Storm Horse

by Nick Garlick

  At the end of the gate, the Ghost Girl giggled.

  “And sheep are just as bad!” Renske went on. “You can’t walk through a sheep field or a cow field without getting your shoes covered in poop. That’s why I like Leila. She looks after my shoes.”

  This time it wasn’t just the Ghost Girl who giggled. Flip laughed too. That made the Ghost Girl giggle again. Then Renske joined in, and within seconds the three of them were laughing so hard the two girls had to climb down from the gate in case they fell off. This seemed even funnier, and soon the three of them were kneeling on the grass with aching sides and so many tears running down their faces they couldn’t see a thing. They only stopped when Flip wiped his eyes, looked into the field, and asked, “Where’s Storm?”

  The gate was open.

  Storm was nowhere in sight.

  Renske and the Ghost Girl jumped to their feet. Flip clambered up onto the gatepost and peered in every direction. Far away at the end of the road that led to the village, he spotted Storm trotting happily along.

  Oh no, he thought. His heart sank, not just because Storm had escaped yet again, but at the prospect of what Uncle Andries would say when he found out. Without a word, the three of them ran off in pursuit. And it was a pursuit, because every time they got close enough to grab him, Storm would just toss his head and twist away out of reach.

  So they followed him along the road past the village, past the Hofstra farm, and then all the way down to The Eyes, two low-lying stretches of water on the southern side of the island. They found him at the far end of the farthest Eye, with his mane and his tail caught in a tangle of brambles clinging to the branches of a dead fallen tree he had tried to pick his way over. And he couldn’t get loose.

  The children tried their best to free him, but it was no use. They weren’t tall enough to reach him, or strong enough to break the branches. And the thorns ripped at their hands when they got too close. Storm was stuck.

  With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Flip went to ask his uncle for help.

  The news made Uncle Andries angry. He walked out to The Eyes with Aunt Elly and Mr. Bouten, put his hands in his overall pockets, and glared at the horse. “I’m beginning,” he muttered, “to see why his last owner wanted to get rid of him. He’s turning out to be more trouble than he’s worth.”

  Flip felt awful. He’d promised to look after Storm and yet now, not even two days later, the horse was already in trouble again. To make him feel even worse, he could see the Mesman Boys on the far side of the water, laughing at all the chaos.

  Eventually, the grown-ups managed to cut Storm free. But when Uncle Andries tried to loop a rope around his neck to lead him back to the farm, Storm bucked and whinnied with fear and galloped away out of reach.

  Flip ran after him. He found the horse standing still by a stile in the path and led him back to the adults, holding gently to his mane.

  But that didn’t impress Uncle Andries.

  “Your horse,” he said, “either learns to behave, or somebody’d best come claim him before winter.”

  He strode off back to the farm with Aunt Elly at his side.

  Flip turned to Mr. Bouten. “What did he mean?” he asked. “Before winter?”

  “He means it’s no good having a horse on a farm if it won’t work. If Storm won’t calm down and help with some work, he really will have to go somewhere else.”

  And that was when Flip finally understood. It all made sense. “The ropes!” he said. “And the harnesses. He was trapped in them in the sea and they almost drowned him. That’s why they frighten him!”

  “Then he’ll have to learn not to be frightened,” Mr. Bouten said.

  “How does he do that?”

  “Someone’ll have to help him,” Mr. Bouten said.

  “Who?”

  “You,” said Mr. Bouten, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Me?”

  “You want him to stay, don’t you? You said you’d look after him.”

  “But I don’t know how!” Flip said, scared at what was being asked of him. Nobody had ever said anything like this to him before. He’d never been encouraged to think for himself by his father. “What should I do?”

  “I don’t have all the answers,” Mr. Bouten said, not unkindly. “But one thing occurs to me. He trusts you, doesn’t he?”

  Flip nodded.

  “How did you do that? How did you get him to trust you so you could lead him into the village?”

  Flip remembered how Storm had approached him after he had crouched down on the sand, and also how long it had taken before the horse had finally stopped beside him. “I didn’t do anything, really. I just waited.”

  “And he realized you weren’t going to hurt him. You were patient with him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, perhaps you should try being patient with the ropes and harness. Perhaps that would work.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  “You rescued him from the sea, Flip. You didn’t know how to swim, but you went into the water and rescued him. If you can do that, you can do this.”

  He turned and limped away, leaving Flip staring up at Storm and Storm looking down at Flip. In the distance, the Mesman Boys were shouting that they could do a better job with the horse any day, but Flip didn’t pay them any attention. He had other things to worry about. Slowly, he began walking Storm back to the farm.

