“No one wants me around. They’re too busy fighting and you’re too mad at everything. So sure I know.” Her face sof–tened. “But I’ve a friend here. The White Horse wants me.”
“Hey, I’m your brother!”
“But you’re always mad at me.”
Adam shrugged and looked ashamed. “Because you’re the youngest and never in trouble. Mom and Dad like you best.”
“They don’t.” Chantel’s eyes flashed. “They like you best because you’re a boy and the oldest. You get to do everything and I’m always left out.”
Brother and sister glared at each other.
“Will they get a divorce?” Chantel suddenly asked.
“They might,” said Adam.
“What will happen to us?” Chantel’s eyes watered.
Adam shrugged. “Live with Mom and visit Dad at week–ends, I guess. That’s what my friend Jason does.”
Chantel’s face was white. She seemed tiny and frail.
“No matter what happens to Mom and Dad, we’re still together,” Adam said awkwardly.
Chantel struggled to smile. “Okay.”
A Land Rover drew up in front of White Horse Farm, driven by Mr. Smythe. He stowed Chantel in the front seat beside a pile of old books. Owen, Holly, and Adam scrambled into the back.
CCC
“It’s a beautiful day.” Mr. Smythe rubbed his hands to–gether. “We’ll start at the White Horse. Seems a good place to listen to your story.” He circled the farmyard, saluting Uncle Ron as they passed the barn.
“The White Horse will like that,” said Chantel softly.
They drove sedately through the village and roared up the lane past Dragon Hill.
“Dragon Hill is so close in a car,” whispered Holly. “It seemed miles away last night.”
Mr. Smythe parked at the viewpoint, and they all got out of the car. The carving of the White Horse flowed away from them over the curve of the hill, but its face and eye could clearly be seen staring up at the sky. The blackened top of Dragon Hill stared up from the valley below.
Mr. Smythe gestured towards it. “I suppose you lot had something to do with that,” he commented.
Holly, Adam, and Owen looked uncomfortable.
“It wasn’t our fault. Promise not to tell,” begged Holly.
“A good officer never jumps to conclusions until he’s heard the full account,” Mr. Smythe hedged. He set up a folding chair for Chantel.
Everyone else sprawled on the warm grass.
Owen stared at the carved face. “The horse seems differ–ent, more alive. Does it see and hear everything, Chantel?”
Chantel thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say anything nasty about him.” She grinned. “He’d hear that for sure.”
Everyone started talking at once.
“One at a time, one at a time,” Mr. Smythe protested. “It’s too complicated to work out unless I hear one story at a time. Who’s first?”
“Chantel,” the older cousins chorused.
“Fine.” Mr. Smythe settled himself on his back with a grass blade in his mouth.
Once more Chantel told her story.
Next, Adam explained about the talisman, the dragon dream, and Wayland’s Smithy. This time he told the whole truth.
Everyone listened intently.
“So that’s how you knew what had happened to Holly when she disappeared from her bed,” commented Owen.
Finally Holly told about the uproar on Dragon Hill, how Owen had distracted the dragon, Adam had suggested sacrificing the talisman, and the White Horse had come to their rescue.
“So … what do you think, Mr. Smythe?” asked Owen.
“Weird, isn’t it? But you do believe us, don’t you?”
The four children gazed anxiously at the historian.
“I’m envious,” Mr. Smythe said slowly. “I wish I had the eyes and mind of a child to enjoy such a brilliant ad–venture.”
“Er … is that a yes or no, sir?” Adam prompted.
Mr. Smythe spread his hands. “So help me, I’m a trained historian. Historians demand proof.” He pointed to Dragon Hill. “There’s proof someone was fooling around with fire, but it doesn’t prove the events of your exciting night.”
The children’s shoulders slumped.
“I’ve seen the talisman,” continued Mr. Smythe. “Most intriguing, but tests and research can’t prove magic.” He shrugged. “Pity it’s gone.”
