The Island of Lost Horses

by Stacy Gregg

  All the time she was working, Annie kept on talking. She asked lots of questions. I don’t know how she got me talking about Kristen Adams, but soon I was telling her everything.

  “We were best friends,” I said. “Now she never returns my emails.”

  I expected Annie to be sympathetic, but she wasn’t.

  “Maybe she ain’t got notink to say?”

  “Sure she does,” I replied. “She has loads of things to write about – she has lots of friends and she goes to parties and stuff.”

  “So you want her to write to you and brag about her life and all de good stuff you be missing?” Annie said. “Some friend she be den!”

  I remembered how Kristen’s emails used to make me feel. Every time she mentioned some new friend that she was hanging out with or going to the mall or any of the things we used to do that I couldn’t be a part of any more, it gave me pangs. Sometimes so badly that I didn’t reply to her for days afterwards. I guess Kristen sensed it too. In the end there was nothing we could say to each other that didn’t hurt. Maybe that was the real reason she stopped writing to me.

  “Maybe not,” I admitted, “but it just… it gets lonely, you know? Being out here.”

  Annie examined the piece of driftwood in her hand. “You still got your mama.”

  I sighed. “Mom’s OK, I guess; she… well, she just doesn’t get me, you know? She thinks that I keep asking to go live with Dad just to annoy her.”

  Annie pouted out her lips to point at the hammer on the ground beside me. “Carry me de hammer, will you?”

  I picked it up and passed it over. She hit a nail in to hold the board steady. “Bee-a-trizz,” she said, “you remember how de stallion attacked you on de Bonefish Marshes?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Den you see de way de Duchess she done come a-flyin’ outta nowhere? She throwin’ herself between you and de stallion.”

  “That wasn’t what happened,” I said. “The Duchess knocked me over because she wanted to fight…”

  Annie shook her head. “Annie saw it all, Bee-a-trizz. Dat horse pushed you aside and saved your life. She be protectin’ you.”

  “Protecting me?” I said.

  Annie grunted. “Child, sometimes it be hard to tell who’s tryin’ to hurt you and who’s tryin’ to save you.”

  And I knew she wasn’t talking about the Duchess any more.

  ***

  All the time we’d been working on the pens the sun had been baking hot. I must have drunk a whole gallon of switcher all by myself, I was so thirsty. I kept thinking about Mom and how I should be heading back to the boat.

  Annie had run out of nails and I had to use rope instead to bind railings to the posts. And there was still a big gap in the fenceline that needed patching up before it would be secure.

  “We needs to gather up more wood,” she said. “Get some big pieces and cut dem up. Den come day-clean once de pens are done we start on de crib. Got to nail all de windows shut.”

  “You mean tomorrow?” I said. “Annie, I need to go home. My mom will be worried.”

  “Ain’t no way we’ll get de job done in one day,” Annie said. “I need your help, Bee-a-trizz.”

  “OK,” I said reluctantly. “I guess I better phone my mom.”

  Mom had insisted that I take the spare phone from the Phaedra. Reception wasn’t good, but it was a clear enough signal to hear a dial tone. I let it ring five, six, seven times and then Mom answered.

  “Beatriz! Is that you? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong, Mom. I just got held up. I’ve been helping Annie out. There’s too much to do so I’m going to have to stay here the night. I’ll come back in the morning, OK?”

  “You’re at Annie’s?” I could tell Mom was horrified. “Sweetie, that old woman is as mad as a cut snake! I told you not to go there.”

  “She’s not, Mom. And I’m OK, I’ll be home first thing tomorrow, I promise.”

  “Beatriz,” Mom said, “listen to me. There’s a hurricane warning on the marine forecast. I need you to get back to the boat. Where are you?”

  “I’m at Annie’s cottage. It’s in the jungle, about a half-mile inland past Saw Mill Sink.”

