Gordath Wood

by Patrice Sarath

  “I’ll call around,” Gina said finally. She headed back to the tack room, stuffing her keys in her backpack. In a moment they could hear her on the phone. Kate looked as if she were going to cry.

  Joe fidgeted. “Look, you need to go home. I’ll drive around all the places she would have come out.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Kate said.

  Joe felt his stomach tighten extra hard. Call the police, and Lynn stopped being just a little late and apt to ride in any moment now. Call the police, and it got serious. She’s fine. She knows these woods.

  “Maybe we should check with Mrs. Hunt first,” Joe said. “Is she back yet?”

  Kate made a face. “She went out with Fleming, remember? They went to the Continental.”

  They could hear Gina in the tack room say, “Thanks anyway. If you hear anything, let us know, okay?” She hung up and came back, shaking her head.

  “Damn,” Joe said under his breath. Louder, he added, “I can go look, but someone should stay here, in case she tries to call.”

  “I can,” Kate said promptly.

  “What about your parents?” said Gina.

  “Absolutely not,” said Mr. Mossland, when Kate broached the subject, trailed by Gina and Joe. “Kate, it’s after ten o’clock. For God’s sake, let’s get out of here.”

  “She should be back by now,” Kate said. She turned to her mother. “Mom, listen. It shouldn’t have taken this long.”

  Mrs. Mossland looked indecisive. “David, I don’t know. Lynn could be in real trouble.”

  “Then we need to call the police,” he said. “Where’s Mrs. Hunt?”

  “She went out,” Kate said. “With Mr. Fleming.”

  Again her parents exchanged glances. Joe wondered if they knew him. More likely knew of him. The Mosslands were hardly poor, but they still worked for a living.

  “What do you think?” David turned to his wife. “Think it’s time to call in the cops?”

  She nodded. “I think so.” She pulled out her phone and stepped aside, and after a moment they heard her say, “Janet Mossland here. Hello, Daniel. We have a problem out at the Hunter’s Chase stables. We think you will need a search crew to come look for a missing rider.” Her gaze fell on her daughter. Mrs. Mossland lowered her voice. “And possibly an emergency response team.”

  Joe had just enough time to wonder why Kate’s mother was on a first-name basis with the police when another set of headlights turned off the road and into the drive. This time the car swung toward the main house. Mrs. Hunt was home.

  When she got out of her fancy convertible, she saw their little huddle and came over, her tall figure still arresting in her horse show clothes, but her face was drawn and pale in the yellow lamplight. She looked around at all of them, unknotting the kerchief she wore over her hair, and her expression changed— to Joe it looked like dawning fear. She addressed him directly.

  “She isn’t back.”

  He shook his head.

  “We’ve just called the police,” Mrs. Mossland said. Mrs. Hunt swung toward her, her eyes wide with shock. Kate’s mom looked taken aback at her reaction. “We thought—she should have been back by now. We were worried.”

  Mrs. Hunt took a moment to collect herself. “Of course. But Dungiven is in capable hands.”

  “Yes, well,” said Mrs. Mossland after a moment of judicious thought. “We’re actually more concerned about Lynn.”

  “Umm,” said Gina. “Do I have to wait for the police?” She added hastily, “I will if you think it’s necessary. It’s just . . . well, if I get going, I can swing by the trailhead and see if I can see anything there.”

  “Go,” said Mrs. Mossland. She seemed to have made a decision to take charge, now that she had seen Mrs. Hunt’s reaction. “If you see anything, please call right away, both the barn and the police. Do you have a cell phone?”

  Gina patted her backpack.

  “All right. We’ll wait here. Katherine, should we wait at the house for the police, or do you think it better to stay here at the barn?”

  Her challenge dripped courtesy. Mrs. Hunt’s lips tightened at the rebuke.

  “Let’s all go in, shall we?” Mrs. Hunt said. “Joe, please wait at the barn in case she calls in.”

  Joe kept his temper down.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said. “I’m heading off to look for her myself. I’ll call the house phone when I come across her.” He looked around at the others, touching the brim of an imaginary hat. “Miz Mossland. Mr. Mossland. Kate.” He gave the kid a real smile, and she went shy and turned away.

