by Janet Rising
“They wouldn’t be the first spirits I’ve seen around here,” mumbled Drummer, snorting. My heart missed a beat, and my thoughts flew back to the séance we’d held at the stables in the summer. Dee had insisted on trying to call up her dead granddad to help us with a team riding competition. The séance had scared us all out of our minds, and I didn’t welcome the reminder now, in the gloom of the trees. The woods suddenly seemed very spooky and the very place not to be, especially with the wind whispering through the trees.
“What else have you seen?” I asked Drum, winding my fingers through his mane for comfort, half hoping he wouldn’t tell me.
“So you can hear me, then?” asked Drum, turning and giving me a look with his big, brown left eye. “Pretend you can’t hear me when grass is the subject, but you’re all ears when there’s something you want to talk about!”
“Oh, you’re impossible!” I said angrily. “You are not supposed to eat when we’re on a ride, you know that. It’s really bad manners, and you’ll get green gunk on your bit.”
“Oooooo-eee-oooo,” said Drum. I couldn’t tell whether he was being snarky, or whether he was making ghost noises. Either way, it wasn’t funny.
At least the strange girl and her pony were a distraction from my own doom and gloom—momentarily, anyway. Things had taken a downward turn at the stable recently, and I didn’t want to think about that. The trouble was, the more I tried to blot it out of my mind, the more it insisted on creeping back in. Actually, it tended to gallop in rather than creep. It occupied my mind like an invading army, sweeping all good events and thoughts before it and enforcing its dominant, depressing regime at full power.
I made Drummer canter along a path in the woods that we call the Winding Canter (for obvious reasons) and at the end, we burst out of the darkness of the trees and back into the weak autumn sunshine at the top of the hill. Then, without a breather (so Drum couldn’t nag me), we walked briskly down the hill to the lane, intending to cross it and continue on the bridle path in a big circle around Clanmore Common, before returning home.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious girl and her pony. That the pony was well-bred had been obvious, with its fine legs and neat head. The girl had been slim and had sat easily like an expert rider, her legs relaxed and dangling next to her pony’s sides. Wherever had she come from? Laurel Farm wasn’t the only stable in the area—there were plenty of stables and farmers who rented fields to the local horsey population. And if she wasn’t a ghost and if I could get near enough, I might be able to learn more about them—if I could hear what the pony was saying, anyway. At least, I could with Epona in my pocket.
Epona, I had discovered, had been a goddess of horses, worshipped by the ancient Celts and Romans. Ever since I’d stumbled (well, Drummer had done the stumbling, actually) across the tiny stone statue of a woman—Epona—seated sidesaddle on a horse, I’d been able to hear what horses and ponies were saying—for better or worse—whenever I had her with me. I never leave home without her now. To say Epona has changed my life is putting it mildly—I’m known as the Pony Whisperer, for a start, as I can hear and talk to horses and ponies. You’d think that would be fantastic, wouldn’t you? But it has its downsides—and was the cause of my latest worry that I had come out to forget.
Halfway down the hill, as we got near to the lane, something happened that did manage to distract me and put my own worries very firmly into perspective. With a droning noise, two huge four-by-four vehicles drove along the tarmac, dangerously straddling both lanes, their lights flashing as they drove past and into the distance. Birds suddenly flew out of the bushes and trees, and a soft hum and clattering from the cars’ wake got louder and louder. Familiar sounds of horses’ hooves mingled with shouting and revved car engines and, instinctively, Drum and I drew back among the trees, looking down from our natural vantage point toward the approaching commotion. The hoofbeats got louder, the shouts more urgent, more intense, and we waited to see what would come around the bend.
I expected to see horses, but when three came into view, turning the corner abreast and thundering toward us, my feelings of excitement turned to dread.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Janet Rising’s work with horses has included working at a donkey stud, producing show ponies, and teaching both adults and children, with a special interest in helping nervous riders enjoy their sport, as well as training owners on how to handle their horses and ponies from the ground. Always passionate about writing, Janet’s first short story was published when she was fourteen, and for the past ten years she has been editor of PONY, Britain’s top-selling horsey teen magazine.
