Storm Horse

by Nick Garlick

  “What makes you so special, city boy?”

  It was Jan Mesman. He was standing halfway up a dune in front of him, beside his brother Thijs. They had their slingshots in their hands.

  “How come you get to ride on the cart?” demanded a voice at his rear. It was Petrus, blocking any retreat. He had his slingshot out too, and was fitting a stone into the sling. “We’ve lived here longer than you, and that Bouten bloke never let us ride on the cart.”

  “It’s Mr. Bouten!” Flip said.

  “He’s just a farmer,” Jan said. “Nobody calls farmers Mister. And you don’t tell me what to call anyone. I’ll call anyone what I like.” He loaded his slingshot and took aim at Flip. “Maybe this’ll make you learn.”

  A split second before Jan fired, Flip ducked. The stone buzzed straight past his head and smacked into Petrus’s knee. Petrus let out a wail of pain and collapsed in a heap. As Jan and Thijs stood staring in disbelief, Flip seized his chance and ran.

  FLIP HADN’T GONE more than a few feet down the path when he heard a snap. A second later, there was another snap. And then a third. As he ran he glanced behind him and saw all three brothers fire at once.

  One stone hit the ground in front of him. The second buzzed angrily past his head. The third struck him right in the middle of his back.

  The pain was hot and scalding. It felt as though somebody had taken a massive nail with an extra-sharp point and hammered it between his shoulder blades. Flip staggered and fell to one knee.

  But doing that saved him because, as he dropped, the brothers loosed another volley that shot past uselessly overhead. While they stopped to dig fresh ammunition out of their pockets, Flip cut right and ran for the trees dead ahead. He wasn’t sure where he was, but that didn’t matter. If he could just hide and wait until the brothers got bored looking for him, then he’d slip off home.

  Then he did recognize his surroundings. He was heading for the woods that held the wrecked bomber. There was the path between the trees and the tunnel that led into the clearing. He hurled himself down it and stopped, heart pounding and breath rasping, when he reached the remains of the plane.

  A few seconds later, he realized that he’d made a mistake.

  Because there was no other way out. Wherever he looked, thick clumps of brambles blocked any exit other than the path he’d just taken. And that, he realized as he heard feet thumping on the earth, was the one the Mesman Boys were coming down.

  The brothers stormed into the clearing and stopped. When they saw Flip standing with his back to the bomber and nowhere to go, they smiled. Then they fanned out, loaded up all three slingshots, and took aim.

  It hadn’t been slingshots back in Amsterdam, but it had been Willem Veen and his gang against Flip, and Flip had always lost. He’d never had a chance. But he had a chance now, so he grabbed it. He charged straight at Jan, who was too startled to fire his slingshot, and grabbed him around the waist.

  It almost worked. With Flip holding so tight to him, Thijs and Petrus didn’t dare fire in case they hit their brother. They just stood there not knowing what to do. But before Flip could manhandle Jan over to the exit and escape again, Jan wriggled free and knocked him down.

  This time, there was nothing he could do to stop them. Thijs and Petrus ran in and held Flip’s legs down while Jan knelt on his arms and started punching. He punched him in the stomach and the arms and the shoulders, then hit him twice in the side of his head.

  He was lifting his fist for a blow to Flip’s nose when something went BOOM!

  The Mesman Boys froze, staring at each other in shock. Before either of them could speak, there was another BOOM, much louder this time and more drawn out. It seemed to be coming from the bomber.

  “It’s a joke,” Jan said. “Someone’s playing a joke.”

  He laughed. But Thijs and Petrus didn’t. Their faces went pale and they jumped up and stared frantically all around them.

  “It’s the ghost,” Petrus said.

  “There’s no ghost,” Jan said. “Don’t be so stupid!”

  But the moment the words were out of his mouth, there came another BOOM, louder and heavier than before, followed by a fourth, louder still.

  And then the clearing seemed to explode as BOOM followed BOOM in an ever-increasing crescendo that made the plane roar and vibrate, as though a giant were smashing a hammer against the inside of the biggest metal trash can in the world.

