The Curse of the Golden Touch

by G M Mckay

  “Oh, poor Bally. He’ll think I abandoned him.”

  “Jacob’s been seeing to all the horses. He said that everyone’s just fine. Get your breakfast and if you feel up to it later, we’ll see if someone can escort you outside.”

  My stomach rumbled at the delicious smells coming from the breakfast trolley. Despite my mistrust of Aimee, especially after my dream last night, I was starving. And she had promised that my food was untainted this time. It had been an honest mistake, after all. Maybe.

  “Where’s Morris?” I asked.

  “Who? Oh, you mean that cat? I have no idea; they’re always creeping about somewhere, aren’t they? I’ve never liked them…”

  She broke off guiltily just as the door bumped open and Morris came trotting into the room.

  “Meow, meow, meow,” he chirped, hopping up onto the bed and marching toward me and the breakfast tray. He looked happy and well fed; it seemed like someone had been taking care of him, anyway.

  “There you are.” I scratched him under the chin until he rumbled with happiness, kneading his big paws against the blanket.

  Aimee pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line.

  “When I was growing up, it was always a rule in our house that animals should stay outside where they belonged.”

  I looked up at the sudden hard edge in her voice, but she was focused on arranging the coffee pot on the tray. She caught my eye and smiled. “But I guess my parents were just old fashioned.”

  “They sound like my own mother actually,” I said with a rueful laugh. “She doesn’t believe in house pets, either.”

  “Huh, well those bandages on your head can come off today. They were just to keep the sutures clean.”

  “Sutures?” I said in surprise.

  “Yes, didn’t anyone tell you? You have the tiniest little cut and a bump where you hit yourself. The doctor sewed it up in two seconds flat. He said that the stitches should come out in a week or so, once it’s all healed up. I expect your doctor at home can do that for you; you’ll be eager to get away now that you’re feeling better.”

  She poured my coffee and handed me the cup.

  “Oh, you’ve hurt your arm,” I said, noting the red, lumpy skin on the tender underside of her arm where her sleeve had risen up.

  “That’s nothing.” She pulled her sleeve down with a sharp tug. “It happened when I was a child.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. It was a fire?”

  She turned away, her back rigid.

  I’ve offended her, I thought with a pang of conscience.

  “It was a burn, yes,” she said finally, turning back to me with a sigh. “We were doing an experiment at home and it got out of control.”

  “Aimee, I’m so sorry, that’s awful. Was it like a science experiment?”

  “Yes, my parents were brilliant scientists. They both died in the explosion. I lived but had some burns.”

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said again, biting my lip. I never seemed to know when to stop asking questions. This was exactly the sort of reason why people didn’t like me.

  “It’s all right,” she said shortly. “It was a long time ago. Have a good breakfast.”

  And with that she was gone.

  “I really put my foot in it that time, Morris,” I said, scratching him under the chin with one hand and lifting the lid off the breakfast tray with the other. “Isn’t this the strangest place, though? Spooky old mansion, an absent Aunt, eccentric staff; good thing I don’t think I see ghosts anymore because this place would be riddled with them.”

  Morris and I made short work of breakfast, and I drained two cups of the delicious French coffee, carefully avoiding the orange juice–just in case. Now I really needed to see for myself that Bally was okay.

  I slid clumsily out of bed, my legs a little unsteady after all the time I’d wasted lying down. At least the pain in my head was nearly gone. My travel bag sat on an antique dresser beside a small group of horse figurines. It was still packed, and I rummaged through it to find any clothes that weren’t a floor-length nightgown. I made my way to the ancient attached bathroom to have a much-needed shower.

  Wow, I thought, I don’t think this place has been updated since last century.

  The room was painted a sickly green, with a white claw foot tub in one corner and a wooden dressing table with a built-in sink in the other. Tarnished copper pipes ran along one wall and they groaned and rattled when I turned the water on.

  The shower was just a corroded metal ring above the tub that spat out an unsteady stream of water. I eyed it sceptically, but in the end decided that even a bad shower was better than no shower at all.