He gestured towards the Ridgeway. “I’ve walked to Way–land’s Smithy many times. But Wayland has never spoken to me.” He patted Chantel’s hand. “Both of Chantel’s dreams described many things I knew and much I didn’t. Most facts will be impossible to check.” He gazed around at the disappointed faces. “Proof of your dreams and adventures is impossible … but … I believe you,” he finished.
“Hooray,” shouted Holly and Owen.
“Yes!” said Adam.
Chantel beamed. “Then I’ll tell you about my last dream.”
“You’ve had another? You didn’t say.” Adam huffed. “How come?”
“You were so full of the dragon adventure. Besides …” Ch–antel hesitated and gave an apologetic glance at Mr. Smythe. “I wanted to meet Mr. Smythe before I said anything.” Her voice dropped. “I don’t want you to think I’ve still got con–cussion and should go back to the hospital.”
“I certainly don’t think that, young lady,” Mr. Smythe reassured her. “Whatever else your dreams are, they are not nonsense.” He lay on his back again. “Fire away.”
Chantel dropped her hand and stirred the grass blades beside her chair. “I’m glad you brought us here so we could see the White Horse carving,” she said softly. “The horse brought me here for what he called a ‘scouring.’” She looked across at Mr. Smythe.
“Yes, that’s the right word,” he agreed. “It means scrub–bing or cleaning.”
“Like scouring a frying pan after breakfast,” said Owen.
“Exactly,” Mr. Smythe agreed. “The carving is scrubbed clean of weeds. Do you know how often it happened?” he asked Chantel.
“Every seven years,” she answered.
Mr. Smythe looked impressed.
Chantel described the Pastime Festival and how it was brought to a halt with the announcement from the Eye Maker.
“After we’d learned that the red mare had been ploughed under, the White Horse said, ‘You are the Magic Child. You will raise her for me. You will make Thomas’s wish come true.’ Then he said something I didn’t understand ” Chantel closed her eyes in an effort to remember. “‘The others will help. You have all the information you need. The blacksmith will also assist.’” Chantel opened her eyes and shrugged help–lessly. “Do we have to go back to Wayland?”
“He means me,” said Mr. Smythe softly. “I had an early ancestor who was a blacksmith.” He gave a huge grin. “Eve–rything is linked.”
Owen punched the air with delight and grinned at the others. “Told you!”
“That’s not all,” continued Mr. Smythe. “Lord Craven-Smythe was my relative, like Thomas is yours. My family stopped using the title and the Craven name when I was a youngster and the money ran out. Not much point being known as a lord when you can’t live like one.”
“You’re a lord … Wow! Do you know the queen?” said Adam, his voice full of awe.
Mr. Smythe laughed. “I’ve met her, but what about your links to royalty?”
Adam’s eyes bulged. “Ours?”
Mr. Smythe sat up and waved his hand at the valley spread below. “You children are a part of this area. Generations of your families have lived here. King Alfred was born here. So were Alin and Thomas. I suspect that, like many people in White Horse Vale, your family tree would show links to all three of them. That might be why the White Horse could show Chantel those episodes of the past.”
“So even though we were born in Canada, we might be related to King Alfred. That’s wild,” said Adam. He looked sideways at Owen and smirked.
Owen tossed a handful of grass at him. “If you’re related, so are we.”
Holly and Chantel laughed at each other, eyes shining.
Mr. Smythe rose creakily to his feet and brushed the grass from his pants. “Come on. Chop, chop! What are we waiting for?”
“Where are we going?” asked Adam.
“To Tysoe, to find the red horse. Where else?” said Mr. Smythe as he flung open the doors of the Land Rover. “We’ll eat our sandwiches in the car to save time on the way.”
“Just a minute. I’ve something to show you,” said Chantel.
She reached in her pocket and held out her hand. The piece of talisman glinted in the sunshine. “It was on my pillow when I woke this morning. We still need it for when we find the other half.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
SIX FOR GOLD
The grassy downs flashed past and gave way to wooded hill–sides. The Land Rover bucketed up and down the country lanes, slowing to pass through small villages. Several times it darted through leafy green tunnels and burst out into glori–ous sunshine on the crest of a hill, another valley opening out before them.
