The Disappearing Boy

by Sonia Tilson

  He buried his face in Dude’s thick mane, and tried to force himself to think of something else—the excitement of racing through the forest on Dude, the fun of playing ball with Keeper, or the comfort of grooming the donkey—but there was no peaceful place in his mind where he could hide.

  Giving Dude a last pat, Neil left the stall and went to check on the others, all quiet and contented—even Mackie, who surprised him with a little harrumph of welcome.

  There was no getting away from what Luc had been through, Neil thought as he walked in the starlight back to the bungalow. He slipped in through the back door and tiptoed past Ken, who was fast asleep on the sofa; he looked old, his head tipped back and his mouth open.

  Neil thought about what Cheryl had said, about how easy he had it. She was right, he realized. He had it better than Courtenay, for sure, whose parents didn’t seem to care about her nearly as much as Sasha cared about him.

  He remembered Courtenay’s shocked face when he’d shouted at her. He felt bad about her, and he missed her company. Cheryl said that a girl back home was worrying about him, but she must have got it wrong. Courtenay probably hated him. Or worse: she’d completely forgotten about him.

  He tried to stop thinking, only to have Luc’s story rise again in his mind in all its horror: the noise, the blood and gore, all happening right in front of the boy’s eyes. How could any little kid get over that?

  He remembered the way Luc had vanished into the forest and wondered where his cabin was. As he crawled into bed, exhausted, he tried to imagine what the cabin would be like.

  Neil fell quickly into a deep sleep, dreaming first of Courtenay, walking backwards away from him with a reproachful look. And then of Sasha, stretched out on a hospital bed. She was dead, the ginger-haired nurse and stern doctor were telling him, their eyes hard emerald green and stony black. Dead, because of him. This morphed into a dream of Luc appearing and disappearing through the trees, his eyes fixed on Neil’s. A glint of silver: Luc had a rifle and was aiming at him.

  Neil woke up sweating, his heart thumping, still seeing the barrel levelled at his head.

  ***

  In the morning, Neil was still shaken. He looked for Ken and was surprised to find him preparing to leave.

  “I’m shutting the place down for the day,” Ken said. “It’s too cold for lessons or trail rides. Olive’s sister and her husband, up in Hampton, are having some kind of an anniversary party. I figured I’d make an appearance. Cheryl’s taking the day off, so you’re on your own for a few hours.”

  He was torn: it was pretty neat that he’d have the place all to himself. But that dream was still nagging at him. “Cool,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “I can’t say what time I’ll be back,” Ken said as he got into the truck, “but there’s leftover tourtière in the fridge for supper, and a can of baked beans in the cupboard. See you later.”

  Neil stood, watching him drive away. Maybe being left in charge wouldn’t be so bad.

  Chapter 16

  Neil sat on the mounting block by the gate. He propped his sketchpad on his knee, and began making some quick drawings of the horses. First, Mackie, a chunky little mess, his big dark eyes the only important feature. Then muscular Onyx, with his big hairy feet, followed by compact, elegant little Honey. He wished he had his paints to capture the rich deep gold of her coat and the striking contrast between Dude’s light blond mane and tail and walnut-coloured coat. The donkey was too far off to draw, and anyway, his fingers had gotten too stiff and cold to work.

  He went to the barn to see what needed doing. Just about everything, it turned out. He got down to it. He mucked out the stalls, swept the aisle, and arranged the saddles on the proper racks in the tack-room, with the bridles hanging below. He even fed the grateful cat some leftover sardines. He really was a good stable hand, he thought, looking around. They needed him.

  For the first time since he’d arrived here, he realized, he was truly alone. He didn’t even have a dog to keep him company, since Keeper was with Cheryl. It would be nice to have a dog of his own. Keeper was always up for a romp or a chase, or a game of fetch. They had a dog once in Vancouver, Neil dimly remembered, when he was very small: a Westie called Babe, but she’d got run over, and Sasha’d said she’d never put herself through that again. One day, Neil thought, he’d get a dog for himself.