  Before stepping in, I stared at my reflection in the faded mirror and carefully peeled the bandage off my head, relieved that it came off easily without pulling my hair too badly.

  That’s not just a couple of stitches. I thought in dismay. By craning my neck at various angles, I could see at least eight stitches and maybe more. The area around them was bruised and mounded up like a swollen egg and I poked at the base of it skeptically, thinking that I probably should have been taken to the hospital like Gil suggested.

  When I finally emerged, freshly showered, dressed, and feeling much more like myself, both Morris and the breakfast trolley were gone again. I padded to the window and looked outside, hoping to figure out exactly where the stables were.

  I was in luck; my guest room was at the front corner of the house, overlooking a badly overgrown front garden and an equally untamed lawn. And beyond that was a colossal building that was obviously the stables and indoor training center.

  All right, that’s more like it, I thought, eager to try out new facilities. Bally and I sometimes got a bit bored at home doing the same old routine. This might be just what we needed to add a little spark to our training.

  My boots and jackets were stationed neatly beside the door and I dressed quickly, pulling on my low walnut-coloured paddock boots and a plum coloured coat that Mother had brought back from a trip to Germany. Despite being an ogre about most things, Mother had impeccable taste in clothes; I was pretty sure she’d only had a daughter in the first place so she could dress me up like a doll. My lack of fashion sense was another constant disappointment to her. I pulled open the wooden door and looked into the hallway, trying to get my bearings.

  My room was at the furthest end of a wood-paneled corridor; rows of tightly closed, polished doors lined the hall on either side. I wasn’t sure which one I’d seen Xan in yesterday but it couldn’t have been far from here.

  Paintings of stern-faced people, most likely long-dead relatives of some sort, decorated the spaces between the doors and I couldn’t help but think they were watching me disapprovingly as I walked carefully between them. Chandeliers ran the length of the hallway, shedding warm light on the rich, red carpet and intricate wood paneling.

  I studied the paintings, looking for the one of the little girl with the parrot and the grey pony from my dream, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  There was no sign of anyone as I padded down the long, silent hallway, which was strange in itself. Greystone was always bustling with workers scrubbing, polishing or re-decorating under Mother’s watchful eye. Especially if there were guests in the house.

  I suppose we’re not exactly guests here, though, I thought ruefully, more like intruders.

  I reached the end of the hall and hesitated, staring cautiously out into the entry way. Goose bumps rose up my arms as a feeling of déjà vu washed over me and I rubbed them vigorously. I hadn’t explored this far when I’d left my room yesterday and yet this part of the house was exactly like it had been in my dream.

  The hallway opened into a huge foyer dominated by the massive curved wooden staircase on my left. It spiraled upward to a wide landing and then upward again to the second floor. The polished wooden steps were wide enough to drive a bus up and the dark wood had been covered in the middle with a strip of thick red carpet. The carpet was dappl
ed with light from the window on the landing and I looked upward, knowing what I was about to see.

  I froze as I gazed up at the massive stained-glass painting. It was exactly like the one in my dream. A cold little shiver passed through me as I remembered the terrible nightmare that had played out in Great Aunt Ruth’s room. Everything had seemed so real.

  There’s a perfectly logical explanation, I told myself firmly, walking closer to the bottom of the stairs so I could study the image. It wasn’t exactly like in my dream after all: there were subtle differences. The window from last night had only featured the lady on the horse, but in real life the picture was a whole scene, a painting spun so artfully in glass that it shimmered with life.

  A young man with his head cast back in supplication knelt before the fierce, copper-haired lady in an emerald dress. Again, she rode the rearing blood-red horse. She didn’t have a knife this time, though. Instead, she held a tightly-bound scroll of paper in one hand, tied with a scarlet ribbon. Behind her was a large, shaggy black dog, looking over his shoulder at some riders on the horizon. Light streamed in through the window making the picture vividly alive. I could almost imagine the horse would leap out of the glass at any second.

