Phantom Horse 1: Phantom Horse

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  The work-mare was called Sally. She was grey and similar to a Cleveland bay in build, though a little heavier.

  The Millers told us more about the wild horse as we rode across the valley.

  “He was reared by an English groom. That's why we thought he might take to you,” Wendy said. “It wasn't until the groom left that the trouble started.”

  “We speak English of a kind on account of Dad coming from the old country. But we still speak with an American accent,” Pete explained.

  “He wasn't so wild at first. But everyone's chased him so much that now he's as wild as they're made,” Wendy told us.

  “How long has he been loose?” Angus asked.

  “Since March. He's only a four-year-old,” Phil replied. “The English groom had a heck of a time breaking him in by all accounts.”

  “Then at the end of February the groom left and after that the horse went from bad to worse. He's a mass of nerves, they say,” Wendy explained.

  “I don't believe he's vicious at all,” Phil said.

  “But don't go thinking that if you catch him, you can ride him straight home, because you darned well can't,” Pete told us. “He's some horse, that palomino.”

  “He sounds it,” Angus agreed.

  “He's more a parade horse than anything else,” Phil told us. “That's what they use palominos for out in California. They wear beautiful Spanish saddlery and breastplates. But he's so darned fast they thought they'd try him on the racetracks.”

  “I guess he would have won a race or two,” Pete said.

  Wendy's roan, which I discovered was called Easter, was very handy. He was half cow pony and could turn on a sixpence, though I didn't think he was very well schooled by English dressage standards.

  We rode back by the village and the Millers spent five dollars on chocolate. They pushed half of it into our pockets. They seemed to imagine that we had been half-starved since birth in England. We parted by the post office.

  “I don't believe we're ever going to catch that wild horse,” said Angus dismally as we rode the last piece home together. “The Millers don't seem to have any plans. We didn't really discuss it at all. We'll have to go on riding borrowed horses the whole time we're here. We'll never have a horse of our own. I know it's jolly nice of the Millers to lend us theirs and I'm being selfish and ungrateful, but riding borrowed ponies isn't like having one of your own, is it?”

  “Far from it,” I agreed.

  “I want to ride in gymkhanas and I don't believe the Millers ever go to shows,” Angus said.

  “You can't expect everything to go right from the word go. We've only been here three days,” I reminded Angus.

  “We'd better keep both the ponies in tonight,” Angus said. “We can't afford to lose any more.”

  Angus and I washed up lunch and cleaned our tack during the afternoon. After tea, Dad returned from Washington and suggested that we should all spend the next day there. Angus and I were horrified. We hate towns, and large towns like Washington most of all.

  “Must we? It's better here,” Angus wailed.

  “And it's not as though we need to buy anything,” I added as I thought of trailing round crowded streets beneath a pitiless sun.

  “We thought you might like to see some of the sights. There's no need to shop. I want to buy a suit, that's all,” Mum said. I was beginning to feel ungrateful. I wondered why grownups are always so keen on seeing sights.

  Then Dad spoke, “Well, I don't see why you need come if you can stay and be sensible here. The point is, will you be sensible?” he asked.

  “I don't see why we shouldn't be,” Angus replied, with hope in his voice. “Aren't we usually sensible?”

  “I doubt it. And anyway, this isn't England,” Dad replied.

  “Will you promise to be sensible?” Mum asked. “That means only riding very quietly, turning the cooker off when you've finished cooking, and not speaking to strangers.”

  “And not going more than half a mile from the house,” Dad added.

  “Yes. We'll eat only bread and cheese and apples, which will cut the cooker out. We'll only walk the ponies; and we'll avoid all strangers,” Angus replied.

  “And we'll be generally sensible,” I added.

  “And not go more than half a mile from the house,” Dad reminded us. “All right, you can stay.”

  Angus and I were delighted by our parents' decision, little knowing how, later, we would regret it. The Millers had told us that they would be spending the day visiting their grandmother in Maryland. Angus and I visualised a wonderfully peaceful time by ourselves, and we made all sorts of plans between tea and supper. “We can spend the morning schooling quietly in the paddock. I want to try Wendy's roan and I'm sure I'm not too heavy for him, if we only walk and trot,” Angus said.