  It was too much for Petrus and Thijs. Faces white and eyes wide with fear, they spun around and shot into the tunnel as though they’d been fired from a gun.

  Jan tried standing his ground, but without his brothers he wasn’t so brave. Five seconds after they disappeared, he took right off after them.

  As abruptly as it had begun, the banging stopped. Soon all there was to hear was the distant sigh of the wind in the trees. Flip didn’t believe in ghosts—he never had—but even so, all alone in the clearing beside the deserted plane, he felt small and very vulnerable.

  “Is someone there?” he called out.

  Silence.

  “They’re gone,” he added.

  Up above him, he heard a sound. When he looked up, he saw a face peering down at him from the rear gunner’s turret.

  It was the Ghost Girl.

  She didn’t smile. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him.

  “Did you make that noise?” Flip asked.

  She nodded. Once.

  “How?”

  She lifted her left hand and showed him a large flat square of wood, the kind bricklayers used to hold wet cement.

  “Did you do it to frighten them away?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  She held up her right hand, showing him the battered teddy bear clutched in her fingers. Flip could see now that it had a missing arm, a missing leg, and a missing eye.

  “Did the Mesman Boys do that?”

  She nodded again and went on staring down at him.

  “Do you ever talk?” Flip asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Can you talk?”

  A nod.

  “But you don’t want to?”

  Another nod. Then something behind her made her pull her head back inside the turret.

  When she didn’t reappear, Flip peered up through the fuselage into the tail. There were metal struts on the inside, so he used them to climb up to her. She was standing on the edge of the rear gunner’s seat, peering out over the tops of the trees toward the sea. The sky was still dark and the wind was still roaring in over the waves crashing onto the beach. A fresh gust of rain spattered down on their upturned faces.

  “We should go,” Flip said.

  The Ghost Girl ignored him. She leaned as far as she could out of the turret, staring intently into the distance.

  “We’ll get wet.”

  She shook her head again, furiously this time, and jabbed her finger toward the beach. Flip looked, but didn’t see anything.

  “Well, I’m going to go,” he said, and started to climb down.

  The Ghost Girl grabbed his hand, pushed him against the side of the plane, and pointed. Her eyes were wide with fright.

  He spotted a movement in the sea. Something dark. It vanished as a wave swept over it and then reappeared a second or two later. He still couldn’t make it out clearly, but he could see it moving up and down and from side to side, as if struggling to stay afloat. When an extra-large wave lifted it up, he saw it clearly.

  It was a horse, a black horse with something tangled around its neck.

  “I see it!” he said.

  The Ghost Girl didn’t bother to answer. She was already scrambling down through the fuselage. Flip followed her. By the time he reached the ground, she’d crossed the clearing and was slipping into the tunnel. When he stepped into the open air on the far side, she was in the distance, running as fast as her thin little legs would take her.

  Toward the beach, and the horse.

  THROUGH THE TREES
and up the dunes the Ghost Girl ran, scampering over the sand like a goat. When Flip reached the top, she was on the beach. Without looking back to see whether he was behind her, she dashed straight to the water’s edge and stood staring at the creature struggling in the waves.

  It was a large horse, black from head to tail, with massive hooves, thick legs, and a neck almost as big as Flip’s entire body. It was bobbing up and down in the water, kicking and bucking to stay afloat. As he watched, a wave crashed against its shoulders and it vanished in a mass of foam. A second later it reemerged, eyes wide with fear, its long mane plastered across its skull, water streaming from its nostrils.

  Now he could see what was tangled around its neck and right leg: a clump of ropes and metal cables, waterlogged and heavy and dragging it down. If they weren’t removed, the horse would drown before it reached the shore.

  Flip’s heart sank. He didn’t have a knife, so he couldn’t save the animal even if he wanted to. He couldn’t even swim out to it because he didn’t know how to swim. There was nothing he could do.

