“It’s beautiful,” I said, looking all around.
“Isn’t it, though?” she said. “And it’s all yours.”
I looked at her.
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Before you came,” she said, “your room was just a sitting room, so we all had easy access to this. But now that it is to be your room alone, it would be rude were we to traipse through your privacy without your permission, just so that we might also enjoy the view.”
I thought about this for a moment.
“Do you mind very much?” I asked.
“No, dear,” she said. “Besides, the weather is hardly ever good enough to enjoy the view.”
Just then, the wind kicked up as though it had somehow heard her and wanted to underscore her last words.
I was glad I was getting to enjoy this, however briefly, on the one good day for the month, since who knew when there might be another such chance.
It was so tranquil up there and I had such a need for tranquillity in my life now. If the wind kicked up no further, I thought I could gladly spend the remainder of my free day up there, just looking around me, at peace in a place where I could see the world but the world could not begin to touch me.
And yet something inside of me stirred.
If I were a man, I thought, the first thing I would want to do in a new territory would be to take action, to have some kind of adventure. Surely a man would not have shopping be his first official activity. Why should I be any different?
And Nancy Drew, what of Nancy Drew?
She, who would have undoubtedly arrived prepared, would most definitely be reaching for action and adventure before bothering with anything else.
Impulsively, I turned to Mrs. Fairly.
“If I were just a regular tourist,” I said, “what’s the most adventurous thing I could still do around here today?”
I dearly hoped she wasn’t going to say skydiving.
Of all the adventurous things I’ve ever wanted to do—I’m really not naturally adventurous at all, so it’s not like I’ve ever been hugely tempted—jumping out of the sky had never been one of them. Living close to the ground, as my short body forces me to do, is a good enough reason for not being too keen on heights.
Mrs. Fairly didn’t even need to think about it.
“The ponies,” she said. “If you were just a regular tourist, you would go for a ride on one of Iceland’s little wild horses.”
How bad could that be?
I found out, not long after my arrival at Ishestar, the stables from which I was going to do my two-hour guided tour. Surely, the name Ishestar, so close to Ishtar, the Hollywood disaster, should have clued me in to what lay in my future.
What can I say? I’ve never been good at reading signs. If there was an omen to be had, I was sure to misread it.
The Icelandic horse has been around as long as men have walked on that cold island, which is a very long time.
Oh, not the same horse, but you get the idea.
The current Icelandic horse is small yet strong, and is a purebred descendant of its ancestors from the Viking age. An intelligent animal, it has an unusual stepping style, known as the tolt, or running walk, which presumably makes the ride it gives smooth. Legend has it that the ride it gives is so smooth, a rider could carry a tray of drinks at full speed without losing a drop. Horse lovers from all over thrill at the speedy speeds of these small animals, who are considered to be exceptionally sure-footed and easy to handle.
Not that any of that did me a whole lot of fucking good.
Fuck! FuckfuckFUCK! my mind screamed as I juddered along in the saddle of this insane creature I found myself on.
I was in a grouping of a dozen people plus two leaders, out for a gentle ride.
I knew that if I really were Nancy Drew, I’d have made fast friends with the other eleven members of my group, especially the two guides.
Nancy was always making fast friends. Indeed, if she were compelled to seek shelter from a storm in a barn, inevitably someone would show up and offer to iron her clothes, and before long she’d be eating cake with them at the kitchen table of the farmhouse, listening to one of them as she burst into impromptu song, impulsively offering to help the impromptu singer locate a professional voice coach to launch her on her operatic career.
But I was not Nancy Drew…certainly not yet.
I suppose it’s remotely possible I might have enjoyed the experience—the feel of beast beneath me, the beautiful scenery whizzing by—were it not for the fact that I was hating every second of it.
I was terrified.
Never one to fear death—of the top three phobias, it had always been public speaking and spiders that terrified me, never death—I was now so very fearful at every second during this hellish ride, I hadn’t even a moment’s clear thought in which to remind myself of how unfearful of death I was!
Back at the stables, they’d provided us with hard helmets to wear; mine, the smallest they had, was so big it practically covered my eyes. They’d also given the novices rudimentary instructions on how to get the animals to start, go faster, slow down, stop and I could have sworn I’d been listening closely, but now that I was astride the little demonic beast, I couldn’t seem to do anything to get it to slow down, let alone stop.
When we’d left the stables, I’d noticed the other adults in the party were all normal-size and the two guides were larger than normal, meaning the small horses looked dwarfed underneath them. I was the only one the horse seemed proportionally to fit, a rare feeling that had instilled confidence in me in those first few moments—these small horses had been built by God for me!—and yet now I was the only one apparently who had no control.
The others trotted on ahead, farther and farther in the distance ahead of me. Yet, even though I was the laggard, I was going far more quickly than my own comfort allowed.
Oh, well, I sighed, holding on to the reins for dear life. If I get hopelessly lost back here, surely they will send someone out looking for me. Eventually.