  Alone outside the barn, Joe turned off the outdoor lights and let his eyes adjust to darkness. One by one the katydids came out, sawing away. The rush of traffic from the highway wafted over to the farm, and the trees of Gordath Wood massed indistinctly across the field. Two or three tall trees poked at the overcast sky, like sentinels.

  He couldn’t see a thing. No rider coming out of that blackness, no sound of clip-clopping hoofbeats drumming a tattoo over the trail.

  “Where are you, Lynn?” he said out loud.

  The katydids stopped. The sentinel trees quivered against the sky, independently of the rest of the woods.

  Faintly, from far away, the ground rumbled beneath his feet.

  It wasn’t like the earlier earthquake, more like a big truck passing by, rattling the windows of an old house, but he knew it came from the Wood. She’s out in it, he thought. She’s hurt, and she’s alone, and I don’t have nothing to help her with.

  After a bit he got in his old car and started it up. The dusty old Impala bounced over the graveled drive, and he pulled out onto the road. He didn’t know how he was going to find her, didn’t even know the first place to look. The woods outside his window were a blur of dark; he could make out nothing in them, not even the narrow trailheads that twisted into the deeper dark. They were hard enough to find in broad daylight, some of them, barely a hoof-pocked track that wound through ferns and brush.

  Hang in there, Lynn, he thought.

  Lynn woke up slowly, aware of wetness and chill air. She stirred and groaned; sunlight struck her eyes. Lynn winced and turned her head, rubbing her cheek into the loamy soil and decaying leaves, breathing in their musty aroma.

  Something scurried over her collar. She staggered to her feet, helmet askew, batting at her neck and hair, spluttering in disgust. She tore at her vest, throwing it aside and tugging at her shirt collar. Finally, a large beetle crawled out from underneath the stock pinned at her neck and flew off. Nearby, watching her antics with a calm, interested expression, stood Dungiven, his ears pricked at her.

  With slightly shaking hands Lynn unbuckled her hard hat and looked around. She spotted the trail, a wandering, narrow path, nothing like the broad trail they had taken last night. Washed-out sunlight rippled lightly through the underbrush, backlighting the bushes and limning the earliest autumn leaves with pale gold. Birds called endlessly in the forest. The early morning air held a chill.

  Lynn let out a breath. “Oh, crap,” she said.

  She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. After trying to call 911 and getting no signal, she had tried the barn and the house again until she gave up. She sat down, telling herself it was just for a few moments, sure that she would see flashlights bobbing through the woods, people calling her name and Dungiven’s.

  And now it was morning, and there was no rescue to be found.

  In the aftermath of her creepy wake-up call, her knee had begun to sting and throb. That reminded her of Dungiven’s crash, and with sharp chagrin she turned to check on him. “Wow, what a night, hey, old man?” she told him, sliding a hand down his neck. He bent his head to look as she knelt and felt his knee and cannon bone. She felt his warm breath on her neck as she probed a little harder.

  He jerked up his leg, almost banging her in the eye. Lynn struggled to her feet.

  “Okay, that smarts,” she said. She patted his neck. “Nothing an ice pack and a shot of
bute won’t fix, though. And that goes for me, too.”

  The knee of her breeches was smudged and frayed. She could see a bit of blood seeping through the fabric. She must have landed on a rock. She didn’t want to pull off her breeches to take a look; the thought of peeling off the tight pants over the injury made her cringe. I’ll do it when I get home, she thought.

  The sooner they got out of the woods, the better. She looked around, considering. By her reckoning of last night’s ride, she hadn’t come that far from Pennington. Barely an hour at most. She looked back the way they had come. The strange trail wound into the woods and disappeared into green scrub backlit by the sun. So far it looked like it was her only option. She gathered up the reins under Dungiven’s chin and led him back along the trail.

  Less than an hour later, she pulled up. For the past several minutes she had been forcing a path through nigh impenetrable brush and pricker bushes. Thorns snagged at Dungiven’s braided mane, snatching bits of yarn so that the path behind them was littered with blue tufts, and several scratched the leather of his expensive saddle. Lynn looked at it, winced, and tried to rub out a scratch.