“Nearly there,” Mr. Smythe called as they entered a series of steep zigzag turns that dropped them towards a small hamlet.
Owen clutched the back of the seat and yelled, “Stop!”
With a shriek of brakes the Land Rover skidded to a halt.
“What in heaven’s name …?” Mr. Smythe’s voice trailed off as Owen pointed to an overgrown sign at the side of the lane.
“YOU ARE NOW ENT THE VA OF RE HORSE,” the sign read.
Owen leapt out of the car and pulled away tendrils of ivy. The sign was cracked and peeling but the message clear: “YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE VALE OF THE RED HORSE.”
“There really is such a place,” Holly said.
“Well spotted, Owen.” Mr. Smythe gave a thumbs up. “That was almost worth giving me a heart attack.”
Owen climbed back in and snapped on his seat belt. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you. But it is a good find, isn’t it?”
“That must be Tysoe.” Chantel pointed to the cluster of roofs and a church steeple huddled in the valley below. “The red mare’s on one of these hills.” She gazed around.
Mr. Smythe let out the clutch and they soared downhill to stop in the parking area between the Tysoe churchyard and the Red Nag Pub.
The older cousins jumped out of the Land Rover and helped Chantel with her crutches. They gazed at the hills around the village with dismay.
“This can’t be right,” Chantel protested. “There are too many trees and bushes. The red mare was in a big cleared meadow. I saw her!”
“Clearings grow over,” sighed Mr. Smythe. He pulled the silver box out of his bag and placed it on the hood of the Land Rover. With great care he lifted the lid, opened the old book and offered it to Chantel.
She leaned against the Land Rover and tried to read the description of the site of the horses. The words were dif–ficult, so Holly leaned over and helped her.
“Red Horse Hill is east of Tysoe church with the east axis of the church pointing directly to the figure,” they chanted together.
Chantel looked up. “We need a compass.”
Owen flashed his explorer watch and pressed a couple of buttons. “Okay … north’s thataway.”
“Then this is east.” Chantel pointed to the hillside rising directly above one side of the church.
They stared at the slope.
Mr. Smythe grunted. “At least it has fewer trees than some of the other slopes.” His eyes passed over the sparse woodland and glared at the small bushes and patches of open ground, as if willing the red mare to materialize.
Tears filled Chantel’s eyes. “We’ll never be able to find her.”
Adam gave her hand a squeeze. “What if we say Wayland’s rhyme? It might help, like a spell.”
The cousins looked sideways at Mr. Smythe.
To their surprise he nodded briskly. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
“Hold hands to make a circle,” suggested Chantel.
Mr. Smythe grinned. “There’s five of us. That’s a lucky number, like the number seven.”
They linked hands and chanted quietly:
“Those you seek are running still,
Though hidden now, beneath the hill.
What lies below is seen on high.
Seek them where the magpies fly.
Seek them as small shadows, cast
By the sun when noon hath passed.
Red like white in slumber lie,
The talisman within the eye.”
A breeze rippled around them, and the sun suddenly seemed to shine brighter.
Hello, child.
The familiar feeling of friendship washed over Chantel. She glanced around, but obviously no one else could hear. She thought her reply. Horse! You’re here!
I’m always here.
Chantel gave a silent giggle. No, I mean here at Tysoe. Can you see the red mare?
No, there is only emptiness.
Feeling confident, Chantel smiled. She’ll come.
At the same moment, Adam heard a whisper in his head. It seemed far away but was dark and compelling.
Adam, listen to me.
Adam looked around the circle. No one else showed signs of hearing anything, though Chantel looked happier.
Go away, Worm, thought Adam. He tried to block out the voice.
Adam, I’m strong. Come. Share my power.
You’re a liar. You wanted to share power with Holly.
