A Horse Called Hero

by Sam Angus

  As they reached Lilycombe, there was a savage crash, a heart-stopping flash, the yard brilliant with white light. The door of the farm was flung open and Hettie ran out, two oilskins in her hand.

  ‘Father – the lines are down – the cables down – no telephone – will you go for me – to the doctor – fetch the doctor . . .’

  Dodo nodded. They fumbled with the coats, the sleeves of them spinning and flapping in the wind, and turned their unwilling horses out of the yard down towards the river and the next village.

  Again they rode into the guttering, streaming wind, unnerved by the crying, the raging of the river, the straining and the creaking of the trees. Shivering and streaming with water, they arrived at the little house beside the Post Office.

  ‘It’s wind to blow the sea on to the land,’ said Doctor John doubtfully, unlatching his stable door.

  When they made their way back, the river had swollen to a torrent, the narrow track high above it slipping and sliding beneath their hoofs. The wind screamed in their ears, caught up a myriad hectic, swirling leaves around their feet. Somewhere in the whirling night there was a savage crash, a tree pulled mercilessly from its socket.

  Lovely Lilycombe was a beacon of amber light and warmth. Hettie hadn’t closed the curtains, but she had managed to lift her father, to carry him from where he’d fallen, to a makeshift bed on a sofa by the fire. At his master’s side, Dreadnought whimpered softly.

  Later, the children were sent to bed while the doctor and Hettie spoke quietly, her face drawn and grey. Outside the wind whined around Lilycombe like a coven of witches. The old windows rattled, the old house creaked like a boat on a stormy sea.

  By morning the doctor had left and the crisis had passed. Father Lamb had recovered his speech and his movement, was cross with himself to have troubled the doctor and his horse to come out on such a night.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The wind had dropped as suddenly as it had arisen but there’d been steady rain for three days. On the last day of the holidays the rain stopped and they woke to opaque mist, the sun white and mysterious as a moon.

  Hettie rushed into their room, hugging the sleepy Wolfie, hurried the children downstairs.

  ‘We’ve had a letter – you’ve a letter waiting . . .’

  On the breakfast table, propped up against a green vase of yellow gorse, stood an envelope from Pa. Father Lamb sat in a chair by the church window, a blanket round his shoulders, his head drooping. Dodo and Wolfie read the letter together.

  My dearest Dodo, dearest Wolfie,

  Box, my dear Sergeant Box, companion of both wars, survived – he got himself out of that barn – escaped the SS – and was later taken prisoner, wounded and placed in a German hospital. He’s been sent home now, as medically unfit. He wrote to me that he had lost his legs, that he’s home, but hospitalized. He says, God bless him, that when he’s well, he’ll fight with every last drop of his blood to clear my name.

  I will appeal, when Box is well enough, but still hope, in the meantime, that they’ll finally send me to the mines.

  Toodleoo, Pa

  ‘They will let him out,’ said Wolfie. ‘If Pa appeals they will let him out.’

  ‘Yes and his name would be cleared. You must celebrate for him,’ said Hettie. ‘It’ll be sunny and I’ve prepared you a picnic.’

  ‘Will you come, will you and Father Lamb come?’ whispered Dodo.

  ‘No.’ She smiled bravely. ‘I’ll stay with Father. Doctor John’s back later today and I’d be happier staying.’ She added a flask of lemonade to the basket, ‘Go to Hoar Oak, it will be beautiful up there today.’

  ‘Shall I stay with you?’ asked Dodo.

  ‘No, Father must rest and I must be here when Doctor John comes. But you must go and relish this God-given day.’

  In the yard she buckled Pa’s bag and strapped that and Wolfie’s bugle to Hero’s saddle. ‘Check the ponies on your way out and steer clear of the rivers,’ she said to Dodo. ‘They’re high and the ground’s wet after so much rain.’

  Pennycombe was swollen, the old withy severed from its roots, but the ponies stood in a circle of sunlight close by, grazing peacefully on the fresh wet grass.

  They left the rutted, leaf-strewn lane for the hill. On top the light was sharp as a blade, everything washed clean. Hero broke into a canter on the soft ground.

  ‘It’s like riding through a painting,’ said Dodo.

  Wolfie didn’t answer but laughed happily, leaning forward, arms draped down over the dappled neck, cheek to Hero’s mane.

  They jumped the glimmering runnels between the reeds, laughing and whooping. Racing across the heather, they dodged the sheep that clustered like so many daisies amidst the pink. On they went, whooping and laughing, their chests big with hope. Box would tell the truth, Box would clear Pa’s name.