  Or at least, that’s what he thought until the Ghost Girl plucked a penknife from a pocket in her dress, snapped it open, and ran straight into the sea.

  SHE DIDN’T GET far. The first wave struck her in the chest and knocked her down. A second wave submerged her completely.

  Flip dashed into the surf, grabbed her by the collar, and pulled her back onto the sand. Coughing and spluttering, she jumped to her feet and ran straight back into the water. A fresh wave sent her spinning head over heels to where she’d started.

  Out in the sea, the horse was still kicking and thrashing. But it was much weaker now, and moving more slowly. Two waves crashed into the back of its head and it sank from sight, only to break through to the surface seconds later, snorting water and shaking its head wildly from side to side.

  The Ghost Girl grabbed Flip’s hand and slapped the penknife into it. She pointed at the horse.

  Flip knew what she meant, but he shook his head. “I can’t!” he yelled above the roar of the wind. “I don’t know what to do!”

  She mimed cutting and pointed at the horse.

  “I can’t swim!” he said.

  But even as he spoke, he knew he couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. He could see the fear in the horse’s eyes and he knew what that was like, to feel lost and alone, wondering where the people were who would take care of him. He’d felt that so many times in Amsterdam in the days after his mom left. And then in the months and years that followed, when his dad had gone out and he’d woken up in the middle of the night, all by himself in the dark, damp apartment. Swim or not, he couldn’t just leave the horse to its fate.

  Wrapping his fingers around the knife, Flip took a long deep breath and ran into the sea.

  It was so cold it made him gasp. The moment he did so, a wave smacked him in the face and he swallowed a mouthful of seawater. He coughed and spat it out and while he was doing that, another wave did the same thing again. The knife was torn from his fingers and went spinning away before he could grab it. But he kept going, digging his feet hard into the sand and pushing himself forward against the current.

  And then there wasn’t any sand anymore.

  He was swimming.

  Or at least, not sinking. Up and down in the water he went, flailing with his legs, thrashing with his arms. A wave lifted him up. A second submerged him. A third, a fourth, and a fifth wave battered him about like a cork. Then, just as he was thinking he’d never make it, his fingers brushed against a strand of long coarse hair. It was the horse’s mane. He clutched it tight, hauled himself forward, and locked his arms around the terrified animal’s neck.

  It reared upward, bellowing with fear, but Flip held fast, bouncing back and forth against its massive shoulders like a Ping-Pong ball against a paddle. When the horse twisted its head around, Flip could feel its hot, wet breath against his face.

  Without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand on its muzzle, directly above its nostrils. For just a few seconds, the creature calmed. Its breathing slowed and its eyes grew less fearful.

  Clutching the mane tight, Flip studied the knotted cables and oily rope around the horse’s neck. Up close he could see they’d gotten caught in the leather halter it was wearing, as well as around its leg. That was why every kick dragged its head down. If he could get the halter off, perhaps the cables and rope would just fall away.

  It was fastened with two straps: one around the muzzle and one behind the ears. He reached out and unbuckled the strap around the muzzle. He’d been right. The ropes loosened a little.

  He reached for the strap behind the ears, only for a wave to hit him in the face and almost sweep him away from the horse. He scrambled for it again, but the waves kept knocking him away. Desperate now, he did the only thing he thought would work. He hauled himself forward and slid up onto the horse’s back.

  The extra weight immediately pushed it down in the water. Now the waves were breaking over its head and it thrashed blindly in panic. Grimly determined, Flip thrust his left hand under the leather strap and, with the fingers of his right hand turning white from the cold water, worked the second buckle loose.

  Instantly, the halter came apart and the ropes and cables dropped beneath the waves. Finally free, the horse reared up. Water sluiced from its mane and back. Then it crashed back down and started swimming the last few feet to safety.

  But as it surged forward, Flip flew backward. Before he could get his bearings or catch his breath, the waves had driven him under the surface and into the sand. His forehead smacked into something hard. He swallowed mouthfuls of water as he was tumbled upside down and hurled onto the shore.