  “Saw Mill Sink!” Mom said. “Beatriz, that’s on the other side of the island!”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll be home tomorrow, Mom, I promise. The pens are almost finished. We just have to storm-proof the house and then straight after that I’ll come home, OK? I gotta go now, I don’t want the phone to die.”

  “No! Beatriz. Listen to me…”

  I could tell Mom was going to get shouty so I rang off. I knew I shouldn’t, but she isn’t always right, is she?

  ***

  By evening we had almost finished the pens. They weren’t pretty but they were solid. Or at least I hoped they would be. The hurricane that was coming was strong enough to rip trees out of the ground.

  “Less wind here,” Annie insisted. “Safer here. I been here for forty years. Dat’s a whole lot o’ hurricanes.”

  Annie’s storm shutters were made from thick chunks of Caribbean pine. We spent the remaining hours of daylight preparing them. Tomorrow morning we would fit and nail them on to the windows of her house.

  “You like okra?” Annie asked as we walked back to the house. “I got the pot boiling for dinner.”

  I had never eaten okra before, but it turned out that I did. I drank a whole lot more switcher and Annie made us a pot of gumbo-limbo tea, which she infused from the bark of a tree right outside the front door. It tasted kind of licoricey.

  “Where you put de diary?” Annie asked.

  “It’s in my backpack,” I said.

  She picked up the backpack and passed it to me and then settled herself down beside me on the sofa.

  “Open it up, Bee-a-trizz,” she said. “You’re gonna read to me.”

  While we were working on the pens, I had recounted Felipa’s diary so that Annie was up to date on the story so far.

  “In the last entry, she had been found by the guards in Cara’s stable,” I recapped. “Now she’s just left the Alhambra on her way to join Christopher Columbus on his new voyage.”

  Annie lay back on the sofa and shut her eyes. “Wait a moment. Annie’s gettin’ comfy,” she said. “Been a long time since anyone read me a story. Not since I was a little piccaninny.”

  Annie folded her hands in her lap and gave me a nod. I opened up the diary and began to read out loud…

  F.M.

  24th September, 1493

  Such a sight greeted me at the port of Cadiz! Never in my life have I seen so many ships put to sea at once. Fifteen caravels were anchored out in the bay, and the sea surrounding these great ships was alive with rowing boats, busily ferrying supplies from the wharves.

  The biggest ships were the two carracas – triple-masted sailing ships moored alongside the wharf – and the sailors were loading these with sacks of corn and grain. Such repulsive men! Fat-bellied with blackened teeth and whiskery, weather-beaten skin. They scurried about the decks like rats, running up the riggings and hoisting the mainsails. Their shouting and swearing would have made a lady blush.

  But I was not a lady any more.

  “You, boy!” I turned round to see a broad-shouldered man dressed in tall boots, a billowing white shirt and a wide hat with a feather plume in the brim glaring at me.

  “Are you on this crew?”

  I tried to deepen my voice as best I could. “Yes, sir,” I said. “I am the groom of this horse for the journey.”

  Cara Blanca was pulling so hard against the lead rope in my hands I was having trouble holding on to her. She had never been so close to the sea before and she kept shying at the sight of the white-tipped ocean waves that slapped hard against the sides of the carracas.

  “Sir? Hah! Such fancy speech!” the man laughed at me.“I can tell you’re no sailor.”

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “Stop calling me sir and address me as boat
swain!” the man replied. “And you’re not a groom any more either. You’ll be ship’s boy… not much else you’re fit for…”

  Cara continued to fret and pull against the rope. My arms were aching and I did not think I could hold her for much longer.

  “Well come on then, scrawny boy!” the boatswain growled. “Get this beast onboard with the others!”

  A wooden ramp had been laid across from the wharf to the deck of the carraca and I led my horse over to it.

  “Step up, girl,” I whispered to her. “It’s going to be OK. You can do it…”

  I managed to coax Cara to take a step forward, and then another, but when she reached the centre of the ramp she looked down and saw the roiling froth of the open sea beneath her and pulled back in horror.