  Ahead lay the cliffs and the sea. To the left lay the valley known as Hoar Oak Water.

  At Sheepwash they dropped down, off the hill and out of the wind. Scout was arthritic and careful, seeking the soft side of the bony deer path; behind her, Hero was springy and rhythmic and easy. Beneath them, amber water looped and turned and sung its way over rosy shale. Hoar Oak Water. Dodo liked to imagine that their mother had painted here, that she used to come to this spot.

  The warmth of the day was cupped in the narrow valley, like breath in a palm. They went on, taking the narrower cleave that opened on to Hoar Oak Water. Long Chains Coombe was a cleave of fairytale loveliness, the swollen stream a sparkling filigree of amber and silver. They let the horses drink, then crossed the water and loosely tethered them where the bank was soft and flat, to an old alder.

  Wolfie skimmed pebbles over the fleecy water. Dodo looked up at the treacherously steep hill on the other side of the water, then sighed and lay back on the turf. She listened to the mesmerizing muttering of the stream and, after a while, said, ‘Here it all seems far away and impossible – the war, Pa’s case, the trial, his sentence . . .’

  She began to peel a squished boiled egg. Wolfie turned his attention to a small stone, all encrusted with black and gold, yellow and white. He came back to the bank and reached for his magnifying glass.

  ‘What do you see, Wolfie, when you look?’ asked Dodo, watching him.

  ‘Lichen,’ said Wolfie stoutly. ‘Lots of lichen.’

  Dodo took the glass. ‘I see,’ she said, ‘a fairy-tale garden, all pink and silver, a place where nothing horrid will ever happen.’

  ‘When Pa sees Hero it will be like a story book,’ he answered, ‘and we can all live here with Hero.’

  ‘I like to imagine Ma was here, that she used to come and paint here,’ said Dodo.

  Wolfie didn’t answer.

  ‘The ponies,’ said Dodo eventually. ‘I’m only scared now about the ponies.’

  ‘And Father Lamb,’ said Wolfie. ‘I am worried about Father Lamb too.’

  A damselfly whirred past, wings flashing like fragments of fire. Dodo picked up her charcoal and sketchpad, turning to the head of Long Chains Coombe, where three hills draped themselves and joined their ancient, pleated feet at the cradle of the glacial valley.

  Wolfie unwrapped a sandwich. Shadow patterns of alder played on Hero’s dappled coat. Hero flicked his tail and tossed his head, annoyed at the horseflies that had come out with the sun. Alarmed to discover so much green in his sandwich, Wolfie picked out trails of watercress for him. Hero ate from Wolfie’s hand, lifting and turning his head as he chomped, to the hill where the moor rush billowed like the crest of a wave.

  The day ripened and hummed, gilding the westward wave of rush. Wolfie rolled up his trousers and began to build a dam, in the same spot as he’d built one last time they’d been here. Dodo abandoned her charcoal, lay back and dozed.

  The sun abandoned the valley. Wolfie was still at his dam when Dodo was woken by a fresh breeze. She shivered. The sky was greying, the sparkle of the day gone. Scout was fretting at her rope. Ready to go home, Dodo thought, w
atching her snort and paw the ground.

  Scout pulled free, snapping the branch that tethered her, tangling her rope. She reared, trying to free herself, pounding the soft grass, rearing again, nostrils flaring, eyes wide.

  ‘Scout’s loose!’ Dodo called. ‘Help me, Wolfie.’

  Wolfie, astride two stepping-stones, heard only the pealing of the water but he saw Dodo run barefoot along the bank, dodging dwarf thistles. With a firm hand on Scout’s neck, Dodo managed to disentangle the halter but Scout was breathing heavily, light and wary on her forelegs.

  ‘Shh, it’s all right.’ Dodo heard the quaver in her own voice. Usually so stout and steady, she seemed suddenly primeval and the fear in her was unsettling and contagious. Dodo glanced at Hero but the young grey horse was still, his deep gaze towards the homeward, eastward ridge of moor grass. Dodo followed his eyes and saw the sinister glow of it, fire-red as if burnished by a desert sun.

  Scout whipped round, shrieking, tearing the rope through Dodo’s hands, knocking her to the ground. Then the mare wheeled round and charged towards Hero. She nudged his flank with the bone of her head, nudged again. Hero whinnied and pulled at his rope. Dodo, on the ground between them, saw, properly now, the crest of the Hoar Oak valley, orange-red, the whole horizon a ridge of flame. Fear leaped inside her like a wild thing.