  Patient, he thought. And as he did so, a plan blossomed in his mind. Yes, he told himself, I can be patient.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Flip was awake and dressed and sitting on the gate to the horses’ field before the sun had even broken over the horizon. Next to him, lying over the top bar of the gate, was a length of rope.

  When the two horses trotted up to say hello, Storm saw the rope and stopped dead, sniffing the air. Flip sidled away to the other end of the gate. He didn’t even look at the rope. He sat perfectly still with his hands by his sides.

  “Hello,” he said to the horses. “Did you sleep well? I did. After all that excitement yesterday.”

  He continued to ignore the rope. Gradually, Storm came closer. Soon he was sniffing at Flip’s pockets, looking for food. Still talking, Flip gave each horse half a carrot, scratched their ears, and stroked their muzzles. Then he climbed down off the gate and started walking across the grass. He walked slowly, not looking back.

  All he wanted right then was for Storm to follow him. Nothing more. As long as he got used to following Flip around the field, that would be enough for the moment.

  And Storm did. Leila came too, for a few minutes at least. But when she stopped and wandered off on her own, Storm stayed with Flip, plodding quietly along after him. Up and down the field they went, three times in all, and all the time Flip chatted away to Storm about anything that came into his head: how cool it was outside, the sound the birds made in the trees, how the clouds in the distance looked like trees. Anything to keep the horse calm and feeling safe.

  It worked. Storm remained docile. But when Flip reached the gate and lifted the rope off it, the horse backed away and watched from a distance. He clearly didn’t like it.

  Flip stayed still on the grass. “It’s just a rope,” he said. “It won’t hurt you. I won’t let it.”

  By then it was time for breakfast. He put the rope back on the gate and left it there all day. When he returned after work, it was still in place. He picked it up, draped it over his shoulders, and began walking around the field again. Storm followed, but from farther back this time. And he never got closer.

  Flip didn’t worry, though. He knew that what he wanted would take time to happen.

  So the next day, he got up and did the same thing all over again.

  And every day for the rest of the week.

  By the seventh day, Storm was still nervous about the rope, but his trust in Flip was growing and he now walked quietly up and down the field beside him, letting Flip pat his shoulder and stroke his muzzle. When, on the eig
hth day, Flip laid one end of the rope carefully over the horse’s shoulders, Storm didn’t so much as snort.

  But he still didn’t like the harness.

  And he hated the halter.

  After his success with the rope, Flip started bringing a harness and a halter out to the field and placing them on the gate. But every time he saw them, Storm took one look and trotted away out of reach. He refused to come back, no matter what Flip did or said.

  This went on for another week. At the beginning of the third week, the Mesman Boys decided it was time to tell Flip what to do. They strolled up to the gate, pushed it open, and walked into the field as though they owned it.

  “You haven’t got a clue, have you, city boy?” Jan said. “You don’t talk to horses.”

  “They’re just animals,” Petrus said.

  “You dump that harness on and show them who’s boss!” Thijs said.

  Flip was standing by the water trough. He turned away, held out his hand, and called to Storm. But the boys’ shouting had scared the horse and he was keeping his distance.

  “A good slap’s what he needs,” Petrus said. “Or a good crack with a whip.”

  “Not a lot of talking,” Jan said.

  Then all three boys laughed and shouted out together, “City boy!”

  Suddenly furious, Flip spun around and ran toward them, only to stop when he saw Uncle Andries marching up the road with Mr. Bouten limping along behind.

  “You three get out of my field this minute!” Uncle Andries roared.

  For a moment, nobody moved. The obvious fury in the farmer’s eyes froze all four boys with fear. Then the spell was broken. Clutching their slingshots and trophies, the Mesman Boys scuttled back to the road and away toward the village.

  Uncle Andries watched them go and shook his head. In his hand he held a length of chain. He used it to close the gate and then added a padlock to keep it shut.

  “I never thought I’d see the day I had to lock a gate on Mossum,” he muttered.

  “You can’t blame Flip for those little thugs,” Mr. Bouten said.

  “I suppose not,” Uncle Andries said. He didn’t sound as though he believed it, though.

  “And it’s not Storm’s fault, either,” the older man said, quietly but firmly. “You know that.”

  This time, Uncle Andries didn’t respond. He gave the key to the padlock to Flip, told him to make sure the gate was always closed and locked, and walked away.

  Mr. Bouten patted Flip on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about him,” he said. “He’ll calm down.” Then he pointed at the field. “You’re doing well. I’ve been watching. I knew you could do it.”

  Flip wasn’t sure he agreed. “But he won’t come near the harness or the halter,” he said. “He still hates them.”

  Mr. Bouten thought it over. “Tried a rope halter? He might let you fit that.”