  “And we can muck out the stable and give the ponies a really good groom,” I added.

  “Well, don't get kicked,” Mum told us.

  “Or spike yourselves with pitchforks,” Dad added.

  “We'll be very careful,” Angus promised.

  “If anything goes wrong, ring up Dad. We'll give you the number,” Mum told us.

  Angus and I retired to bed that night feeling very cheerful. Tomorrow would be our first day in Virginia without the Millers' company and, though we liked them, a day alone appealed to us as a pleasant change. The last thing Angus said to me before we parted for the night was, “One great advantage Virginia has over England is that you can depend upon it being fine.”

  I was to remember that remark later, but at the time I just said, “Which is really rather fantastic, isn't it?”

  4

  The next day dawned clear and fine as expected. The sky was a true, undiluted blue. Life seemed suddenly wonderful to us all.

  We ate breakfast together in the kitchen – an English breakfast of bacon and eggs, followed by toast and marmalade. Our parents left for Washington at nine-thirty, after giving us fresh instructions about behaving sensibly. As the car disappeared along the dirt road, Angus said, “Come on, let's ride.”

  We had mucked out the two loose boxes earlier.

  “We can groom the ponies after we've ridden. They're sure to be hot and dirty by then,” Angus said, as we hurried to the stable.

  We put our clean tack on the ponies. “I'll start on Easter, if you don't mind,” Angus told me.

  “That's all right by me,” I replied cheerfully. I was feeling stupidly happy and carefree. I think Angus was too.

  “I really didn't think Virginia would be so fabulous, did you?” Angus asked.

  “No. I dreaded coming at times, in spite of what everyone told me at school. Of course, I still like England best,” I replied, remembering Sparrow Cottage in August with the sun casting shadows across the lawn, and the sound of church bells coming across the fields, and the winding English roads.

  “We really must write home about Mermaid and Moonlight soon,” Angus said. “I hope they're not missing us.”

  “We'd better lead the ponies out into the paddock and then mount. We don't want to fall off trying to open the gate,” I said.

  “I wish Mum and Dad hadn't made so many rules. It's really rather tiresome. I mean just walking the horses will get really boring after a time,” Angus grumbled.

  “I don't think they really meant us only to walk. I think they meant that we weren't to do anything silly,” I replied, opening the paddock gate.

  “Well, I'm jolly well going to trot,” Angus said, mounting Easter.

  It was very hot in the paddock. We walked for a few minutes then we tightened our girths and trotted.

  Angus, like most boys, soon tired of schooling. “Let's ride outside. It's too hot to do anything in here. Easter's dripping with sweat already,” he said.

  It was hot too – a sultry, ominous heat quite unlike anything we had yet met in Virginia.

  We walked along the dirt road and then, after opening a gate, into the valley.

  “We mustn't forget
about the half-mile. It would be awful if something happened when we were miles from home,” I told Angus.

  “I'm not suggesting that we should ride far. I'm just tired of riding round and round that paddock,” Angus replied.

  It was cooler in the valley. A faint breeze blew from the mountains; the Hereford cattle had vanished in search of some shade. Nothing seemed to stir.

  “I knew it would be cooler here. I wish we could ride in the mountains,” Angus said.

  “I'm jolly glad I'm not in Washington. Think of looking at statues and monuments today,” I said.

  “It would be the end,” Angus agreed.

  The ponies went well together. They were obviously old friends.

  “Dad says we've got to start seeing about schools next week,” Angus told me.

  I didn't answer. I had just seen two horses moving across the valley. “Look over there!” I cried. “Angus, look! There they are – the palomino and the bay mare! They're heading straight for the mountains.” They were quite near, jogging along together beneath the scorching sun.

  “Wow! You're right. What a stroke of luck!” Angus cried.