  As he stood there, Neil became aware of the cold creeping through his layers of clothing and decided that Dude, who didn’t have as thick a winter coat as the others, should have his blanket on.

  After fetching Dude and tying him up to the hitching post in the barn, Neil went to grab the quilted blanket from the tack room. He pulled the heavy bundle off the high shelf, almost knocking Dude’s saddle from its rack. As he straightened it, he heard an iron-shod hoof strike the cement floor. He glanced around. Full dark eyes shining and nostrils flaring, Dude was ready and willing for action.

  Neil looked at his watch. It was only twenty past two. There were at least a couple of hours before it would start to get dark. Thinking hard, he replaced the folded blanket, bringing it neatly in line with the others.

  Ken had banned any unsupervised riding, but surely there’d be no problem with taking Dude into the ring, just to put him through his paces, or maybe even a quick run in the paddock? Neil considered this. After all the practice he’d had and the ability he’d shown, especially on the day he’d saved Onyx, he figured he’d earned it.

  He turned to look through the small, cobwebby window at the dark forest beyond. He could even, he supposed, his stomach tightening, take Dude out on a little trail ride. There would be no harm in it. Anyway, who would know?

  He remembered Ken’s warning about hunters and swapped Dude’s brown saddle-blanket for a big white one. He then put Ken’s red barn jacket on over his hoodie. All right, he thought, I should be safe enough now.

  He warmed Dude up, as Ken always insisted, first walking then trotting him around the upper paddock a couple of times before cantering up to the start of the trail.

  Cheryl had shown him how to open and close the gate from horseback, but it was a tricky business. Since the other horses were safely shut in the lower paddock and he’d only be gone for a short time, he left the gate open for his return.

  He zipped up the jacket and fastened his helmet. Then he sat up straight, pushed his heels down, and urged Dude into the running-walk.

  For a couple of minutes they clipped along the hard, well-beaten track, until he couldn’t resist letting Dude speed up, daringly, into a full gallop. Neil’s eyes watered and his fingers, in their thin riding gloves, were already stiff with cold, but he laughed out loud at the incredible thrill.

  When he finally tried reining Dude in, the way he’d practiced with Ken in the paddock, he found there was no holding the horse back. He knew he couldn’t panic and hung in, weight still forward, elbows tight, his hands creeping up the reins and alternately pulling back and letting go, the way Ken had demonstrated. He couldn’t find a convenient clearing where he could turn, so the whole thing took longer than he expected, but finally Dude lost speed and slowed to a head-shaking halt. Neil had proven to himself that the system did work, sort of, and that he did have some level of control.

  He took Dude on in a running walk until they reached the big rock that marked the end of the first part of the trail. On the path ahead he saw hoof-prints from Cheryl’s longer ride the day before with Margot, Honey’s owner. If that little old lady could take it further, he thought, why couldn’t he? He pressed his legs into Dude’s sides.

  A short way along the path, Neil saw a thin, wavering column of smoke rising from way up the slope on his right. He pulled Dude up. What could that be from? Poachers wouldn’t likely give themselves away by building a fire, but somebody had to be up there. Perhaps it was a cabin. He felt a jab of excitement. Maybe it was Luc’s. He’d love to see that! He saw a narro
w track leading uphill in the direction of the smoke and turned Dude’s head.

  The path through the trees was rocky and steep and winding, but well trodden. It was probably a deer path, maybe a people path too. It shouldn’t be too much of a challenge, he thought, for a strong, surefooted horse like Dude. He leaned forward to take the weight off Dude’s back and drove him uphill, at the trot where possible, until they rounded a bend and were suddenly stopped by a fallen pine blocking the path.

  Neil hadn’t done any real jumping yet, but he had gone over the low training bars, and Ken had shown him how to sit and handle the reins.

  He took Dude a little way back down the hill, pointed him at the tree trunk, and drove him on at the trot, pressing in his heels and making a clicking noise at just the right moment. It worked! Dude took the jump, and Neil managed not to fall off.