  “Cara!” She wrenched the rope clean from my hands. As she flung herself backwards, I thought she would fall into the sea! On the wharf, men carrying baskets of Seville oranges had to leap aside to avoid being trampled by her.

  I made a grab and caught her by the halter. “Hold her,” the boatswain growled. He had a thick piece of wood in his hands.

  “Please, no! Don’t hit her!” I begged him.

  The boatswain scowled. “Get her onboard then!”

  I was shaking all over as I led Cara forward to the edge of the ramp once more. “Come on,” I pleaded. “For me, Cara, please!”

  She would not step up.

  “Enough of this nonsense!” The boatswain lunged closer. “This’ll get her on!”

  He was about to bring the lump of wood down hard when I saw a hand appear out of nowhere and clasp the boatswain’s wrist.

  “What the…?” the boatswain exclaimed. “Let me go!”

  He shook himself free and now I could see a young sailor boy, not much older than me, standing behind him. He was a skinny lad. But when he spoke his voice had such assurance, as if he were used to addressing men as his equal.

  “Boatswain,” the young sailor boy said, “a beating will not convince this horse to get onboard.”

  “Is that so?” the boatswain chuckled at his impudence. “Well then, able seaman, let me see you do better!”

  The Boatswain stood aside and the sailor boy made his way over to me. He gave Cara a pat and then reached down and unwrapped the scarf that he wore round his waist.

  “Tie this round your mare’s eyes,” he whispered. “Go on, do it quickly or this great fool will beat her half to death!”

  I did as the boy said, wrapping the scarf round Cara’s head so that she was completely blindfolded.

  “Now lead her forward again,” the boy instructed. He saw me hesitate and smiled. “It’s OK,” he insisted. “She will go on this time, I promise.”

  Sure enough, with the blindfold to protect her from the sight of the gaping void beneath the ramp, Cara was no longer afraid. Her hooves clattered on the wood as she stepped onboard and then down another ramp that led us below deck.

  It was here in the bowels of the ship that the grim reality of the voyage that lay ahead of us struck me. The animals were crowded and already the stench was unbearable.

  The mares were crammed in so close that they had been attacking each other. A few had open bite wounds on their necks. One poor unfortunate had been bitten on the eye and it was seeping and swollen. The worst injury by far though was a poor mare who had been kicked so hard and at such an angle that her hind leg dangled painfully from the stifle.

  “We must unload that horse!” I said to the boatswain. “The leg looks broken.”

  “I’m loading the boat, not unloading,” the boatswain said.

  “But she’s in pain!” I said.

  “Let her suffer! It makes no mind to me!”

  “But if it is broken,” I reasoned, “then she is no good for work or for breeding.”

  The boatswain bent down to look at the leg and then gave a dismissive grunt. “Then we’ll use her for meat.”

  I was utterly horrified! He meant to eat this poor horse?

  “You are nothing but a—” I was about to let loose when I felt a sharp blow to my guts. The kind, young sailor boy who had given me his scarf had just punched me in the stomach!

  I fell to the floor gasping, unable to breathe. I heard the boatswain’s laughter as he stomped away.

  “Up you get then!” The boy held his hand out to me. I refused to take it. I struggled up without his help.

  “You expect me to take your hand? You punched me!”

  “You can thank me later,” the sailor boy said. “I was saving your life.”

  “By felling me to the ground?”

  “By keeping you quiet in front of that great oaf,” the boy replied. “What do you think would’ve happened if you’d given tongue to your feelings just now? The boatswain would have used his lump of wood to beat you to death.”

  The boy took back his scarf and tied it round his waist. Then he stuck out his hand to me once more.

  “My name is Juan,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Felipa… I mean, Felipe,” I said. I shook his hand reluctantly. He was a sailor, after all.

  Juan looked at me with a curious expression. He examined my hand and then said, “You ever sailed before, Felipe?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Then what brings you on this journey?” he asked.

  “I… want to serve my Queen by travelling to the New World,” I said.

