Bookweird

by Paul Glennon

  “She looked after the horse that was murdered.” Norman had said it without thinking, really just musing aloud, trying to puzzle out the connections in this book and why such a horrible thing had happened. “She was looking after Serendipity. She knew he was special.”

  “She didn’t know how special,” Leni muttered darkly, perhaps to herself. She leapt up and drove her roasting stick firmly back into the ground.

  “Are you finished eating?” she asked, her voice strained. Was she angry or upset? Norman indicated his almost empty plate.

  “It’ll be my father dealing with you,” she announced summarily. Before Norman could reply, she had skulked off to the other side of the fire.

  Norman watched her silhouette explain it all to her father and the other men, waving her arms as she talked. What an idiot, he thought. I shouldn’t have told her anything. She’s spilling it all to her father now, the little spy. He mopped up the vegetable juice from his plate with the last of the bread and strained to watch Leni and her father. Even if they had been speaking English, Norman couldn’t have deciphered a word. They were too far away. He would have to wait to be dealt with.

  It was much later when the men came to his side of the fire. He’d heard enough gypsy songs by then to imagine that he understood the words. There’d been more than enough time to think about escaping and to decide that it was no use. The big man, Leni’s father, approached him slowly. He hardly seemed to go around the fire. It looked more like he just stepped over it. The upward motion he made with his chin clearly meant that Norman should get up. Norman did so without questioning. In the same way, he followed the big man into the forest. He rubbed the lump on his head nervously as he tripped along the path. Once or twice he looked behind him, regretting that he hadn’t attempted an escape earlier. The outlines of Feliz and Varnat behind him in the shadows of the path assured him that he’d missed his opportunity. They were watching him closely now. His only hope, he realized, was Leni. Could something he had said have moved her? Maybe she had persuaded the gypsies not to murder him. If he was lucky, maybe they’d just leave him tied up in the forest.

  The forest path closed in on them as they drew deeper into the woods. It reminded him unnervingly of the pine forests of Undergrowth and of his flight from the wolves. Was it too much to hope that the stoats would appear in the trees now, springing an ambush on the gypsies? How many arrows from Malcolm’s bow would it take to bring Leni’s father down? He had to stop himself thinking like this. This was a different forest, a different book.

  The path widened suddenly to a small clearing. Strange how bright it seemed now that the full moon’s light shone down into the circular space carved out of the forest. It was like a little stage, or the spot under a desk lamp. Norman actually gasped as he drew up to the clearing and saw what was standing there in the middle, tethered to a tree and not happy about it, feet pawing the ground, shaking his head furiously as if trying to shake off a swarm of bees rather than just his halter.

  “Serendipity.” Norman spoke the foal’s name in a relieved whisper.

  The foal raised its head and snorted. A cloud of steam rose from his warm nostrils into the cool night air. Norman had a strong urge to touch the horse, to stroke its mane or rub its lively little ears, but as he took a step forward he saw the look in the horse’s eyes, a look of wildness. They glared and twitched in a furious panic. The book hadn’t said anything about this rage in the horse’s eyes or the twitching anger in his limbs. Serendipity had been a calm, playful foal. The gypsies had done this to him. There was no blood, no obvious wound, but they had done something.

  “We are no horse murderers.” It was the first time Leni’s father had spoken, but his voice was as brusque as Norman had imagined.

  No, not horse murderers, just horse thieves, Norman thought to himself.

  “The blood you saw was wolf’s blood. We tracked it to the barn and arrived in time—” He stopped before continuing. “Just in time.”

  “Why?” Norman asked. “Why did you take the foal?”

  Leni’s father continued answering questions Norman hadn’t asked rather than the one he had.

  “The farmers talk bravely, but they are cowards. Their imaginations run away with them. They imagine horrible fates for themselves if they were ever to really find us. They don’t know the forests nearly as well as their grandfathers did, nor the river. They think of it as a single path, not the tangle that it is. Roads have made them stupid. They even call us ‘gypsies’ now.”