  He was a natural! It was brilliant to be able to do all this after so few lessons. He grinned to himself and took up his quest again. The smell of smoke, and the sight of it rising above the trees just ahead, told him he was nearly there.

  He pulled up at the edge of a clearing. He had been right. There was indeed a log cabin, and it had to be Luc’s. With Dude’s sides heaving under him, Neil sat back in the saddle and studied the little building. How pretty it looked amongst the trees, he thought, with its red, corrugated-iron roof, silvery horizontal logs, and an amber glow already showing in the small front window. If only he’d brought his paints! He wished he could knock on the door and be asked in for a visit, but he knew that Luc was too panicky for that. He took a last look around, and froze.

  A lime-green mountain bike was propped against the side of the cabin.

  He stared in disbelief and then heard a familiar yap from inside the cabin. Keeper! Cheryl couldn’t know about this. She and Ken were both very strict about Neil not riding alone, and they would be furious. He’d probably be banned from ever riding again. Desperately hoping no one would look out the window and see him, Neil turned Dude around and scuttled away.

  Dude picked his way down, breathing more easily now, and they were soon comfortably far from the cabin. Getting down the steeper stretches of the narrow, twisting path, however, was a lot more difficult than going up.

  He remembered Cheryl’s lesson on how to ride a horse down a sharp slope, and gripped Dude’s barrel tightly with his legs, leaning back to provide ballast. At the same time he saw that Cheryl was right, that the horse would be the best judge of how to handle the drops and turns and rocky outcrops. All he had to do was to keep his own grip and balance and provide firm, reassuring contact with the bit. At the fallen tree, he urged Dude on and managed to keep his seat by grabbing the mane.

  The slope flattened out a little, so Neil sat straighter and went faster until a low-hanging branch brushed his eye and he teared up. He blinked away his tears and looked at his watch. There would be plenty of time before dark—and before Ken got back. He relaxed in the saddle and took his feet out of the stirrups to stretch his legs and wriggle his freezing toes.

  Crack! The sound of a gunshot ricocheted off the surrounding rocks.

  Dude jumped and skittered and took off downhill.

  Neil struggled to keep his seat and hold Dude back, desperately angling his feet to regain the lost stirrups. He had just managed to catch the second stirrup with the tip of his boot, and had almost halted Dude, when a stag, wild-eyed and heavy-antlered, crashed out of the trees and leaped across the path, right in front of Dude’s nose.

  Dude reared so fast and so high, he would have fallen over backwards if Neil hadn’t let go of the reins.

  Neil fell back and felt his foot twist under him as he landed, his head thumping the ground.

  Chapter 17

  Neil opened his eyes on a circle of dense, dark firs crowding around him under a gray sky. He tried to sit up and felt a fierce pain in his ankle. He looked behind and saw the path, and the fallen tree far up the hill, and remembered it all: the cabin, the lime-green bike, the downhill getaway, and the gunshot.

  He looked at his feet, surprised to see the stirrup, plus its leather strap, still attached to one boot. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, still woozy from shock, then leaned forward to loosen the agonizingly tight laces of his other boot. Had he sprained his ankle, he wondered, or even broken it, when he landed on these rocks? How would he get back?

  He thought about what a long and painful trek it would be to get down to the trail, and how far it was after that to the stable. He checked his watch. Ten to four. It would be dark long before he got back. He shivered. Where was Dude? If anything happened to that horse, Ken would never forgive him.

  Miserably, he imagined what could have gone wrong. Dude could have fallen and broken a leg during his panicky downhill rush through the trees, or he could have got broken-winded from all that running. There were a million ways he could have been injured.

  At least the gate and the stable door had been left open, he remembered, so Dude would be able to find the safety of his stall—if he got that far. Neil steeled himself. He had to get down somehow and see that Dude was all right.

  He managed to pull himself up against a tree-trunk and cautiously put his injured foot to the ground. He gasped with the pain. There was no way that foot could bear any weight. And realistically, he saw, there was no way he could hop back to Ken’s. Nor would he be able to walk back up to Luc’s cabin, embarrassing as that would be.

