October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

by Valerie Power

  “Hi!” Deirdre said. “What’s up?”

  “Listen, I hate to ask, but since you offered, there is something big you could do for me.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “Could you go to Emerson's tomorrow during the surgery, you know, just in case? Just so…so Biscuit has somebody there…with her?” Stephanie’s voice cracked.

  Deirdre’s heart rate climbed at the mention of Emerson's. But she’d offered to help. There was no backing out now.

  Monday, October 8

  NO MATTER HOW MUCH she hated going back on her word, Deirdre couldn’t face the vet hospital. She was almost ashamed of the relief she felt when Bonnie agreed to go instead. But really, it was better that way. Bonnie belonged to that world of high-class trainers and expensive horse hospitals.

  So now, Deirdre was out on the trail. Today was Columbus Day, there was no school, and Clara had begged to go riding.

  Sunlight dappled Ginny’s white rump as they passed under the canopy of sycamore and pepper trees by the creek. Clara was one of the few riders that Ginny could still carry. And Ginny, being older, saner, and more arthritic than Scarlet, was in front, making for a strange dichotomy. Her youngest daughter was leading her into the woods on her oldest horse.

  Clara swiveled on her bareback pad. “Mama, did you know that mountain lions are closer related to house cats than to African lions?” So Clara had heard about the mountain lion after all. That’s why she had dug through the Christmas decorations this morning for sleigh bells, insisting that Ginny wear them on her breast collar, “to warn the monsters.”

  The only monster here now was the guilt that Deirdre carried. Anything, she would’ve done any other favor, except the request she’d gotten from Stephanie.

  She tried to Focus On The Now, as Morgan would say. The tinkle of sleigh bells made a pleasant music, along with the rush of the creek next to the winding trail. Sounds of cars on Fairy Glen Road were distant occasional whooshes. The day was hot, but in the shade of the creekside greenery, the temperature was perfect.

  “Hey,” Clara said. “This is the way to Peter’s house!”

  “Who’s Peter?”

  “Peter Fey! My friend from school, remember, I told you we play together at recess?”

  “Oh yes, I remember now,” Deirdre said, even if she really didn’t. She had a bad habit of tuning out Clara’s breathless babble. “How much farther till we get there?” she asked, doubting that Clara really knew the way to her friend’s house, especially through the woods.

  “We have to cross the creek, under the bridge, right up here…” Clara was talking about the authorized-access-only road up to the Richardson Peak reservoir. The trail went under the bridge formed by the road going over the creek.

  Did Clara actually remember this? She used to ride double with Clara on Bowie, holding her in front of her in the saddle, Rebecca following on Ginny, but that was years ago.

  She thought about her two daughters. Rebecca had always been so serious, small and heavy, like dark matter. Clara seemed like she would float away on the wind like dandelion fluff. If she hadn’t given birth to Clara wide awake and in excruciating pain, she might have suspected a changeling.

  They got to the bridge, which was reinforced underneath by concrete arches that gave it the air of a church chamber. Dripping water sounds echoed in the cavernous space.

  Clara sat balanced lightly on the bareback pad while Ginny waded up to her belly through the clear, still water in the shade of the bridge. The silt at the bottom stirred from Ginny’s hooves, and little silvery fish flitted by. Deirdre tensed, dreading Scarlet’s reaction to the water crossing, but Scarlet followed willingly in Ginny’s footsteps. At 29 years old, the old mare would cross water, bridges, roads—she was a good example for the young and skittish. Deirdre lifted her feet so they wouldn’t get wet and tried not to do anything that would jinx it. On the other side of the water, they continued east on the path that meandered next to the creek, in the shade of the trees.

  At a slow part of the creek, across the heavy flowing water, Deirdre’s eyes caught a shadow flitting between papery white birch trunks, but then it was gone. She turned back in time to see Ginny’s haunches bunch up as she took off in a gallop.

  “Ginny! Whoa!” she yelled. “Hang on honey!” she called to Clara. Scarlet was unprepared but quickly got the idea and started chasing them. Clara’s hair flew behind her, and Deirdre swore she heard giggling as they raced away.