  Forgotten were all our parents' instructions as we turned our ponies towards the mountains. Frances and Easter joined in the spirit of the chase. They galloped as though our lives depended on their speed.

  “This may be our big chance,” Angus said.

  We gained steadily on the two horses until they heard our pounding hoofs, then they broke into a gallop and Frances started to blow a little. Angus said, “I hope this pony can stand my weight,” and patted Easter's neck.

  We jumped a wall and a “coop” almost without noticing. We reached a trail and were galloping uphill, with trees on each side of us and constant twists and turns. It was tremendously exciting. “We may not be gaining, but we aren't losing ground either,” Angus cried. “Oh, if only we can catch them.”

  The mountains were very still, except for the sound of our pounding hoofs and an occasional sharp ring as horseshoe met rock. At first we passed cattle standing in the midst of undergrowth, their white faces besieged by flies; but gradually we left even these behind and the trail became narrower still and far more rocky. Then the palomino left the trail, and we were galloping amid trees, banging our knees and our heads. Frances and Easter were marvellous. They twisted and turned, missing trees by centimetres. The ground was strewn with boulders and they jumped some, avoided others, and stumbled recklessly over the rest. In a few moments we were lost in a world of trees, and it was then that I remembered the instructions that our parents had given us before leaving for Washington. I felt suddenly sick then and there was a lump in my throat.

  “We shouldn't be here,” I yelled to Angus, who was leading. “Don't you remember what Mum and Dad said?”

  There was a pause before Angus replied, and I realised how completely we were lost.

  “It's a bit late to think of that now. For all we know we may be heading straight for a dead-end. We can't afford to miss a chance,” Angus said.

  I think the devil must have possessed us then for we galloped recklessly on, when it would have been so easy to turn back and find our own way home. Afterwards, Angus always said that it was his fault, that I had wanted to turn back. But that wasn't true. I could have spoken then or ridden home alone. I wanted to go on just as much as Angus did.

  We left the trees at last, and started to gallop down an old ravine; the sound of falling boulders was added to that of galloping hoofs as the horses slipped and slid, keeping their balance only by a miracle. I shut my eyes and wished that Frances had a longer neck and a better shoulder. And then it happened.

  “My saddle's slipping,” Angus yelled. There was panic in his voice, which echoed amid the mountains.

  “Hang on to his mane,” I cried, and my voice echoed too and came back to us. I had an awful sense of calamity for a few terrible seconds. Easter's head seemed to disappear between his knees. I could see Angus and the saddle disappearing with it. It was a moment I shall never forget. I saw Angus hit the rocks and the boulders, and Easter jump him and go on.

  I only just stopped Frances in time. Angus lay horribly still on his side with one arm outstretched. I dismounted and Frances snorted and started to back away. She obviously had no intention of standing while I examined Angus. Fortunately there was a tree quite near; saying lots of words we're not supposed to use, I tied her to it and returned to my brother. He was breathing, though his face looked white and lifeless. I cried, “Angus, Angus, wake up,” but to no avail. There was no sound but the echo of my own plaintive voice. I kneeled down and felt Angus all over in search of broken bones. I found nothing. But I didn't dare move him, because for all I knew his back might be broken, or his neck, or his pelvis. My knowledge of first-aid was very small, but I did know that people can break bones without them showing except in X-rays, and I wasn't going to kill my brother by moving him.

  But I had to do something. The sky had become overcast while we had recklessly pursued the two horses; a faint, ominous breeze stirred the trees. I didn't know where I was, nor the way home. I didn't even know the time. Easter had disappeared in pursuit of the two horses. There was only one thing to do and that was to find help. Wishing that I had a coat to put over

  Angus, I untied Frances and mounted. I tightened her girth and, taking one last look at my brother, I made a detour and rode on down the ravine.

  I couldn't forget what our parents had said. Their words haunted me as I hurried Frances: we had promised to be sensible; we had promised to ride quietly. Now we had broken nearly all our promises.

  Although I hurried Frances, it was ages before we came to any clearing and then it was one I had never seen before. By this time I had decided to leave the way home to Frances. I was lost more completely than I had ever been lost before.

