by McCall Hoyle
A foreign thump breaks the monotony of the ocean’s somber melody, and I jump a foot in the air. If it’s Finn, I don’t know what I’ll say—how I’ll explain setting out on my own. I hear it again, and it’s not his beloved Blazer. It’s something even better. It’s the unmistakable thump of a helicopter. My heart rises above the fog and mist as I bolt toward higher ground on my left. Clawing and scrabbling for the top of the dunes, I cup my hands over my eyebrows, straining for better visibility.
Brushing sand from my hands and arms, I squint out to sea and spy what looks like an intoxicated housefly zigging and zagging over the open ocean. It must be the Coast Guard, but they’re totally not searching for stranded islanders. Someone or something must be lost at sea. I shiver, trying to imagine surviving the brutal tumult of the Atlantic in anything smaller than the aircraft carrier Dad and I toured in Virginia Beach two summers ago.
I watch until the helicopter disappears completely from view and swipe hot tears from my face. Up here, perched on a high dune, I have a clear view of the ravenous storm surge. I have no idea what time it is. I don’t even remember where I last saw my phone. Was it that first night at the cottage?
A shadow of movement catches my eyes near the frothy bubbles at the high tide mark. Shaking my head, I blink to clear my vision, sure my eyes are playing tricks on me. It’s the chestnut horse Finn and I saved from the silt fence. He’s favoring his back leg and not moving very fast. But he survived. He really, truly survived.
The horse spots me dancing and swinging my arms over my head and stops to stare, ears flicking back and forth as he assesses the situation. My celebration is short-lived when I realize the poor guy can’t have found fresh water. Years ago, the horses pawed through the sand for freshwater drinking holes. But I don’t think horses can balance on only two legs. Plus, these animals have become a bit acclimated to human support. I can’t remember if the Wild Horse Fund volunteers provide freshwater sources, but I can’t risk it. It could be days before rescue workers find him—if they find him. Their first priority will be human survivors.
The weight of the situation presses down on my shoulders and on the rest of me as I track the horse’s slow progress in the sand. He turns his heavy head and takes a faltering step, obviously deciding the crazy girl on the dunes is too far away to present much of a threat. I glance south toward Manteo. The magnetic force of Mom and Mere tugs on my heart.
Lifting my shoulders, I turn toward the most important people in my life. When I do, I almost step on a perfectly formed sand dollar. It’s still gray. We haven’t had enough sun or heat in recent days to bleach and harden the brittle shell. But it’s miraculous that such a delicate creature could survive the crashing surf and still wash up intact.
Then a kaleidoscope of memories punches me in the gut, taking me back to the day Dad left. There was a sand dollar that day too. I’d found several conch shells and a sand dollar while walking alone on the beach. I was bringing them home to Mere and found Dad leaving. We argued. Pointing at the sand dollar in my hand, he said things weren’t always as they appeared.
“Some people are just really good at seeing what they want to see,” I’d shouted.
He plucked the delicate treasure from my grasp, cracked it into two halves, and tapped one half on his palm. Then he reminded me about the five doves at the center of the starfish and explained how everyone tries so hard to find and preserve the shell that they forget about the beauty at its heart.
I told him if there was beauty in his heart, he wouldn’t abandon his wife and children.
He said, “Your mother’s tough, Soph. She can take care of herself and what’s left of our family.”
“Is that your excuse for leaving us?” I screamed at the top of my lungs, effectively silencing him.
When he leaned forward to hug me, I whispered, “I hate you.”
And we haven’t spoken since.
As much as I hate to admit he’s right, he is. Mom is way tougher than the sand dollar at my feet. It dawns on me that my mother may not need me as much as I need her to need me. All this time alone with nothing but my thoughts is making me crazy. Either that, or Finn and all his meditative psychobabble are messing with my head. It doesn’t really matter whether Dad’s right or Finn’s right. The truth is I can’t do anything to help Mom or Mere right now. I couldn’t do anything to save Mere in the accident. I couldn’t stop Dad from walking out on us.