  Norman took a good look at the man’s leathery face, his curly black hair, his bushy eyebrows. What did gypsies look like, anyway? “You aren’t gypsies?” he asked, confused.

  “No more than their football teams are Seminoles.”

  Norman didn’t get this answer. “What do you mean?”

  Again Leni’s father had his own questions. “Why did you lead the hunters here?” he asked. “What do the wolves want from you?”

  Norman shrugged and blinked. What do you tell a character in one book about events in another? It wasn’t as if he understood what was going on between the books either.

  Leni’s father looked disgusted by his intransigence. “Tell me what you know about the foal.”

  This could be an opportunity as well as an interrogation, couldn’t it? They were showing him the foal, and they hadn’t killed him yet. Why not take these as positive signs? If he told them everything he knew, maybe they’d trust him.

  “The foal’s mother—her dam, I mean—used to belong to the Saint-Saens,” he said.

  “The Frenchman and his daughter?” the gypsy asked.

  “Yes. The dam was called Fortune. She was Amelie’s mother’s horse.”

  “Amelie is the girl?”

  Norman nodded. “Fortune was sent away after Amelie’s mother died. Amelie hasn’t seen her since. Now she has her own foal, but…” Norman was surprised to hear himself choking up. So much death in this book, and so different from the death in his Undergrowth books—not the death of warriors in battle, but the death of mothers. Norman’s unfinished sentence hung in the air.

  An angry snort from the foal finally broke the silence. As he pawed the ground furiously now, there was torment in his eyes, perhaps anger, but even Norman could see a deep weariness too.

  “You know the foal is special?” Leni’s father asked. He did not look at Norman. He looked directly into the horse’s eyes. The horse seemed unable to avert its eyes. It batted its giant eyelids but did not look away.

  Norman nodded, but the gypsy was still not looking at him. He had moved so close to the horse that they were breathing each other’s air. The man put one hand behind the horse’s ear, and gently stroked. Serendipity’s ragged breathing began to slow, and his restless feet merely twitched rather than stamped.

  Leni’s father pulled the horse’s head to his own, placing his cheek alongside Serendipity’s face. Norman saw the gypsy’s mouth move but could hear no words. Whatever he was saying wasn’t just a few words. It was as though he was telling the horse a story, a wonderful secret that kept him rapt and still. Norman just watched as the gypsy settled the little colt’s nerves this way. When Leni’s father finally pulled away, the foal no longer struggled with his halter. He lowered himself slowly to the ground and laid his heavy head down on the grass, as if all along all he had wanted to do was sleep.

  Norman suddenly recalled what Dora said about Serendipity. She’d called him a “therapy horse.” That wasn’t the right word. The back of the book said something about equine-assisted therapy, how horses could help troubled people. But how was this horse supposed to help disturbed humans? It looked just the opposite to Norman—Serendipity was the one who needed therapy.

  “This horse is special. He can help people,” Norman said, breaking the silence created by the horse’s slumber.

  Leni’s father turned quickly to face Norman. “You can see this?” There was a note of curiosity in his voice for the first time.

  “I can�
��t see it,” Norman replied.

  “Well then how can you know?” the gypsy asked suspiciously.

  “I just know,” Norman said hesitantly. “I read it in a book, that he can help heal people.”

  “A prophecy?”

  “Sort of,” Norman murmured.

  “We have our stories about this, about horses with this gift. You can see how deeply he feels…” Leni’s father’s voice drifted off as he gazed at the fitfully sleeping foal.

  Norman was emboldened enough to ask his own questions. “What is wrong with Serendipity?”

  The gypsy’s head snapped back to Norman, his eyebrows raised fiercely as if questioning Norman’s right to ask this question, but now that Norman had begun asking, he could not stop. “Why does he look like that? Why is he so…so freaked out? And what did you say to him to make him go to sleep like that?”

