’s gun.

  ***

  Twig gave up trying to get to sleep. She grabbed her mini-backpack from under her pillow, just in case, and crept out of bed and into the hall. A nightlight glowed reassuringly, showing the way to the front of the house. Though the wall of windows on the pasture side of the house revealed only a thick, low fog, moonlight streamed into the living room through the skylights in the sloping roof—a paler, wilder sort of light that gave her a chill.

  Someone had left the kitchen light on. She headed for the lit-up kitchen, away from the searching island moon, and she paused in front of the refrigerator. Printed on photo paper and magneted to the fridge was the blurry, green picture Mr. Murley had taken on their way up from the cove. Someone, probably Taylor, had added the caption, “Mr. Murley’s Bird, Lonehorn Island, Washington,” followed by the date.

  Beside it, under a magnet made of baked clay smooshed into the shape of a horse, was an index card, stained with a ring of coffee and bearing the neatly printed words “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.”

  What a strange place she’d ended up in. But the food was good. Were midnight snacks allowed? Well, she’d find out soon enough. Pondering who was supposed to not lose heart—the Murleys or the girls—she pulled the door open, then jolted.

  A high whinny broke the near silence of a kitchen at midnight, pierced the buzz of the ceiling light, the hum of the refrigerator. Twig’s heart beat faster. She gripped the fridge handle tighter. It was nothing. She was going to have to get used to living here, to animal sounds.

  Another whinny. Twig froze. This whinny was desperate; as little as Twig knew about horses, there was no denying that. A shiver ran down the back of her neck.

  Twig shook the shiver off and slammed the refrigerator door shut. She’d lost her appetite. But even without the cold draft from the fridge, the shiver came back. This was silly. Why would any of the ponies be desperate? There was no one here to bother them. The stable doors were latched tight against wild animals. Ponies made noises. Maybe one of them was having a bad dream. Did ponies dream?

  But no pony whinny from inside the stable could travel into the kitchen so clear like that. Was there a pony outside the stable?

  Another whinny—more of a scream. Twig scrambled up onto the counter, reached over the sink, and tore the curtains back. The three-quarter moon hovered high above the tree line, but the low fog hung heavy in the yard, shifting slowly. In the fog, something else moved. It might have been invisible if it weren’t moving in the opposite direction of the mist. Twig gasped. No ranch pony had made that whinny! It belonged to the ghostly form flowing against the mist.

  Chapter 9

  Ghost Boy and his horse formed a gray-white silhouette, creeping through the shifting fog. Ghost Boy leaned toward another pale, phantomlike form. He was riding one horse and holding the lead of another, pulling it along. It followed, but not without tossing its head and kicking up the turf right beside the boy. Where was he going? Then Twig realized—he was headed right for the stable!

  Twig half fell off the counter and skidded across the glossy hardwood floor, through the great room and the entryway, to the front door. She paused, fingers trembling on the deadbolt. What was she thinking, going out there? She’d just open the door, real quiet, and watch. At least she could know. She had to know. She slid the bolt and eased the door open, then slipped out into the shadows of the porch. She searched the fog for any movement that didn’t belong to the mist, but the yard was empty. She was too late. Ghost Boy was gone.

  No, not gone. The stable door was standing wide open. Inside, ponies neighed and snorted indignantly. There was a deeper, wilder snort and cry—a horse cry. Was Ghost Boy in there?

  Twig was still frozen there, trying to decide what to do, when the boy emerged. His cloak billowed in the wind, moss green—or maybe it was mist blue. Moonlight filtered through the mist and skittered over it, shifting the color of the fabric. It wasn’t just the moonlight, Twig realized; the cloak itself was a dapple of colors, like Daddy’s camouflage.

  Ghost Boy shut the stable doors carefully, silently. His horse made a low, warning whinny and pawed at the ground. The boy stiffened for a fraction of an instant, listening, or maybe sensing in some other way, just a
s the horse had, a presence in the night. Then the boy sprang into action with a heightened urgency. He slammed the latch in place, gave the doors a jerk to test them. Gone was all concern for stealth. He caught the horse’s lead just as a fearsome animal noise came from far off in the woods—distinctly horselike, but just as distinctly predatory.

  Twig had never heard a horse sound described as a howl, but howl was the only word for the noise coming from the woods. Then came a whole chorus of the same sounds. Twig yelped, and Ghost Boy jumped and looked right at her. His cloak flapped in the wind with a sharp snap, and he looked as though he wanted to say something just as sharp, but he leaped onto the horse’s back instead.

  Torn-up earth flew with the horse’s every bounding step. The gate was open, but the boy and his horse jumped the fence instead, and they disappeared into the mist and the shadows, where, in the distance, wild things whinny-howled. The warmth and safety of the house beckoned Twig, begged her to lock herself in, away from the island’s secrets—secrets that were no longer content to be left alone. Secrets that were also searching.

  Twig wanted to run in and bolt the door, but the gate at the end of the driveway, the only entrance to the safe little bubble of house and stable and paddocks, was standing wide open. Ghost Boy must’ve opened it to bring the other horse in—the horse that was now unaccounted for. Twig squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and ran for the gate. The wind and the whinny-howls in her ears nearly drove her to scream.

  The steel gate was cold and night-wet in her hands. She banged it shut and latched it. But as soon as she did, she realized how stupid that was. If Ghost Boy could jump the fence, who was to say that whatever was out there couldn’t too?

  And what if she hadn’t shut it out at all? What if she’d just shut it in? What had happened to the other horse? Twig took a few steps toward the stable. The ponies were making quiet, unhappy noises—not desperate noises, but still, something wasn’t right. Something was different. Did she dare find out what?