But I can help that horse.
I remember something else—something my favorite teacher said in middle school. We were collecting money for a homeless shelter up north. She and the other kids were so excited we had collected almost a thousand dollars. She asked me why I wasn’t joining the celebration. I told her it wouldn’t be enough to take care of the huge homeless problem in the city. I expected her to disagree—to feed me a motivational quote or something. But she told me she understood exactly what I was saying, then proceeded to share her philosophy—that God doesn’t expect us to take care of all the problems in the world. He expects us to help the specific people placed in our lives and on our hearts. The Richmond homeless shelter was placed on our hearts when one of the girls in our class lost her father there. He overdosed and died sad and alone in that shelter.
I totally get what she was saying now. I can’t help all the wild horses. I can’t do a lot of things right now. But I can help that horse—the one that’s been placed in my life a second time in as many days. I can steer him toward the safety of his herd north of the fence. I can find freshwater for him. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m not quite sure how, but I’ll figure something out. At home with buckets and oats, this would be much simpler. But if I want to be a vet someday, I have to learn how to help all the animals in need, not just the easy ones.
And I am not—repeat, am not—a quitter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
If you don’t concentrate on what you are doing then the thing that you are doing is not what you are thinking.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
I follow the hobbling horse as the mist picks up and the wind shifts. My feet drag the sand. Because of high tide and the angry storm surge, I have to hug the dunes, which means loose sand, which means more effort. We finally near what appears to be a weathered house in the distance. My shoulder shrieks in protest, but I refuse to listen.
The horse hasn’t wavered from his northward march, following the pencil-line path between surf and dunes. I know what I must do—employ the ole toilet tank water recovery mission a second time. I hunch forward and drag myself step-by-step up and over the dunes, onto the boardwalk, and to the leaning tower of cedar-sided gray wood posing as a summer home.
The storm already shattered several windows, so reaching through the door and letting myself in hardly even feels like breaking and entering. Either that or my moral compass has completely failed. I slosh through standing water in the living room, soggy books and magazines swishing in my wake. I spot a half bath off the side of the living room and splash in that direction. An overturned plastic trash can rests beside the toilet. I grab it, make sure it’s empty, then fill it with water from the toilet tank. Carrying the water down the uneven boardwalk to the beach without spilling it requires balance and upper-body strength, both of which I’m short on today. But somehow I suck it up and press forward, trying not to think about my shoulder injury or slipping and breaking my neck. If the horse weren’t injured worse than me, I would never catch him.
But I do. My superhuman determination to save him and prove to myself and maybe Finn that I’m not a quitter fuels my charge up the beach. It does nothing to ease my huffing and puffing or grunting and groaning. As I close in, the horse seems to dig into a reserve of his own and picks up his pace. I’m close enough now to make out the oozing flesh on his back leg. But once I’m within about thirty feet, I can’t seem to shrink the gap any farther.
This isn’t going to work.
The average horse is used to following, not leading.
That’s why a wild horse can’t survive without a herd. Their herding instinct, which shares a lot of similarities with a game of follow-the-leader, is as strong as their fight-or-flight instinct. As long as I approach from behind, he’s going to keep moving away from me faster and faster until he can’t take another step. I need to be ahead of him so I can place the water in his direct path, then pray his survival instinct is enough to make him drink.
I decide to try something that works with my own horses.
Normally a human must have a bond with a horse to activate his desire to follow, but I don’t have any other genius ideas here. The humming wind and the mist hanging in the air are going to make it difficult for the horse to hear my movements. But it can’t hurt to try.
I stop and pause to the count of ten. As I turn around, I pray for the best. After several steps in the opposite direction, I peek over my shoulder. And miracle of miracles, my horse-whisperer plan kind of worked. The horse didn’t turn to follow me. I didn’t expect him to. But he did at least stop. He has to need a break himself. Even from thirty-plus feet, I can see his ribs rising and falling with each labored breath. His head hangs low. He makes no effort to avoid the frothy waves lapping at his hooves.