  Leni’s father turned and answered sharply. “The wolves did that to him. A horse is a noble creature, a valiant creature. It comes into this world without fear and should grow up that way, but the wolves have undone that. You and those wolves have reminded him of his blood memories—of the wilderness, of the hunt, of being prey.”

  Norman was too stunned to answer. He knew the gypsy was right. Serendipity had been a calm foal. The wolves in his stall had unleashed some wildness. He understood how it was possible—how facing one of these creatures opened up a gusher of panic inside you, made you want to run until you couldn’t feel your legs. He understood too well.

  “Where are you taking him?” Norman asked quietly, even meekly now. There was no answer to this question, but he tried another. “What do you want with me?”

  The gypsy turned stern and confident again.

  “You do not belong here. The lore keepers thought you might have led the wolves to the foal. They worried that they did your bidding, but even I can see now that you are incapable of such things. Those beasts would not follow you.”

  Norman had half a mind to tell him a little bit about underestimation. Maybe he’d think differently if he knew that Norman was the veteran of three battles in Undergrowth. But then again, maybe not.

  “You have to return the foal to Amelie,” Norman said. “Amelie knows the foal is special. She can protect him.” Norman had decided that the gypsies weren’t completely evil. They really did seem to want to protect the foal. Another inspiration struck him.

  “You said that your people have stories, right, about special horses, horses that can help people, right?”

  Leni’s father nodded but appeared not to listen. He was staring at Serendipity, who was shifting and twitching in his sleep.

  “They can help people who are hurt, not just physically, but inside?” Norman continued.

  “So the stories say.”

  “The girl, Amelie, needs that sort of help. She needs Serendipity.”

  The gypsy turned to him suddenly. “The French girl at the farm?” he asked. He didn’t need to wait for an answer. “She doesn’t need any help.”

  “Yes, she does.” Norman couldn’t hear how his voice was rising in urgency. “Didn’t you see how she looked on the riverbank? She needs this horse. It’s the only connection she has to her mother.”

  Leni’s father stood up and walked to the other side of the foal, his face turned away from Norman. He stroked his goatee fretfully. “It’s the horse that needs help now. It needs protection. It needs its own healing.”

  “Maybe Serendipity and Amelie can help each other,” Norman ventured, then added more boldly, “Serendipity’s mother used to belong to Amelie’s mother. I guess that sort of makes them family. That’s why they need each other.”

  Leni’s father turned to him sharply. “Don’t tell me what this horse needs,” he shot back. “It certainly doesn’t need those things you brought at its throat. Those weren’t normal beasts. I know that. They may not be your creatures, but you know more about them than you are saying.”

  This silenced Norman completely. He and Leni’s father just stood there staring at the fretful horse in the dark. They were silent so long, Norman wondered if he was supposed to go back to the fire.

  “So this girl Amelie is your friend?” the gypsy asked suddenly.

  Norman answered warily, “Not really.”

  “But she would vouch for you, if we asked her.”

  “She doesn’t really know me,” Norman admitted reluctantly.

  The gypsy knitted his bushy eyebrows together in a suspicion-filled frown. “Then how do you know so much about her and her horse? Perhaps you are a spy after all, in league with those beasts.”

  Norman heard his voice break as he answered, “I’m not a spy.” He wanted to glare back defiantly, but the exhaustion and frustration had him close to tears.

  “Then how do you know all this?” the gypsy pressed angrily.

  Norman fought the tremor in his voice. What could he say? How could he explain? The truth would probably do, he figured. It was no less strange than anything else in this book.

  “I came from—”

  “Don’t tell us where you are from,” the gypsy commanded sharply. “That’s not what I asked. We don’t want to know. It is not something that we should know. Coming here is your transgression. Don’t make us any part of it.”

  So much for the truth.

  “We know the French girl doesn’t know you,” the man continued. “We saw her face on the riverbank. There was no recognition in her face. There was suspicion. How do you know about her?”

  “I read it in a book. Maybe it was a prophecy after all.”