  ‘Quick, Wolfie – quick – fire – there’s a fire!’ she yelled.

  Scout whinnied again, shoving Hero with her head.

  ‘First bridle Hero,’ Dodo said to herself, ‘then Scout. She’ll stay – she won’t bolt without him.’

  With fumbling, panicky fingers, they bridled the horses.

  ‘Hurry, Wolfie, HURRY!’ Dodo screamed as Wolfie scrabbled at the girth, the terrified Hero pulling and dancing and throwing his head. ‘Don’t let go, whatever you do, don’t let him bolt,’ Dodo said to Wolfie. ‘It’s OK, OK,’ she breathed to Scout, but she could hear the fear in her own voice.

  Wolfie pulled Hero towards a rock from which to mount, but the horse threw his head, yanking the rope from his hands. Scrabbling for it, Wolfie called out to Dodo but his voice was lost in the rushing water, his horse wild and feral with fear.

  Dodo tethered Scout tightly to the withy and went to help. Scout squealed and struck at the tree. Hero reared and thrashed, wild eyed and feral with fear. He spun round, knocking Dodo to the ground. She cried out and doubled up in searing pain, knees to her chest, the wind taken out of her. Wolfie caught the rope and held the jigging, prancing horse.

  ‘Get on – get on him,’ Dodo called from the ground. She forced herself to stand and staggered over, biting her lip in pain, holding out her left arm for the rope. ‘Just get on,’ she pleaded.

  Wolfie looked at her in horror, her right arm hanging limp, her eyes starred with silent, valiant tears.

  ‘Quick as you can,’ she said, her voice trembling, holding Hero with her left arm, her left hand pushing deep into the soft spot of his neck to control him. Wolfie stood on his stone and scrambled on.

  Dodo clutched her right arm to her chest. She looked up and scanned the tops of the hills. The eastward, homeward stretch of heather, was all orange flame. The Hoar Oak ridge was all orange flame, the southward ridge above Long Chains Coombe was orange flame. To the north lay the sea cliffs, cliffs higher than Dover, that plunged vertically to the sea. To the west lay the Chains. The fire had started perhaps near Sheepwash, thought Dodo and it had a good eastward wind behind it. Dodo cast around, that slope to the south was too steep for the horses, they must follow the valley to the west. She took her coat and tied, one-handed, a knot in the sleeves, then placed it round her neck. Easing the bad arm in, she stumbled over to Scout.

  A stag, sudden and prehistoric, was flying up the cleave towards them, leaping along the far side of the water towards the head of the valley. A dark knot of ponies raced, huddled and tight, along the northward ridge towards the west and the Chains. Follow the animals, Dodo calculated, follow the stag.

  She’d have only seconds to mount. Once she’d unclipped Scout’s rope she’d bolt.

  Dodo stepped up on to a hump beside Scout. She put one foot in the stirrup in readiness. Scout tossed her head and pawed the ground. Dodo pulled herself up with her good arm and lent forward to unclip the halter but Scout reared and tore herself free, jumping to one side in a sudden cat leap, tangling Dodo in the low branches of the withy. Dodo doubled over her neck, searching for the other stirrup, as Scout plunged down to the stream, splashed and slipped across the stones then leaped up the bank on the far side, Dodo still fighting to stay on.

  When she could, she turned to check where Wolfie was. He was behind, Hero’s muzzle to Scout’s tail. Scout was careering towards a zigzagging track at the head of the cleave, a track known as Postman’s Path, the same path the stag had taken. Fitful and panicky with fear, Scout stumbled and staggered up the steep, crumbling shillet.

  As they neared the top, a warm, dry wind whipped their shirts, whipped the horses’ manes. The fire was spreading, the strong wind from the east, the cliffs to the north and the impassable slope to the south, they would be forced westward with the stag and the ponies. Scout staggered on to the ridge, her chest heaving. Dodo cast around, feeling the fierce dry rush of the fire, her single hand trembling on the reins. A sea of flame stretched to the eastward, homeward horizon and southward. Hero whinnied and pranced, wide-eyed and whirling, smelling the fire.

  Scout, recovering from the hill, began to jig and pirouette like a circus horse, clockwise then anticlockwise. Dodo saw the hunger of the fire, the leaping tongues and swirling sparks. Gulls wheeled hectic circles overhead, like confetti in a storm.