  “Jesus! Ginny!” They slalomed down the dark path, Scarlet taking the turns in the deeply worn trail at a breakneck pace, swerving in and out like a barrel racer, around dirt hummocks and treacherous tree roots. She prayed they wouldn’t trip, but she had to catch up. Ginny hadn’t galloped in years, and now she was already out of sight. The only thing Deirdre heard was the tinkling of the bells on her breast collar. She could only hope Ginny’s common sense and arthritis would slow her down soon.

  Finally, in a stand of sycamores so tall she couldn’t see the sky, she caught a glimpse of the white horse.

  “Ginny, what got into you!” she said, trotting up, dismounting and grabbing hold of Ginny’s rope reins on her halter. “Are you okay sweetie?” she asked, and ran her hand over Clara’s leg. “What happened, did she spook?” Maybe she’d have to start using a bit on Ginny again. Was she picking up bad habits from Scarlet, the thrill of youth?

  “I’m fine Mama. We just wanted to run.”

  “Clara, I don’t appreciate that,” she said sternly. “Never run off on me!” What had gotten into Clara? She wasn’t usually an adrenaline junkie. She put a hand to her heart, which was still racing.

  Clara’s mouth turned down. “Sorry Mama. But we’re at Peter’s house!” she said, and smiling again, turned to indicate a ragged picket fence covered in vines. “They’re making us pancakes!”

  Clara slid off Ginny, handed her the reins, and ran along the fence.

  “Clara, wait!” Deirdre followed, leading both horses. Peeking over the fence, she could see the roof of a squat house, barely visible through the vegetation growing around it.

  “Hello!” she called over the fence, trying to sound normal, when she felt anything but. She had never really expected to come calling on this Peter character, and wanted to give plenty of warning before showing up out of the blue. If this was even their house. She suddenly pictured a shotgun welcome, and started to run to her daughter.

  Just then, a boy burst out of the front door. “Clara!” he said in a clear strong voice. “Come in!” Towheaded, and small compared to Clara, there was something about his face and hands that weren’t quite right, but he turned and ran into the house so fast she didn’t have a chance to look longer. Clara opened a gate, which set something chiming, and ran, giggling with happiness—actually more like a soft high pitched screeching, she did that a lot—following Peter through the door.

  “Clara come back!” She stood there holding both the horses. Voices came from inside the little house, and a smell that reminded her of McDonald’s french fries.

  She couldn’t tie the horses to this fence, it was barely standing.

  “Clara Marie Boyd!” she shouted.

  Darn that kid! Pacing the perimeter of the fence, she finally came to a hitching post that looked relatively sturdy and safe. She tied the lead ropes with a safety knot, and went back to the gate, opened it on creaking hinges and stepped under the arbor into the front yard.

  It reminded her of an overgrown English cottage garden. Names of flowers she could never identify danced through her head. Impatiens, azalea, gardenia, hydrangea…something about the whole place gave her a good feeling, despite its worn, ramshackle look, and she revised her first impression.

  The front door stood open. She stepped over some haphazard paver stones and crossed the threshold.

  Inside was dark. The floor, walls, and even the ceiling were a stained wood paneling that looked centuries old. The cozy front room had a brick fireplace, a comfy chair, spiral rugs, a
nd the biggest black cat she’d ever seen, sleeping on the back of an old plaid sofa. He roused from his slumber to fix luminous green eyes on her, then promptly put his head back under his paws as she passed.

  Following the smell of frying potatoes, she went to the back of the house into a spacious kitchen. Sunlight flooded in casement windows, and through the warped glass she spied another garden out back, this one more orderly but still vibrant with life, full of vegetables and herbs, staked and labeled.

  “Hello?” she said, shielding her eyes while they adjusted. “Clara!”

  “Why hello there!” From the corner of the kitchen by the big porcelain sink, an elderly woman turned around. She was very short—it must run in the family—and quite round, but still female shaped. Her face resembled one of those dried apple people you could buy at gift stores and stick on your fridge. She was wearing what could only be described as calico—a patterned dress, a faded blue overskirt, and an embroidered apron on top.

  Deirdre introduced herself. “I wasn’t sure if Clara knew where she was going. I hope we’re not intruding.”