  “So where is this book now?” Leni’s father asked skeptically.

  “I lost it,” Norman said sheepishly.

  “Naturally,” the gypsy replied, full of sarcasm. He stared at the horse for a long minute, watching him stomp and fret, before turning back to Norman. “Tell us about the mother.”

  “She was killed in a riding accident when Amelie was small. Her father hasn’t let Amelie near horses since, but she needs Serendipity now, and he needs her. Together they are going to do something special.”

  “Your book of prophecies tells you this too, does it?” He was mocking Norman now.

  Norman didn’t answer, and the gypsy for once didn’t press. He stared past Norman at the restless horse, seemingly deep in thought. Then, without warning, he was all action again, a decision seemingly made.

  “Feliz, Varnat,” the gypsy called, sternly. “Bring the horse. It is time to go.”

  The two men stepped out of the forest where they had been waiting, silent and unseen. Feliz took the foal’s tether and tugged him to his feet. Varnat did the same with Norman’s shirt. Norman chastised himself as they walked back down the path. Why had he said so much? Why had he been so trusting? As they picked their way through the woods back to the moored barges at the dock, Norman cursed himself silently. He would keep his mouth shut from now on. But it was probably too late. He’d probably told him more than he needed to know.

  The Gypsies’ Talent

  As the little flotilla of barges sailed deeper and deeper into the forest, the river split again and again into smaller branches. The channels became increasingly narrow through the day. More often now Feliz, Varnat and the other men had to jump out to manipulate the boats into some side channel. The channel mouths were well hidden by stands of reeds and low-hanging willows. If you didn’t know they were there, you would never have found them.

  A mist hung over the river like a ceiling. The sun was just a yellow blur above it. Norman felt as if the whole world was closing in. They moved slowly along the winding water paths, and time seemed to slow down with them. Norman sat on the deck and sulked, feeling sorry for himself. Every hour that passed took them farther away from the farm and made it less likely that Amelie and her friends would find him and the gypsies. They did not even suspect that Serendipity was still alive and that they could save him. These thoughts seemed to make the gloomy mist descend lower and the hisses and barks of the creatures sk
ulking in the weeds and on the muddy banks seem more ominous.

  The eerie animal calls didn’t seem to bother Leni. She sang cheerfully to herself all day and, whether she knew it or not, responded to the occasional animal call with an imitative reply. They had left Norman on the same boat with Leni. Though released from the hold and allowed the freedom of the deck, he was no less a prisoner. His prison was just a few metres wider and longer. The marshland was forbidding enough to dispel any thought of escape. He would have no chance of finding his way out of this maze of backwaters, riverlets and soggy islets. Who knew what was skulking about onshore or lurking patiently beneath the surface of the iron grey water?

  Boredom, more than anything else, broke his silence. You could stare at ripples in the water and wonder what the gypsies were up to for only so long before you started to drive yourself crazy. Yesterday it had been simple. They had killed the pony and they had to be found. Now it was more complicated. They hadn’t killed the foal, but they had stolen it. Did that still make them the enemy? Were they really trying to protect the horse, or was that just a ruse?

  Everything he had thought from the start was wrong. The attack in the stable had been his own fault. He had somehow unleashed the wolves from Undergrowth. He had let them into Amelie’s world and made this horrible mess, and since his arrival he’d only made things worse. He was doing nothing to help in the pages of Dora’s book. It made him wonder if he knew what was best after all. He wanted to make it right and do everything he could to get Amelie her horse back, but when he thought of the look of manic terror in the horse’s eyes and his own role in it, he wondered if he should just stay out of it.

  To distract himself from these circular thoughts, Norman rose and shuffled carefully to the other side of the boat, where Leni sat cross-legged, concentrating on something in her lap. She tried not to let him see at first, pulling her arms close to her body to hide something. Norman could tell it was a notebook of some sort. Maybe it was her journal. Maybe that’s why she was so embarrassed.