  Juan laughed. “How worthy you are! I only wanted to get out of Spain.”

  He smiled at me. “Come on. I can see you are worried about your horse. If we arrange the hay bales between your mare and the others, she will have some space to herself.”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” I said. As soon as the words tumbled from my mouth I regretted them. I had to start talking like a ship’s boy or I would be found out before we even left the port! Luckily Juan didn’t seem to notice. He turned to leave.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Could you show me to my room?”

  Juan laughed again. “We have no rooms here! We sleep above deck under the stars.”

  “Oh.” I had been expecting my own private quarters.

  “You can take the hammock that is strung above mine if you like,” Juan said. “You are a skinny lad and I would prefer to have you fall upon me in the middle of the night if there is a storm. Most of the crew are so fat they would crush me alive…”

  As we stood on deck I could feel the boat swaying and rocking. I felt like throwing up.

  “Does it always move like this?”

  “Felipe,” Juan said, “we have not even left port yet!”

  He looked hard at me. “This journey will be too tough for someone like you. Take my advice – get off this ship now. Before it is too late.”

  “I cannot,” I replied. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  Juan sighed. “Come on then, Felipe,” he said. “There are fifty barrels of wine to be loaded onboard and the boatswain will not be pleased if he finds us slacking.”

  F.M.

  27th September, 1493

  There are seventeen ships bound for the New World. And yet, incredibly, I managed to board the one captained by Admiral Columbus himself.

  The admiral is hardly ever seen on deck – he keeps himself in his cabin with his maps and charts. Today, however, my luck ran out.

  “Cabin boy,” the boatswain said, “take the admiral his meal.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, boy! You!”

  And so I found myself entering the captain’s cabin where Admiral Columbus was at the table, examining his navigation instruments.

  “Admiral, I have brought your lunch.”

  I tried to put the plate down swiftly and leave before he noticed me.

  “Wait, boy!” I was at the door when he called me back to him.

  “Give this to the boatswain,” he said, handing me a rolled-up chart.

  I made to leave but the admiral’s hand did not release the parchment. I froze. He was staring at me with a puzzled e
xpression on his face.

  “Do I know you, boy? Have you crewed for me before?”

  “No, Admiral,” I replied. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of my neck. Would he recognise me as the giggling companion of Princess Joanna? I held my breath. He looked as if he was about to say something. Then he changed his mind and let go of the chart.

  “Be off then.”

  So I am safe – for now, at least. But in future I shall stay out of the admiral’s way. My haircut and garments have fooled him once, but he is a clever man and my disguise will not trick him forever.

  30th September, 1493

  We eat a hot meal once a day at 11am. The cook stirs a pot over hot coals and then dishes it up on our plates. The sailors bolt down their share like pigs at a trough. At first I was too repulsed to eat. Then I realised that my behaviour was arousing suspicion and so I did exactly the same as the others, scoffing my food straight from the plate without cutlery.

  The boatswain is the worst of them. He belches and farts constantly and his breath is like the sewer. He hates me too. At first he set me the worst tasks on the ship: cleaning out the bilge in the belly of the boat, which is the most disgusting job you could imagine, bucketing out the slop and toilet waste. This lasted a few days until he found a new way of tormenting me.

  “A scrawny boy like you is not good for much,” the boatswain told me, “except for climbing the rigging.”

  Now I am sent up the ropes each day like a trained monkey. Even in the very worst weather imaginable, rain lashing my skin and gusts of wind threatening to blow me off the mast and into the sea, I must climb my way up the rungs until I have reached the lookout at the top of the mast. Sometimes I stay there for hours on end, the sun beating down mercilessly upon me as I watch the horizon for signs of land. The rocking of the ship is even worse atop the mast and when the winds get high it is terrifying.

  On hot days the crew all strip to their waist in the sun. I am the only one to keep my shirt on.

  “Come on, Felipe,” Juan teases me with a wry grin. “Why not feel the sea breeze on your skin?”