  Finally she forced her way into a small clearing in the woods, a tiny creek trickling through the rocky terrain away from a small knoll. Sweaty, hungry, and miserable, Lynn got them unstuck from the last of the pricker bushes and only looked up at Dungiven’s alert whinny. She gasped and jumped.

  A man lay sprawled at the foot of the knoll. At first she thought he was dead; then he turned his head and mumbled something that she could not understand. He moved his hand limply. It was stained with blood and dirt.

  Oh my God. She stayed where she was and raised her voice. “Are you okay?”

  He said nothing. Heart pounding, she approached cautiously, Dungiven clopping after her. He was not a big man, and his clothes were ragged and worn. No, not just ragged; they looked homemade. His shoes were thick and clunky, as if he had stolen them from some poor old lady. Blood seeped from a ragged hole in the shoulder of his shirt, darkening the dull material to black.

  He opened his eyes when she drew near. Stubble masked his face, and his hair was matted with sweat and dirt. She thought it might have blood in it, too.

  “Hey,” she said. “Hey. What happened? Are you okay?”

  He mumbled something she couldn’t make out.

  “What?” she said.

  He said, more clearly, “The gordath is open.”

  His accent was strange, but she understood that—except that it made no sense. He was rambling. She had to bring him back to reality.

  “Hey. Hey. I can help you, but you have to help me,” she told him. “You have to stay awake, okay?”

  His expression cleared a little, and the fog seemed to lift a bit from his eyes. “Are you lost?” he asked.

  Lynn nodded. “Do you know the way out?” she asked.

  He closed his eyes, let his head turn aside. “If you are lost, we may already be too late.”

  His wounded shoulder seeped. His skin was sallow under its tan, and she could feel heat radiating off of him. If he died . . .

  She would be more alone than before, even.

  “Hey,” she said nervously. “Don’t fade out on me here.”

  His mouth moved in a tired smile. “Help me, and I will help you.”

  Fair enough, she thought. She propped him up against a boulder, tucking her vest behind him as a cushion. She filled up her helmet at the little trickle of water. His fingers were hot against hers as he helped hold on to the helmet and drank clumsily. She took off her stock, tucking her little hunting horn pin into the front pocket of her vest, then gently pulled back his rough shirt from the small, jagged hole below his shoulder. He shivered and cried out, clutching her fingers.

  It was a gunshot wound; she was sure of it. She had seen enough TV to tell. The skin around the hole was inflamed and puffy, and though the bleeding seemed to have slowed to a trickle, that probably was not a good thing. This guy needed a hospital and an antibiotic IV, and fast. She leaned close to the wound and took a sniff, wincing at the smell. Definitely infected.

  She unfolded her white cloth stock and laid it against the wound, nudging him to rise up a bit so she could wrap it around his shoulder. Poor enough first aid, she thought, but it would have to do. And it would help to stanch the bleeding at least, though it would do little for infection.

  “My thanks,” he rasped, his eyes still closed. He had not opened them during her ministrations and moved little except when she needed him to.

  Lynn squeezed his hand. “You’re going to be okay,” she said, glad he couldn’t see the worry in her face. She didn’t think he could walk. His face was pale, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He would have to ride. She glanced at Dungiven. If they took it slow, it shouldn’t hurt the horse too much. And the guy seemed scrawny enough. Taking a big chance here, she told herself, but she could hardly carry the man herself. Dungiven would have to do his part.

  “Hey,” she said. He opened his eyes. “Think you can get on his back?” She nodded at Dungiven.

  The man squinted at the horse. He nodded, his expression changing. He’s more alert, she thought. Good. It wouldn’t be easy if he were completely out of it.

  She helped him up. He leaned on her, supporting as much of his own weight as he could, and they hobbled slowly over to the horse. A nearby boulder served as a mounting block, but Lynn still had to push him into the saddle. He slumped over Dungiven’s neck, sweating and trembling, and touched his forehead to the horse’s mane.