  “Admiring the Dark Lady, are you?” A thick, gravelly voice said right behind me.

  I whirled around, yelping in surprise. The stooped elderly man I’d seen earlier in Xan’s room stood by the front door. He looked much calmer now and his wild white hair had been combed carefully across his head in a wave. He wore a green, tweed jacket that hung about three sizes too big on his spare frame. His face was creased with a network of wrinkles as if he’d spent his whole life outdoors in rough weather. He leaned his weight on a thick, gnarled cane that had been polished to high shine. Just like the one that had been used to bludgeon Great Aunt Ruth in my dream.

  I stared at it with wide eyes until I had my breathing under control. Come on, Jilly, pull yourself together. Of course it was just my overactive imagination playing up again. He was just some harmless old man my subconscious had used to play a part in my nightmare.

  He stared at me suspiciously with narrowed eyes and I realized he was waiting for me to answer his question.

  “P … pardon?”

  His gaze shifted upward to lump on my head where the bandage had been and he lowered his bushy eyebrows ominously. “I asked if you were admiring the Dark Lady. She’s a museum piece, that one. People used to come on tours a few times a year just to study it and take photos of the glass. They wanted to see the rest of the house too, of course, but she was the main attraction.”

  “It’s … it’s beautiful,” I said, backing away a little under his hostile gaze. “Did you call her the Dark Lady? Like the name of the farm?”

  “Yes,” he said sharply, “the farm was named after an old local legend. It’s a silly tale for gossiping women, if you ask me. What are you doing out here creeping around by yourself anyway? Looking for something in particular?”

  “I’m not creeping,” I said, a little defensively. “I’m simply looking for the front door so I can go check on my horse. I don’t think there’s anything sneaky about that.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he said doubtfully. “The door’s right here in plain sight, though. Come on, this way to the stable then, if that’s where you’re really going.”

  For such a hunched old man, he moved surprisingly fast and, after the last two exhausting days, I had to work to keep up with him. By the time we’d crossed the neglected lawn, then the gravel driveway and were halfway to the barn, I was puffing with exertion. I had to stop. I closed my eyes to catch my breath and when I opened them again, I paused to truly take in my surroundings.

  “Wow,” I whispered under my breath as I took in the scenery. The house had been built on a slight rise and miles of rolling, forested hills stretched out before me; burnt yellow, orange, and red by the passing of Autumn.

  I turned to face the house. Even though it was unkempt at the moment, it was just as striking on the outside as it was inside. A huge, sprawling, white mansion topped with windowed peaks. Even in its run-down state it was grander than Greystone. It must have been fantastic back in its day.

  As I stared up at the house in appreciation, a movement in one of the second-floor windows caught my eye. Despite the crisp weather, one of the upper dormers had been left ajar and the bottom of a white curtain had blown outward and flapped lazily in the breeze.

  A figure stood half-hidden by the billowing fabric. A pale face, an emerald dress and piercing blue eyes that bore into mine even from this distance.

  I blinked and she was gone. The curtain was tucked inside and all the windows were shut tight.

  Just my imagination, I suppose, I thought worriedly, frowning and touching the sore place on my head. I hoped my fall hadn’t caused any permanent damage.

  “Come on, come on,” the old man grumbled from up ahead, and I hurried after him.

  The front of the barn was a little tidier than the lawn but not by much. There was a path mowed up to the barn door but otherwise, the grass stood knee-high against the stable. It looked like it hadn’t been tended in months.

  “Here,” the man said grumpily, throwing open the big double doors. “Come see them then since you’re so anxious. You’re just like Estelle and Ruth, always fussing over these horses.”

  I stepped inside, inhaling the rich smell of horse, leather, and hay that was so familiar and dear to me.