  The old woman grasped her hand and looked up at her with penetrating eyes, one clouded with a cataract. “Not at all,” she said, with a lilt that reminded Deirdre of a Rastafarian she once knew. “Peter told us you were coming. Come, sit, eat with us.”

  She could hear clattering and animated talking, occasional shrieks from another room in the house.

  “I’m afraid we can’t stay. Our horses are outside.”

  “Oh, surely they can wait a few minutes. The pancakes are ready. You are hungry aren’t you?” She raised an eyebrow, and Deirdre’s stomach grumbled.

  “This is certainly more than I expected, but it smells wonderful, Mrs, uh…?” she realized the woman hadn’t introduced herself.

  “Mrs. Fey. But, no need for formalities, just call me Grandma.” Her wrinkled face broke into a broad smile. “Deirdre, what a lovely name. And what a fine tall girl you are!” She guided Deirdre to the round oak table, set with four places. Deirdre wasn’t that tall, about 5’7”, but comparatively…anyway, she blushed at the compliment, and sat down. “And what a lovely complexion you have, fair but golden. And that dark red hair. Mine was the same, until it went gray, 100 years ago.” She laughed, a light tinkling sound that contrasted with her gravelly voice. She turned back to the stove. Her hair was gray, but more of a burnished pewter color, and long, braided down her back.

  The kids came scrambling in and took their seats as if on cue. Clara seemed utterly at home here.

  Mrs. Fey hoisted the enormous cast-iron skillet as if it weighed nothing. “These are called boxty, but we usually just call ‘em potato pancakes since nobody knows what that is,” she said, as she slid them onto the plates.

  Deirdre took a closer look at Peter. His face was wizened, like an old man in a small body. Same with his hands. They were not exactly wrinkled, but dry and red around the knuckles. Probably somewhat of a misfit in school, like Clara. But he was a good-looking boy despite that.

  “Put on some cream and chives, and some bacon crumbles, make ‘em real good,” said Grandma. She clanked the skillet back down on the stove and joined them at the table. Deirdre’s mouth was watering. Clara’s blue eyes were bigger than normal and she licked her lips. Peter rubbed his hands together, which sounded like dry leaves rustling, and picked up his fork. They all dug in and made appreciative noises.

  “So Peter, how do you like Mrs. Mapplethorpe’s class?” Deirdre asked, trying to get over her feeling of imbalance.

  “I love it. At recess, me and Clara make believe we’re in King Arthur’s court.”

  “He’s the king and I’m the knight!” Clara added.

  “That’s so nice. Clara loves history.” Deirdre was impressed at how smart and well spoken he was, but somehow felt sorry for him. She wondered where his mother and father were, but didn’t think it was polite to ask. Maybe they’d gone somewhere for the weekend.

  “It’s nice to have a three-day weekend,” she offered.

  “Three-day weekend?” Mrs. Fey repeated, like it was a foreign phrase. Peter looked back and forth between them.

  “You know, no school? It’s Columbus Day.”

  “It’s called Indigenous People’s Day, Mama,” Clara corrected her. “Did you know Native Americans lived in this valley over 5,000 years ago?”

  Maybe Grandma Fey was a little addled. Not wanting to embarrass her, she went with the change of subject and said to Clara, “Yep! I’ve seen their grinding stones with my own two eyes."

  “You have?” Clara’s eyes got wide. “They’re called morteros. I read in the history book! Will you show me?”

  “Sure, honey, we can go on the way home. I know where there’s a whole field of ‘em.”

  “Cotchee, get off of there!” Grandma Fey bellowed, with such force that Deirdre dropped her fork. The cat was on the counter, making for the stove. It stopped, gave them a sour look, and jumped down.

  “You must have eyes in the back of your head!” Deirdre said.

  “She wants the bacon grease. But it’ll burn her tongue,” the old woman explained. “No sense. No sense at all,” she scolded the scowling cat.

  Deirdre picked up her fork again. The boxty were delicious, and the kids practically vacuumed their plates, finishing first. Clara said, ”We’re going to build some armor. Out of cardboard.”

  “Ok, but we’re leaving soon Clara. Ten minutes.” Clara and Peter ran out of the kitchen, racing the clock. She glanced at her watch. Bonnie was supposed to call when the surgery was done.