  When he opened his eyes, he was lying facedown on the beach with the surf breaking around his shoulders. The Ghost Girl had dropped to her knees beside him and was peering into his face. Totally exhausted, all he could do was stare back. And every few seconds cough and spit out what felt like gallons of seawater.

  After a while he pushed himself upright and looked over at the horse. It was standing some distance away with its head down and sides heaving as its breathing returned to normal. Then it looked up and shook itself, sending water cascading from its mane and tail and coat.

  Flip laughed. He couldn’t help it.

  He was alive.

  All three of them were alive and he’d never felt so happy in his entire life.

  WHEN FLIP FINALLY found the strength to sit up, he realized it wasn’t raining anymore and that the wind had dropped. He got to his feet and looked at the horse. Then he looked at the Ghost Girl.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  She pointed at the village.

  Of course, he thought. Somebody there would know what to do. He would turn the horse over to them. But when he reached out his hand to grab its mane, it shied away and snatched back its head. The sudden movement made Flip step back in alarm and this scared the horse even more. It turned and galloped off, stopping twenty paces away and turning to stare at the two children, letting out little snorts of fear every few seconds.

  Flip’s heart was thumping. He hadn’t expected this. And now, safely out of the sea, he realized for the first time how tall the horse was, and how much bigger than him. If it had galloped toward him, it would have knocked him flat in a second.

  Shivering, Flip crouched down on the sand, hugging himself and his wet clothes against the cold, trying to keep warm and think of a solution to the problem. A sound made him look up. The horse was approaching, head down, sniffing the air, moving one hoof at a time.

  Flip stayed exactly where he was, ignoring the pain in his cramped leg muscles, not wanting to frighten the animal again. Finally, it stood right before him and lowered its massive head to sniff at his face and fingers. Flip felt a little nervous, but as gently as he could, he reached out and rested one hand on its muzzle. The horse didn’t shy away.

  Carefully—as carefully as the horse had come back to him—he stood u
p and ran his hand along its neck. It snorted with pleasure and shook its long mane from side to side. Flip shifted slowly, then stroked its muzzle. The horse let out a sigh and, a little while later, when Flip wrapped his hand in its mane, it didn’t object at all. It turned and strolled along beside the boy without a murmur, hooves thumping softly on the sand.

  The Ghost Girl came too, but she still wouldn’t talk. Every question Flip asked her—her name, where she lived, what she was doing on the island—she answered with a blank stare and a shake of her head.

  When they reached the village, the first thing they saw was the lifeboat, making its way up from the sea. The horses hauling it were wet from the rain and the waves but looked strong and lively and determined. Not so the lifeboat men, or Mr. Bouten in the cart at the rear of the column. They all looked tired and downcast. The villagers who came out to see them took one look at their faces and fell silent themselves. When one of them asked a question, Uncle Andries just shook his head.

  Then he looked up, stopped walking and stared.

  As long as he lived, Flip would never forget the look on the faces of the villagers as they turned to see what had caught Uncle Andries’s attention. He didn’t think he could have astonished them more if he’d grown wings and flown around the church tower. To add to it all, he could hear voices here and there muttering, “It’s the boy from Amsterdam.”

  Then a voice boomed out from the back of the crowd. “What have you got there?”

  A cigar-smoking figure pushed its way forward. Flip knew instantly who he was because he had the same short haircut and the same peglike ears as his three sons. It was Mr. Mesman, the owner of the hotel.

  He was obviously a man used to taking charge. He strode forward and reached out his hand to take hold of the horse. But the moment he did so, it let out a whinny, shook its head violently from side to side, and took three steps back. Its hooves smacked against the surface of the road with a crack that froze Mr. Mesman in his tracks.

  Flip stepped between the hotel owner and the frightened animal. Slowly, he turned around and held out his hands for the horse to sniff. He put one hand on its muzzle, the other on its neck. Gradually, its breathing slowed and its head sank down until the bottom of its muzzle rested on Flip’s shoulder. But it never took its wary eyes off the villagers.