  The sky had grown darker and in the distance there sounded the first depressing roll of thunder. Frances was marvellous. She never hesitated about which path to follow; she seemed quite tireless. I tried to memorise our journey. My mind was full of lefts and rights, of odd-shaped trees and sudden turns. And then the first sheet of lightning shot across the sky – lightning quite unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was long and jagged and, for one awful moment, it lit up the whole sky; thunder followed and then the heaviest deluge of rain I've ever experienced. Frances stopped and stood shivering. The trees seemed to tremble; the sound of falling rain blotted out everything, until the next roll of thunder came with another terrible flash of lightning.

  I thought of Angus lying unprotected in the ravine. Already I was soaked to the skin. I forced Frances on into the blinding rain, down and down until the trail was suddenly familiar and I could see light ahead. I knew then that in a moment we would reach the valley. I had already decided that I would find my way to the Millers' farm. I hoped that I would find farm-hands who would come to my assistance; though how we would get Angus down from the mountain I had no idea.

  We reached the valley as fresh thunder crashed and more rain fell. My shoes were overflowing with water. My hair was plastered to my face. But I could have cheered as I caught a glimpse of what I guessed was the Millers' farm through the rain.

  We galloped down a hill and scrambled over a wall, where the ground was under five centimetres of water. The fields were deserted. The streams were running over the drive. The farmyard was empty. Only a lone cream convertible was parked by the house. I think I started to cry then, my tears falling with the rain into Frances's chestnut and white mane.

  I rode madly round the farmyard yelling “Help, help! Is anyone at home?” For a moment I didn't know what to do; then I heard the faint sound of chopping coming from a small shed at the back of the house. I threw Frances' reins over a gate and ran towards it yelling, “Help, help! There's been an accident.”

  I fell over a stone and scrambled to my feet again. I didn't notice that blood was pouring from one of my hands. All I could see was Angus lying white and still in the ravin
e.

  I found a lean, middle-aged man chopping wood. I poured out my story without stopping for breath. “He may be dying by now,” I finished, voicing my worst fears. “Please, please can you help?”

  “You're a Britisher, I guess. I can tell that by your voice,” the man said, putting down his axe. “I don't know how we'll get your brother off the mountains; it'll be real hard. If Mr Miller was at home …”

  “Haven't you got anything which can get up there?” I asked. “A Jeep or a tractor?”

  “We have a tractor,” the man said slowly. “Wait a bit and I'll find George. He's the only one that can start it.”

  I waited in agony while he disappeared in search of George. It was still raining. A century seemed to pass before the farm-hand returned, accompanied by George, who was younger and had two fingers missing from his left hand.

  “So there's been an accident,” he said, looking at me. “I'll sure do my best for you, but I can't promise to get the tractor up there, not on the ground as it is.”

  It didn't seem to matter to them that someone might be dying up in the mountains. They didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. Perhaps they thought I was just a panicky child who got excited over nothing.

  It was ages before the tractor started. The sky was quite clear by then and the sun was shining. The men hitched what they called a drag behind the tractor. It was made of wood and resembled a sledge. I collected some old coats and a couple of horse rugs from the saddle room to put over Angus. I felt calm in a horribly despairing way. Everything seemed to have taken hours. I had put Frances in a loose box, and rung up the doctor George suggested. I had found a cook in the Millers' kitchen and she had promised to have blankets and hot water-bottles waiting for Angus when he returned, also hot tea with plenty of sugar in it. She had given me brandy in a flask to try and revive him. I had meant to ring up Dad but his number was in the kitchen at Mountain Farm, and I didn't think of ringing up inquiries or the British Embassy.

  George drove the tractor; I opened the necessary gates. It seemed a long time before we reached the edge of the mountains. There was a rainbow across the sky and the trail smelled wonderful. George and the other man, who was called Joe, whistled and asked me whereabouts I came from and whether I liked America. I answered “Oxfordshire” and “Yes”. I was too worried for polite conversation.