As the horses and riders grew ever smaller in the distance ahead of me, I heard a noise, an increasing thunder from behind, accompanied by the barking of a dog.
Turning in my saddle—a tactical error, I’ll grant you—I saw four riders, the four horsemen of my apocalypse, coming up behind me, a large dog racing beside them.
They were all men, the one in the lead riding without a helmet.
“If you don’t know how to ride, you should get out of the way for those who do!” one of the men shouted. I was so surprised at both the content and tone of the message that I was too intimidated to figure out which one of the four had spoken.
Remembering only that the reins were supposed to be like a steering wheel—not that I had any firsthand knowledge of driving cars—I yanked hard to the right.
Another tactical error.
No sooner did I pull on the reins, hard as I could, the horse immediately veering to the right as per my instructions, than I felt that the turn had been too sharp. The ostensible pony tripped over an outcrop of rock, inconveniently placed in my new path, and when it pulled up short, I felt myself sliding out of the saddle, the far foot leaving the stirrup while the near one remained stuck, so that I fell down through the air but caught there like a trapeze artist as my head struck against the rock that had tripped us up.
Thank God for the helmet that had made me look ridiculous.
Even if my brains hurt dreadfully, at least they weren’t dashed.
The pony was at least well mannered enough to stand still in one spot, gently grazing—why couldn’t the damn thing have been gentle when I was riding it?—as I hung suspended.
My brains must have been at least a little scrambled because it felt like a while before I was able to properly process what was going on around me. When the fog cleared, the first thing I noticed was the large dog, black, its face in mine, sniffing.
Have I mentioned yet that I’m scared of big dogs?
>
Even Nancy Drew, when confronted with a big dog, could be thrown off her game.
I hoped the dog would go away before biting me.
And then the first words I properly heard were:
“Captain! Get out of her face!”
Captain, who I then assumed to be the dog, removed himself. In his place came the face of a man without a helmet, who I then assumed to be the lead rider.
It was an odd face, sharing many of the features of Buster’s beautiful one, only in this case, it was as though God had screwed it up a bit. He looked to be a few years older than Buster, his dark hair grayer, his brown eyes sadder and sterner and sharing none of the more benign mischief Buster’s had, his teeth when his full lips separated for him to speak creating an almost savage look about him.
He could have used a shave, too.
I remembered from Nancy Drew that bad people were often unattractive—so maybe Icelanders were purely good?—and always obnoxious. And while I would not say this man was unattractive, he was neither attractive in any sense that would be termed so. Certainly, if he was the one who had called out for me to get out of the way, he was capable of being obnoxious.
I also remembered from Nancy Drew that bad people are also fast and reckless drivers. Did that count for horses, too? Of course, sometimes Nancy drove fast, but that was okay. She always had legal reasons, she was careful about it, and no cop ever wanted to give her a ticket.
To be thinking these things, I thought, maybe I did have a head injury!
Although his words to the dog had been sharp, as he placed his face close to mine, his words were soft, if urgent.
“Are you all right?” he asked, covering my hand with his.
Upside down as I was, I gave the matter some thought.
I was feeling battered, to be sure, and the blood continually rushing to my head wasn’t helping any. Feeling foolish wasn’t helping any, either.
But other than that?
It didn’t feel as though anything was broken. If it was, I would know it, right? Nor did I feel, outside of the free associations to all things Nancy Drew, as though I had sustained a concussion. I’d know that, too, if I had, right? Wouldn’t I feel confused if I had a concussion? But then I suddenly realized with confusion that felt so strong it was like its own nth degree version of confusion, something I decided to thenceforth christen “conusion,” even if Webster’s never agreed with me: If I were confused, how would I know it?
“What’s your name?” the lead rider demanded.
I got the feeling that he was overcompensating with the sternness, perhaps embarrassed by the concern he felt.
But then, I thought, what did I know? I, after all, was conused.
“Charlotte Bell,” I answered after a moment.
“Huh,” he said. “You don’t sound too sure of that.”
His voice was a deep bass. I liked it, even the harsh parts.
“I am now.” I forced a smile. “My name is Charlotte, Charlotte Bell.”
“Who’s in the White House?” was his next demand.
“Do you want me to tell you who in fact is in the White House right now,” I countered, “or are you some kind of spy who wants me to tell you who I wish were in the White House right now?”
He threw his head back—it was a nice affectation that he took joy so seriously—and laughed.
But, even as I started to join in, his features clouded and he placed his face close by my own again.
“You little idiot!” he screamed.
If we had been standing face-to-face, I would have undoubtedly taken a step backward at that point, retreating from his huge displeasure. But, as it was, my position kept me from moving, so that I was forced to remain face-to-face, in counter-confrontation mode.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“What did you think you were doing, riding a horse when you clearly have no idea how to ride a horse?”