  Mrs. Fey said, “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

  Was it that obvious? “I…I saw a horrible accident on Saturday.” She told the rest of the story.

  “So sorry to hear that.” Mrs. Fey looked out to the back garden, windowpanes reflecting diamond shapes in her eyes. “I love horses too. Our family has always had them. Until our last, old Rhiannon. Peter rode her when he was just a toddler, she was so gentle. Then she kicked the bucket as they say.” She looked at Deirdre. “But, 35 years old, what do you expect. We all go sometime. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  “Wow, 35. She had a nice long life.” Deirdre had never personally known a horse that lived past 30, although she knew it happened quite a bit. And she hoped Ginny, at 29, would live many more happy years.

  “How is your friend doing now?” Mrs. Fey asked.

  “She’s recovering.” Deirdre pushed back from the table. “But she’s not really my friend. I’d never met her before I pulled her out of the water.” Which, Deirdre realized, was technically a lie. She had met her, in a way, at the trailers.

  “Pulled her out of the water! My my. Remind me to call you the next time I need saving!”

  Deirdre gave a weak laugh.

  “And her horse?” The old woman put a hand on her arm.

  “That’s what I’m waiting to hear. The surgery is happening right now. Can I help you clean up?”

  They’d cleared the table and almost finished the dishes when Clara ran back into the kitchen. “Mama! It’s been exactly ten minutes!” Clara was so pure of heart, she’d never try to cheat on an agreement. Deirdre’s irritation with her melted away.

  As they left, Mrs. Fey waved from the gate beneath the lopsided arbor. “Thanks for sharing lunch with us. I do hope your friend and her horse recover quickly.”

  “Thanks. So do I,” Deirdre said, but something twisted inside her at the thought of Stephanie Bartley as a friend.

  This time they took the wider, sunnier dirt trail, above the creek and all its trees. They would cross the access road and skirt around to the south of the vacation park, and then…she tried to remember the rest of the way to the grinding stones. It had been awhile. But she was jerked out of her musing by the sight of bright orange net fencing. It was staked all along the side of the access road, blocking their way.

  “I guess we might have to take a raincheck on seeing the grinding stones, sweetie,” she said, se
eing more mesh on the other side of the road, and signs of the wide path on the other side having been graded. They’d have to get back down to the creekside trail that they’d come on.

  She knew there was a squiggly little path next to the footings of the bridge that led down to the creekside trail. It was a bit steep, but she was confident Ginny could carry Clara down it safely. But as they followed along the garish plastic fencing, she realized it was blocking access to the short, steep trail down.

  She didn’t want to turn around and backtrack all the way to the Fey’s. Clara looked worried while Deirdre thought what to do. She always carried her multi-tool out riding. It had wire cutters to free a horse from rusty barbed-wire fencing, remnants of the cattle ranching days, which lurked under grass and bushes, ready to cut a horse’s leg like a cheese slicer.

  The multi-tool also had a knife.

  She hopped off Scarlet, flipped it open and slashed one mesh panel so they could pass through and get home.

  Later, driving to Paloma General, Deirdre told Bonnie about her strange ride and meeting Grandma Fey, but not how she’d slashed the fence.

  “Is she descended from the tinkers?” Bonnie said. “I thought they all got killed off. They settled in this valley about, oh, turn of the century, I think.” When Deirdre gave her a blank look, Bonnie added, “The gypsies?”

  “Nooo…I think she’s Irish or something,” Deirdre said.

  “Yeah, Irish gypsies,” Bonnie said, as if it was self-evident. “Travelers? Tinkers?”

  Deirdre had heard this story before but had always pictured exotic Romany gypsies, like Cher, belly dancing by a fire in skimpy outfits with jingly gold coins on their belts. Now the Chers became freckled redheads, and started riverdancing. She shook her head like an Etch-a-Sketch, trying to clear this nonsensical image.

  “Supposedly the Black Witch is the ghost of the gypsy queen,” Bonnie added.

  Oh come on. Now the redheaded Chers were back, wearing witch hats and carrying brooms, while riverdancing around the fire.