  What a funny-looking place, I thought as soon as my eyes had adjusted to the light. The barn was a dramatic mixture of ancient and modern. The spot closest to us was obviously part of the original stables; the walls were made of thick, crumbling old stone and overhead were dark, exposed beams. The stalls were stone, too, with heavy iron bars running vertically across the fronts. It looked dark and foreboding, more like a dungeon than a stable.

  About a third of the way down, the atmosphere changed completely where the new addition had been added. The walls were wooden instead of stone and the arched ceiling overhead was made of honey-coloured wood.

  I suppose they wanted to keep the history of the place alive, I thought, but I sure like the modern part better. This section gives me the chills.

  The long concrete aisle looked like it hadn’t been swept in days, bits of hay and straw lay everywhere.

  As I stepped inside, horses popped their heads over the doorways one by one, gazing at us curiously. It was a good sign; usually only well-treated horses were eager to meet new people. A whole barn full of happy horses made me feel a little more relaxed.

  A familiar grey head stared at me hopefully from halfway down the aisle and my heart leapt when I saw him. I couldn’t get to him fast enough.

  “Bally.” I stepped inside his stall and wrapped my arms tightly around his elegant neck. “I was so worried about you.”

  He blew warm breath on my face and nuzzled my pockets gently, looking for treats. After a few minutes he politely extracted himself from my hug and went back to his hay.

  He looked the picture of health. He was bedded deeply in fresh straw and had a manger full of hay and a bucket of fresh water. Someone had put on his light, plaid stable-blanket and he looked snug as a bug.

  “You happy now?” the man said from right outside Bally’s stall, making me jump again. He had an awful way of creeping up without making a sound.

  “Yes,” I said honestly, “He looks wonderful. Was it you who took such good care of him?”

  “Maybe it was,” the man said gruffly, but he looked a little pleased.

  After assuring myself that Bally was fine, I moved to check on Rigel and found him looking just as well-cared for, although he pinned his ears at me in a threatening way that clearly meant he did not want to be hugged. Ever.

  “Thank you so much for taking care of them,” I told the elderly man again. “We didn’t mean to be a bother to you. We were invited to see Aunt Ruth, but then I suppose my cousin Xan mixed the dates up and we came at the wrong time.
I’m Jilly, by the way,” I said, holding out my hand to him, “and you are….?”

  He looked down at my hand in consternation and for a moment I thought he’d actually turn around and leave without answering. His mouth worked up and down a few times and finally, he grudgingly reached out and shook my hand with his rough, gnarled one.

  “Jacob,” he said reluctantly, clearing his throat a few times as if being polite was a colossal effort.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you. How many horses do you have here?”

  Again, there was that pause as if he were judging how much information to share with me.

  “Twenty, right now,” he said finally. “Sometimes there are more, sometimes less.”

  I followed him back down the aisle, admiring the well-bred horses as we passed.

  “Oh, you have a young one,” I exclaimed when we reached the section where the old stone began. I stood on my toes to look over the stall door. A shaggy dark colt lifted his head from the manger, trailing a mouthful of hay. He looked very tiny inside that massive stone cell.

  “I always love foaling season at home. Sometimes I think I like the breeding program better than riding. What is he? What are his bloodlines?”

  “No idea,” Jacob answered in a surly voice. “I don’t know anything about fancy-pants bloodlines and all that mumbo jumbo. I leave that to Ruthie and Estelle. I just know that he eats and makes a mess like the rest of them.”

  Ruthie? I thought in surprise. I’d never heard anyone call Great Aunt Ruth a nickname of any sort, unless you counted the younger cousins christening her Great Aunt Ruthless. Old Jacob almost sounded as if he liked her. Perhaps he was a little senile.

  “Well, I think he’s lovely,” I said, gazing at the young horse affectionately. He was in that awkward stage between baby and grown-up where all his parts were laughably out of proportion. His head was a little too big for his neck, his legs too long for his body, and his hind end a good two inches taller than his front end. If he were a human then he’d be a gawky fourteen-year-old boy. His fuzzy coat was dark brown, almost black, with just a thin streak of white between his wide, intelligent eyes.