Hot beads of sweat form at my hairline, mixing with the chilly drizzle. Carrying several gallons of water is taking its toll. Acting quickly to take advantage of his stillness, I scurry back up and over the dunes. He’s blocked from my sight as I head north, parallel to the dunes.
“Don’t move, big guy. Don’t move,” I plead as I hurry forward.
The short trek constricts my lungs and cramps my muscles. I force myself to go an extra five to ten yards to be safe before hefting my heavy feet and legs back up and over the dunes.
“Thank you. Thank you,” I whisper to the wind when I realize I have in fact gotten in front of the pony. He lifts his head a bit as I approach, his ears flicking in my direction.
“Easy, big guy. Easy.” I keep my voice low and my speech slow as I take another half step in his direction. “Easy.”
His head turns to the right on his long neck as though he’s contemplating a retreat, but his legs remain locked firmly in place. The wild look is gone from his eyes. No white is visible now. Actually, his eyes are oddly sunken back in his head, a sure sign of severe dehydration. I notice he’s either drifted closer to shore or the tide’s coming in again, because the water is splashing higher and higher on his legs. I need to hurry.
I inch forward as far as I dare and deposit the trash can as close to him as possible. Before withdrawing, I splash my hand around in the water, hoping to interest him. His ears flick, and he lowers his head an inch or two. I climb halfway up the dune at my back and plop butt-first in the sand—partially to give him space, partially because if I don’t sit down I’m going to die.
The horse doesn’t move, and I feel sick to my stomach. All this time, all this effort, and it hasn’t done any good. Dropping my face in my hands, I let the hot tears overflow my eyes and seep between my fingers. I really just want to lie down and sleep. When the breeze shifts, I lift my head and see the horse has moved within inches of the trash can.
I hold my breath. Digging my hands in the sand near my legs, I will him to close the gap. He half hops, half steps to the trash can, and a fresh wave of tears spills down my cheeks.
The splitting pain in my shoulder and calves from climbing up and down the dunes is worth it. When he drops his head and slurps water from the plastic trash can, my heart glides out to sea like the albatross Finn and I spotted yesterday. If I can get a wild horse to drink from a trash can in close proximity to me, surely I can get him to safety north of the sound-to-sea fence. Then it’s due south for me. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Get to Mom and Mere and our own horses and put our lives back into order.
The horse drains the trash can, then flicks it to the side with his nose. Neither of us moves for several long minutes. After giving us both a chance to rest, I move in a few steps from behind the exhausted horse. I hate to push him in his condition, but I need to get him to safety. Thankfully, he plows ahead when I approach from behind. The water seems to have refreshed him a bit, and the salty wash of surf on his lower legs seems to have cleaned his wounds and possibly even lessened the pain.
He’s not setting any records, but he hobbles forward at a steady rate. I struggle to keep up. When I swipe the water from my cheeks and forehead, my forehead feels hot—steamy. I shake it off, quickly dismissing the alarm bells that start ringing in my head. My senses are probably still a bit off from the loss of blood and shock. Besides, I seriously doubt an infection could set in this quickly. I probably need rest and lots of water myself. If I do get an infection, which is pretty common in post-hurricane nastiness, that’s what antibiotics are for. I’ll be fine for a few more hours, and this guy needs me.
I dig deep into my last reserves and press forward. Each step is like trying to swim through chocolate pudding. We struggle along in silence, our roles reversed in this backward game of follow-the-leader. With single-minded focus, I advance from one hoof print to the next, counting as I go. At three hundred and eight, my right calf cramps. There’s no way I’m going to make it all the way to the fence. Lifting my eyes from the charcoal sand littered with shell fragments, twisted cans, broken bottles, and God knows what else, I look for somewhere to sit. A nice hunk of driftwood would be dreamy. Something brown up ahead catches my eye. I shake my head.
