by Amanda Wills
Chapter 9
Charlie’s obsession with big cats was growing by the day. With Poppy’s help he’d Googled news stories of reported sightings on Dartmoor and was convinced Bill hadn’t seen a fox while lambing the previous spring.
“It could have been a puma or a jaguar, or maybe even a panther, which is another name for a black leopard,” he informed Poppy and Caroline over breakfast one day towards the end of August. The holiday was slipping through the children’s fingers like sand and they only had a dozen days left before they started at their new schools.
“Poppy,” whispered Charlie, as Caroline bent down to empty the dishwasher. “It’s going to be a full moon tonight. Can we go to the river later, see who turns up for a drink?” He winked conspiratorially at her.
“OK, little brother. I’ll come along and hold your hand, in case there are any beasties about,” she smiled.
For the rest of the day Charlie was fizzing with excitement. Caroline was suspicious. “I know he’s up to something. You don’t know what he’s planning do you? I’ve got a horrible feeling it’s something to do with this wretched big cat he’s convinced is living on the doorstep.”
Poppy couldn’t hold her stepmother’s gaze as she replied evasively, “I don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”
“Sweetheart, you would tell me if you knew, wouldn’t you? I don’t want him to do anything silly.”
“Don’t worry. I promise I’ll keep an eye on him.” That much was true, at least.
“Thank-you, darling,” said Caroline, giving Poppy such a sweet smile she felt the usual twinge of resentment. Caroline was never as worried about her safety as she was about Charlie’s.
That evening Charlie went straight to bed without any of his usual time-wasting tactics, adding to Caroline’s unease. But she was too glued to the ten o’clock news watching Mike’s poignant report on a suicide bomber who’d destroyed a school in Afghanistan to hear the click of the back door as the two children let themselves out.
Charlie had insisted they both cover their faces with the camouflage face paints that their dad had brought home from one of his trips to the Middle East. He’d been given them by a British soldier he’d interviewed in the desert.
“I knew they’d come in handy one day,” whispered the six-year-old, his face streaked with brown and khaki-green, his ultramarine eyes glittering with excitement.
It was a cloudless night and the full moon cast a benevolent light on the pair as Poppy once again followed her brother across the field, over the fence and into the wood.
This time, in place of his bow and arrow, Charlie carried a pair of bird-watching binoculars around his neck and the small digital camera he’d been given for Christmas in his pocket. The spindly beams of light cast by their head torches helped them pick their way through the undergrowth until they reached the river. They turned left to follow it upstream, scrambling over fallen branches until they came to the bend where the river widened out.
Before they reached the small sandy beach Charlie stopped, motioning Poppy to follow suit.
“We don’t want to get too close,” he murmured. “We need to find somewhere good to hide.”
Poppy looked around, her gaze settling on a fallen oak tree with a girth so wide they could easily take cover behind it. She pointed and they crept silently towards it, slithered over the tree and positioned themselves as comfortably as they could behind it. Charlie grinned at Poppy and pointed at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. It was ten to eleven and Caroline was probably in bed by now, oblivious to their exploits.
At first it was exciting listening to the sounds of the night and watching the bats swoop over their heads to drink from the stream. Twice they heard the long, eerie screech of a barn owl. The sudden noise was so close it made them both jump. After half an hour Poppy had cramp in one foot and even Charlie the expert tracker was beginning to get restless.
“Five more minutes,” she said softly. Charlie nodded and once more they settled down to wait.
Charlie was the first to hear a rustle in the undergrowth and he clutched Poppy’s arm. The sound was coming from the far side of the river and they strained their eyes to see. Behind the undergrowth and interwoven branches was a ghostly shape which gradually began to take form as it drew closer. Charlie’s grip on Poppy’s arm grew tighter and she realised she was holding her breath as the shape finally emerged from the trees. Poppy felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
It wasn’t a puma or a jaguar. It was a dappled grey pony, which stopped and sniffed the air cautiously before stepping forward to drink from the river. The pony was bigger than Blaze and Flynn and was of a much finer build. He had dark grey points and a tail so long it brushed the floor. He drank thirstily, his coat briefly turning silver in the moonlight. Poppy gazed at the pony, wondering where he’d come from and how he’d ended up in their wood. She was surprised he couldn’t hear her heart hammering.
She was so focussed on the pony that she didn’t see Charlie reach into his pocket, take out his camera, point it and click. For a split second the flash lit the air and the pony half-reared in shock, whinnied and wheeled off into the trees.
Poppy rounded on her brother. “Charlie, you idiot! Look what you’ve done!”
“Sorry Poppy, I didn’t mean to scare it away. I forgot about the flash.” He looked so crestfallen she didn’t have the heart to say any more.
“Anyway, we’ve seen loads of Dartmoor ponies since we moved here. Why are you so upset about this one running off?” he asked.
“That was no Dartmoor pony,” replied Poppy, standing up to let the blood flow back into her cramped foot. “I don’t know where he’s come from or why he’s living wild but I intend to find out.”