  He sank down again and leaned his back against the tree, pain radiating from his ankle, as he considered his situation. He was in deep trouble. In danger, even. It would be getting dark soon and felt like rain, or even snow. He was shuddering with shock and cold, and the temperature was dropping. Worse still, wolves prowled the forest. He knew; he’d heard them at night. There were bears out here too, people said. Scalding tears spilled down his cheeks and his diaphragm jerked with suppressed sobs as he heard his own voice cry out into the silence, high and scared like that of a little kid: “Mom!”

  He dashed his tears away and tried to get a grip on himself. He was not a little kid, and he was not going to just lie there and die. The cabin was not all that far away, he thought, and Cheryl and Luc might hear him if he yelled loud enough.

  “Help!” He threw back his head and shouted until his throat felt shredded, his only reply the indignant nattering of a red squirrel, the whooshing of the wind in the treetops, and the jeering of far-off crows.

  He looked at his watch again and up at the sky. Nearly four o’clock and the light was beginning to fade. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to crawl back to the cabin.

  He got onto his hands and knees and set off. He tried keeping his ankle off the ground while struggling uphill, but it was so difficult and painful he had to keep stopping. His foot throbbed unbearably and kept catching on stones and roots. He felt like throwing up and, in spite of his efforts, was still terribly cold.

  After about half an hour of agony, he stopped, shivering and dead beat. If he could just close his eyes and rest for a little while, he decided, he might be more up to the struggle. That red-brown patch of trampled dried ferns beside the path, probably a deer bed judging by the droppings around it, looked comfortable. A dusty whiff of summer rose from the rustling ferns as he curled up in them and gave himself up to sleep.

  He was home, safe and warm in his comfortable bed in Vancouver with its soft sheets and cozy duvet, but it seemed that somebody kept calling him.

  “Time to wake up, Neil!” the gentle, encouraging voice was saying from somewhere in the distance. “Do not go back to sleep. Wake up, Neil! Wake up!”

  He groaned, trying to escape back into the safe warm happy feeling, but the voice gave him no break until he opened his eyes and slowly and painfully sat up, shuddering with cold.

  He looked in surprise at the stony path beside him, wet and icy in the freezing rain now falling, and then he looked up and down the
steep hill. He remembered everything that had happened and put his head in his hands with a groan.

  What had he done? He felt guilty and ashamed of himself for taking Dude and going off on his own like that. This was bad, and he’d surely have to pay for it in some way. But something else was eating at him, he knew, something much worse and much deeper, something that was not going to let him go.

  He sat in the freezing rain amongst the rocks in the beaten-down bracken under the trees, numb with cold and in serious pain, and faced up to the truth. When he’d cried for his mother back there, down the hill, he hadn’t been calling for Jessica. He’d been calling for Sasha, and it was Sasha’s voice that had woken him from his near-frozen sleep.

  A memory came of her reading him a story, years ago, about an explorer who had lain down, exhausted, to sleep in the snow. He’d been shaken awake by an Inuit hunter who’d made him get up. “If you let yourself go to sleep when you are freezing cold,” the hunter said, “you will die. If you want to survive, you have to keep moving.”

  He thought once again, with shame, about how he had called Sasha names to win Ken’s favour.

  He knew he didn’t think Sasha was a freak. She was his mother, no question about it. She had lied to him, sure, but how could he blame her? Her own father had turned her away, and still said terrible things about her. Why wouldn’t she be afraid to tell her only son the truth?

  The worst thing of all was that Neil had proven her right. He had treated her terribly. He’d caused her accident and then run away and tried to forget her. He’d ignored the love she’d given him all these years. She had always put him first, and he had taken that completely for granted.

  He knew now that he still loved and needed her. She was his mother, and she was all he had. She had deceived him, certainly, but she hadn’t done it to be mean. She had probably put it off, time and again, unsure of how to explain it to him, afraid of his reaction.