It can’t be what I think it is. But it is.
It’s the freaking fence. The fence. The fence. I find my seventieth wind and press forward despite the knotted muscle in my leg.
We did it. We did it. I did it.
If I had the energy, I’d dance, or flip, or even just fist bump the turbulent air. Instead I rest my hands on my thighs and breathe a sigh of relief. My joy deflates as I scan the fence.
Yes, we made it.
But there’s no break in sight, no wild horses in sight, which means I have no safe place to deposit my new friend.
We’ve traveled all this way for nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The shell must break before the bird can fly.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
When cold water brushes my feet, my eyes fly open, and I lift the side of my face from the sand where I collapsed. My shoulder throbs. The ocean roars. I just want to go home. But that’s not an option, and neither is lying here and drowning. So I brace my hands in the sand and push up to my knees. Sand cakes every crack and crevice of my body. I need a hot shower or ten.
Rising unsteadily from the sand, I spy my wild pal. His head swivels in my direction. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was shaking his head at me.
“I know. I know. I’m pathetic,” I say to him, a little concerned about my mental stability. I can’t remember the last time I ate or drank anything. It seems like it was ages ago. My world has been reduced to jagged, chopped-off ridges of sand, roiling waves, and flattened and sideways houses. And this horse.
“Let’s do this.” I wave my arms in his direction. He plods forward as though he knows the drill, and he looks much better than I feel. With the fence guiding him on one side and me on the other, slightly behind, it’s much easier to steer him in the direction I want him to go. He got out somehow, and I’m going to find the break he escaped through if it kills me.
It might.
The farther we travel, the more I begin to wonder if this is a lost cause. If he swam around the fence, which is highly unlikely, or jumped it, which is technically impossible, I’ve got a big problem. My epic rescue will be an epic fail without some way of crossing the fence.
Lost in thought and trying to calculate how much fence I have left to inspect, I don’t realize my buddy has stopped till I’m almost within arm’s reach of his hindquarters. He lifts his head, trying to get a read on something in the distance. His ears twitch back and forth between me and a new development up ahead.
I squint but don’t
see anything but an endless landscape of sand and clouds and a straight, unbroken line of fence. Horses have better hearing and smell than humans, so maybe he’s zeroing in on something he can’t even see. My heart lifts at the possibility that maybe the Coast Guard helicopter has turned inland.
Determined we must be nearing the end of this trek, I swish my hands toward his rump, encouraging him to proceed. My hamstrings protest as we ascend what must be the spine of the island. Then we’re descending on the other side, and the protest transfers to the fronts of my thighs as I brace myself against gravity. Honestly, it would be easier to roll or stumble down the dune, but I don’t want to frighten my charge. As I contemplate sitting for a second, a new sound interrupts the rush of wind and waves, rumbling in the background despite our distance from the sea.
It’s a mechanical whining—not a helicopter, not a boat, more like a car. But there’s no way anyone’s up here in a car. It would take some powerful all-wheel drive to reach this part of the island. I’m not even sure Dad’s truck or Finn’s Blazer would make it up here.
But someone or something has to be operating that engine—hopefully a fireman or an EMT. At the bottom of the ridge, the noise grows louder. As we round a clump of scrub brush, an absurd monster truck materializes in the distance. The tires stand taller than I do, above my head. Some sort of thick canvas webbing fills the side windows in place of glass. Based on the various colors of the rusty cab and bed, I’m pretty sure the thing was pieced together from the corpses of trucks that haven’t seen anything but the back lot of a junkyard for the last few years, possibly the last few decades.
If there’s a live person to go with the Franken-truck, I have no choice. I must proceed. I could use some help here, and that scary excuse for a vehicle might be my ticket to the mainland.
“Hello,” I call, but the trifecta of wind, sea, and monster truck completely drown out my voice.
I inhale deeply, cup my hands around my mouth, and call again. “Hello!”