  ‘It’s spreading,’ she whispered, looking to the path they’d come, across the flaming homeward sky, turning to the northward cliffs and then to the country they didn’t know, the Chains. ‘The Chains is our only hope,’ she said. ‘The ground there’s wet, rushy . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Scout too, had decided to head for the Chains.

  ‘Stay close!’ yelled Dodo as they rode towards the rush. ‘Stay with me, Wolfie.’

  Rush stood in drifts waist high, for as far as she could see, each blade of it glinting with the sinister amber of the fire. The ground would be hard going, all tall tussocks and sudden peaty holes.

  Dodo’s reins were loose now over the saddle, her right arm held close to her chest by her left, only her legs free to grip with. Scout staggered and lurched, making heavy weather of the difficult ground. She stumbled and plummeted into a yielding, treacherous pocket of mossy wet. She paused, her flanks heaving, her forelegs mired. Thrown forward over Scout’s neck, hugging her arm to her chest in pain, Dodo waited for Scout to regain her footing.

  The ground was threaded with broken streams and pools of standing water that held the sky like fragments of bloodied glass. Dodo closed her eyes and tried to blot out the pain in her arm and shoulder, clenched her muscles to squeeze out the quaking of her legs.

  ‘Stick to the heather,’ Hettie had always said. ‘Heather likes to be dry’ – but they’d had no choice.

  A marsh bird rose and whirled away, startled.

  Dodo whispered Scout on. Scout squealed but didn’t move. Dodo kicked her, the movement in her legs sending a bolt of pain down her arm, but Scout only shrieked and tossed her head. Again Dodo kicked, again and again. Scout lowered her head and soldiered on, sloshing, lurching, sinking to her hocks at each step in black mud.

  Dodo’s arm burned, her chest burned. Her breath was panicky and jerky with fear. Scout’s flanks heaved with exhaustion but she staggered on and on, then suddenly her left foreleg was deep into the soft liquid earth, sinking deeper and deeper, to her forearm. She paused, quivering, then wrenched it out, heaving with the effort of it, but now her left foreleg was sinking, sinking deeper and deeper into soft, liquid earth.

  A trail of strange water-plants clung to Scout’s legs. A strange acid smell was released from the earth. Dodo choked and half retched on
the stench of it. Sphagnum. They were in a sphagnum bog. That foreleg was in to the elbow. Dodo panicked and kicked again hard. Scout squealed. She was quivering and straining, trying to dislodge first one leg, then the other. She pulled but couldn’t release them.

  She started to wheeze, her nostrils pink and wide with fear. With an immense and sudden effort, Scout reared, almost unseating Dodo, who clung with her left hand to her mane. Scout fell, plunging a little to the right, but she was sinking, forelegs falling, sinking deeper in, deeper and deeper in. Like a boat, she was listing in the mud, the left side of her deeper in than the right, mired now to the elbows, in sphagnum sponge.

  ‘Sphagnum lies over liquid peat’: Hettie’s words echoed in Dodo’s head. There’d be nothing below them but liquid peat!

  Scout whinnied, a shrill, gaunt warning.

  Hero answered from behind.

  ‘Get back, Wolfie!’ Dodo yelled. ‘No – stay where you are – don’t move.’ She was paralysed by pain, nauseous with fear. Sphagnum. They were caught, trapped in a swaying pool of sphagnum. ‘Wolfie – hold him back – hold him – don’t let him follow!’ she screamed, half retching with the acid stench.

  Minutes passed. She must wait for Scout to regain her strength; those forelegs were still quivering, the flanks still heaving. Dodo’s ears droned with the humming of small flying things. She looked around again, searching for she knew not what. Fifteen feet or so away, there was rush. Rush and a stunted thicket of alder and sallow. Beyond the bog, the lonely empty miles of rush stretched away on all sides.

  ‘Rush doesn’t care for the worst places,’ Hettie always said. ‘It likes water but prefers her roots firmly anchored.’

  She must get Scout to that thicket. Only a short distance and the ground would be firm. Trembling like a leaf, she pleaded, ‘Please . . . please, Scout . . .’ She kicked, kicked again. Pain shot up her arms, across her chest. Scout’s neck heaved and swelled, her nostrils flared. She tried to move her forelegs, but they floundered, the mud rising above Dodo’s stirrups, over her boots. Each attempt at movement was sending Scout’s legs deeper in.