Of course, whispered the dragon. She was holding the talisman. But it was you I wanted. We could be such friends, you and I. Find the missing half of the talisman and call for me. Then you and your sister will be equal. Imagine … the girl and the horse and you and the dragon. The magic would be balanced.
The voice faded, leaving Adam disturbed and uneasy. He glanced around the circle. No one had noticed anything. He looked down again at Chantel’s rapt face. Suddenly he un–derstood — she and the horse were talking! A flash of anger swept over him. She was going to do it again, tell everyone what to do and they’d all dance to her whims.
He dropped her hand as though it burned him.
Everyone abandoned the circle and stared back up at the hillside.
“Now what?” asked Holly.
A woman appeared in the doorway of the Red Nag.
“Hello, my dears. Can I help you?” she called.
Chantel turned. “We’ve heard about the red horse. We were wondering where it used to be.”
The woman leaned back into the pub. “George,” she called. “There be people asking about yon red mare. Bring out the picture, dearie.”
A sturdy farmer appeared, carrying a framed photo. “I’m George Whitfield. This be an aerial photo of my farm. It were taken some years ago by one of them archeologists, but not much has changed.” He placed the photo on the hood of the Land Rover and jabbed his finger on the glass. “Here be the church, and here be yon hillside. See anything?”
Five heads pored over the photo. It took them a while to decode the unusual view of the landscape. Suddenly Chantel gave a yelp.
“The shadows. Look at the shadows! They make lines. There’s a horse’s head … and ears …” Her fingers traced a line on the surface of the glass. She turned and gazed in–tently at the hillside before her. “Am I dreaming? The lines are still there.”
Several customers, glasses in hand, had followed George out of the pub and into the sunshine. They joined the group staring up at the hillside.
Owen danced from one foot to the other. He quoted softly, “What lies below is seen on high. Seek them where the magpies fly.”
He grinned. “This is an aerial photo, a bird’s-eye view, and there are the magpies.”
The children looked up.
“I see one, two … six black birds flying around up there. I can’t tell if they’re magpies, though … and I can’t see any–thing else,” a
dmitted Adam.
“Me neither,” sighed Holly.
“Bet you they are.” Owen squinted at the hill, his head on one side. “It’s big,” he said suddenly. “Really big. Chantel’s right, there is something there.”
“You see it too? Great.” Chantel pointed, her hand trem–bling with excitement. “The ears start near the bushes on the top. Then the nose runs way, way down, almost to the stone wall on the left.” She beamed.
Owen grinned at her and nodded.
“What are you looking at?” cried Holly.
“Magnificent. You’re seeing what archeologists call crop marks.” Mr. Smythe rubbed his hands together. “In a dry summer under hot sun, grass gradually bleaches paler and paler until it goes brown. Where grass grows over an area that has something underneath, like a building foundation, or the densely packed lines of a hill carving like the red mare, the roots don’t get much nourishment. Those blades bleach faster than the surrounding grass.
“Look at the slope again and watch for subtle changes in color in a faint line. I’ll guide you. Fix your eyes first on the little white cloud in the sky.”
Adam and Holly looked up. So did the customers.
“Immediately below is a clump of bushes.”
“Found them,” chorused Holly and Adam.
Several customers grunted their agreement.
“Now run your eyes across the grass of the clearing be–low,” instructed Mr. Smythe. “Watch for a pale yellow-green line running diagonally towards the left … way down to the large tree by the wall … then curving back …”
“Got it,” said Adam with satisfaction.
“It’s a ghostly horse’s head,” said Holly in amazement.
“It’s there but it’s not there.”
“I’ll be danged,” commented a customer.
“Could we make the head show up clearer?” Owen asked.
“How?” said Holly.
“Paint the lines?” suggested Chantel.
Adam and Owen burst out laughing, but Mr. Smythe looked thoughtful. He glanced across at George Whitfield and raised his eyebrows.
George Whitfield chuckled. “You be serious? You really want to paint the old horse’s head?”
“Please,” said Chantel. “Then we could take a proper photo of her.”
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