“That sounds suspiciously like one of those no-win trick questions—‘Are you always this stupid?’ or ‘Do I look fat?’ It also sounds like a rhetorical question,” I said, “which leads me to ask, do you expect me to answer you seriously or are you in a mood now to just yell at me some more for what you perceive as my stupidity?”
Previously, he’d been crouched beside me, but now he rose, brushing his knees off.
“You’re fine,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far today.”
“You’re definitely fine,” he said, unable to stop a smile. “No one who is not fine could be so comfortably sarcastic.”
“Speaking of being fine,” I asked, pointing to my foot, still caught in the stirrup. “Do you think you could help me with that?”
“Oh, no,” he said, swinging into his saddle and mounting his horse, the horse looking small in comparison. “You got yourself into this, Miss Bell, and now you can get yourself out.”
He clicked the heels of his riding books against the pony’s flanks, twitched the reins—why couldn’t I master that?—and shouted over his shoulder, “Come, Captain!”
The dog and the lead rider’s three companions, who’d done absolutely nothing to help me, departed behind him.
“Fine, run away,” I shouted after them, knowing they couldn’t hear me anyway. “I can handle this all by myself.”
Feeling like a fox who had gotten the worst end of the hunt, I had to do a jackknife sit-up, which my abs were in no way conditioned to do, in order to stretch up high enough to reach my own foot in order to free it from the stirrup.
And then the one fine day came to an abrupt ending and it started to rain on me.
Iceland and I were so not getting along together so far.
It felt as though I’d been gone forever, but it was only midafternoon when the van from the pony-excursion place deposited me back at the embassy.
I got the impression they thought I should count it a kindness that they hadn’t charged me double for abusing their pony.
Pony? The thing was the Cerberus gluepot from hell!
But when the driver pulled up in front of the embassy, saw where we were, his behavior toward me changed rapidly.
“You should have said that this is what was at this address,” he said.
“If you’d told me diplomatic asylum extended to alleged horse abuse,” I said, getting out, sorer in all ways by the minute, “I might have.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I only meant you might have saved me the trip.”
What?
But I was of no mind to deal with mysteries or cryptic words just then.
So I tipped him handsomely—even the ugliest of horsewomen can be good tippers—and dragged my sorry ass inside.
Mrs. Fairly greeted me at the door.
Was that part of her job, I wondered, to lie in wait and pounce on me whenever I entered?
Apparently, I was of no mind for anything really, certainly not civility.
Mrs. Fairly was more excited than I’d ever seen her as, with a minimal greeting, I brushed by her and headed for the stairs.
“The master came home a day early!” she exulted.
Just what I need right now, I thought.
“That’s great,” I said, not even bothering to turn around as I dragged myself upward.
“He didn’t seem to be in a very good mood though,” she added, “said something about not having such a great afternoon.”
That’s great, too, I thought.
“Oh, Charlotte,” she said soothingly, as though seeing me for the first time, “you look as though you’ve had a rough afternoon yourself.”
“You could say that,” I said.
“And maybe also a wee tumble from a wee horse.”
“You could say that, too.”
“Well, no matter.” She brightened. “I did tell you that you could have the entire day off today, so why don’t you do what you like for the remainder. The master would probably prefer to have dinner alone w
ith Annette on his first day back, so I’ll have a tray sent up to you.”
I reached the second floor, resting my hand on the newel post as I turned the corner.
“Sounds good,” I said.
“But afterward,” she shouted, “I do think you should come down and say hello. I know he’s dying to meet you. And wear a dress if you’ve got one! The first night when the master comes home, dinner is always a formal affair. So even if you’re not eating with us…”
Just great.
If someone had taken the time to ask me, before entering my room, what I planned to do upon gaining entry there, I would have replied with a one-word answer: Sleep!
But, having reached the other side of that door, I found myself suddenly feeling shockingly awake.
Perhaps it was that ride in the brisk air, perhaps it was the fall on my cranium, perhaps it was getting rained upon that had done it, but I felt as though something had been knocked loose in me that had been previously blocking free thought and creativity. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt the impulse to write, write the truth.
I sat down at my desk, barely noticing the discomfort of my still-wet clothes.
While Annette had said she had prevailed upon her father to equip me with the trappings of the writerly life, and while he obviously had attempted to do so to the best of his ability, they had left one small item out. How did they expect me to write a novel, in the twenty-first century, without a computer?
And as plucky as I might have gotten since arriving, I wasn’t yet brazen enough that I’d ask them to get me one.
I opened the top drawer of my desk, disheartened, and found a large supply of legal pads and a selection of pens. This must be what they had in mind for providing me with everything I needed to scratch my writing itch.
What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they know I’d go positively crazy if I couldn’t do things like cut and paste, moving large blocks of text around a manuscript? After all, wasn’t that how writers wrote these days? Who did they think I was, Tolstoy? The next thing you know, they’d be exchanging my lamp for a candle.
How Nancy Drew Saved My Life Page 9