  Relief came over Lynn. One hurdle down. “Great!” she said. “Well. We’re on our way.” She would be home soon; she knew it. She snaked the reins over Dungiven’s neck and handed them to the man. “Here,” she said. “Let me get my vest.”

  Even as Lynn took half a step, some caution made her stop. Ooh, that probably wasn’t—she spun around in her tracks. “No!” she shouted.

  It was too late. The man gathered up the reins and kicked Dungiven clumsily in the ribs. The horse threw up his head and trotted forward out of the clearing, the man bouncing in the saddle.

  “Stop!” She lunged forward, but the man kicked again, and it was clear Dungiven had had enough. The big horse bolted up the treacherous hillside, scrambling through leaves and rocks, sending an avalanche of debris down into the clearing. The horse made it safely to the top, and the man, riding hunched over with his legs out in front of him, bounced in the saddle but stayed put. They disappeared over the top of the ridge until all she could hear was the sound of Dungiven crashing through the forest and her own sobs of rage.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  Don’t leave me here alone!

  Three

  The day after Lynn’s disappearance was one of those glorious days when the September air goes chill and the sunlight sparkles. The pots of geraniums that graced the dark entrances of each of the three barns at Hunter’s Chase Stables were bright splashes of red against the white stables with blue trim.

  As Kate led Mojo out of the top barn, she shivered, wondering if it had been a mistake to wear a tank top for her ride that morning. She kept an extra jacket in her equipment trunk in the tack room, but she was too impatient to go back and get it.

  Last night’s search had turned up no sign of Lynn, despite emergency vehicles that trundled along the roads outside the wood and a helicopter with a searchlight chattering overhead. Search parties with dogs had gone into the woods, starting from the Pennington trails. They found nothing, not a trace of her.

  Kate and her parents waited at the farm until one in the morning, her mom in close contact with the police. Kate knew her mom, a prosecutor in line for a judicial appointment, was important. The night of Lynn’s disappearance was the first time she realized exactly how much. Finally they made Kate go home after being assured that someone would call as soon as Lynn and Dungiven were found. The last Kate saw of Mrs. Hunt, the cool woman was staring out the beautiful front window of her living room, as if she co
uld see into the dark center of the forest.

  Mojo bumped her shoulder with his muzzle, reminding Kate to get a move on. She smiled and reached up and stroked his long, elegant nose. Mojo tossed his head and pricked his ears, eager to move. She gathered the reins under his chin and walked him down the drive, nervously expecting someone to stop her at any moment. The farm was quiet though—new search parties had already gone out that morning, so except for one rider warming up her horse in the main training ring, no one was around to take notice of Kate.

  All for the best, she thought. If anyone knew she was planning to ride off to conduct her own search for Lynn, she would be stopped in half a second. The thing was, she knew the trails, probably even better than Lynn. Kate rode out there all the time. The search parties probably stuck to the main trails. Kate knew the shortcuts. If Lynn had tried to take one of those last night, the searchers would never find her.

  She hastened the rest of the way to the ring, Mojo’s head nodding next to her. Kate halted at the bottom of the drive and tightened Mojo’s girth, then pulled the stirrups down to the end of the leathers. They slid into place with a satisfying smack, and she mounted with an easy movement. The other rider, a skinny blonde woman named Carolyn, trotted over, pulling up her horse on her side of the fence.

  “Did you hear about Lynn?” Carolyn asked avidly, her eyes gleaming under her plush cap. “She stole Dungiven. Did you hear? I heard she took him to Canada.”

  Kate settled her helmet on her head, tucking in her pale, flyaway hair, and buckled the chin strap as Mojo tossed his head and turned in circles, eager to be off. She pretended he was giving her too much difficulty to answer. She didn’t like Carolyn, and she didn’t like her horse, a weedy thoroughbred mare named Allegra, either.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally and neutrally. She gathered up the reins and nudged Mojo toward the gate.

  Carolyn followed on her side of the fence.

  “You were there last night, right?” she chattered on. “What do you think? Do you think she did it?”

  A spurt of anger shot out of Kate’s mouth in words. “She didn’t steal Dungiven!” she retorted. “I have to go, Carolyn.”