  Flip didn’t know what that was, so Mr. Bouten showed him. Using a length of light rope with a small noose at one end, they looped it up over Storm’s ears and around his muzzle. Flip couldn’t reach all the way, so, without thinking, Mr. Bouten placed the rope around the horse’s ears. Storm wasn’t frightened. He even turned his head to give the older man a friendly sniff.

  “See,” Mr. Bouten said, smiling. “You really have made a difference.”

  At that, Flip’s whole body swelled with pride. He hadn’t changed Storm completely, but he had made a difference. He really had. And not once had he used a whip like the Mesman Boys suggested.

  “You should try taking him for a walk,” Mr. Bouten said as Flip led Storm gently around the field. “The exercise’d do him good, and wearing that rope halter would probably get him used to the idea of a real one. And then, later on, a bridle. Ask your uncle. I’ll back you up.”

  So Flip did, the next day at breakfast.

  “If he really has got too much energy,” he said, remembering his uncle’s words that first day in the field, “walking would use it up. And the rope halter would get him used to a harness and a real halter.”

  Uncle Andries didn’t reply.

  “I’d only do it after all my other work,” Flip continued. “And nobody would have to come with me. I’d do it all on my own. I really would. And it would just be walking.”

  “What harm could that do?” Aunt Elly asked. “Where could he go?”

  “Probably straight into the nearest bramble bush,” Uncle Andries said.

  Then Mr. Bouten stepped in. “That’s not fair, Andries,” he said quietly. “Flip here’s got Storm used to those ropes. And he’s got him so he’d let me fit that halter, which is more than he did when he arrived. A sight more. He’s done well, Flip has. Very well.”

  Uncle Andries drank his coffee in silence. He put down the cup. Then he stood up and looked across the table at Flip. “All right,” he said. “I’ll let you try.”

  Flip let out a sigh of relief.

  “But,” his uncle continued sternly, “it’s still the same agreement. Storm’s your responsibility. If anything goes wrong, it’ll be down to you.”

  “It won’t,” Flip said, almost too excited to talk. “I promise it won’t.”

  “It had better not,” his uncle said as he left the kitchen.

  FLIP NEVER FORGOT the days that followed.

  They’d always begin the same. Well before dawn, with an apple or a carrot tucked into his pocket, he’d leave the barn, race over to the horses’ field, and climb up onto the gate. The island would be completely still. The only sound would be the faint chatter and trill of birds in the trees. Then, out of the darkness Leila and Storm would come running, their hooves drumming on the soft ground, all the way up from the far end of the field to see if he’d brought them anything to eat.

  After that, it was a stroll around the field with Storm until breakfast, always with the rope halter fitted. Then it was work, which was hard to concentrate on because all he was really thinking about and waiting for was the chance to take Storm walking.

  He’d always give him a good brush first. He did that every day, as he’d been taught by Mr. Bouten. Not that it helped for long. The moment Flip finished, Storm would have a roll to get his coat back the way he liked it. And then they’d set off.

  Flip’s favorite spot was the north shore, the one closest to the farm. To get there, they had to walk through the sand dunes that ran the length of the island, protecting it from the sea. Capped with thick, bristly clumps of grass, they towered over both boy and horse and enveloped them in silence. As if sensing how small they made even him look, Storm would always walk closer to Flip in the dunes, pressing his flank against the boy’s shoulder, so close Flip could feel the warmth radiating from his coat.

  Then they’d step out onto the beach, where the sky stretched over their heads like some vast bright canopy and the wind raced over the waves into their faces. Storm’s nostrils would twitch, as though the wind were tickling him. That always made Flip laugh, and when he did, Storm would turn to peer down at him before reaching down and nibbling at his pockets, looking for a piece of carrot.

  After the first time that happened, Flip always made sure to take a handkerchief with him. A horse’s nose, he’d learned, could make his pocket wet. And very, very sticky.

  Storm liked the beach. He liked trotting along the sand or through the surf, though he never went far out into the water. Never more than up to his knees. Even then he wouldn’t stay long. And not at all if Flip wasn’t right beside him where he could see him. And feel him. He wouldn’t ever go into the sea on his own.

  From there they’d stroll on down to the lighthouse, several hundred yards away. It was a bright red pillar soaring up above the dunes at the eastern end of the island. Flip never forgot the first day he saw it, when low gray clouds clung to the island like mist, and its bright beam swept out through sheets of drifting rain to warn passing ships of danger.

  As he’d stood staring up at the light, the only sound he could hear was the crash and hiss of waves on the sh
ore and the wail of foghorns from invisible vessels out to sea. Then Storm had taken a single pace forward and rested his muzzle on Flip’s shoulder. His breath had made little clouds of steam in the cold air and his mane had brushed lightly against the boy’s cheek. For that brief moment, standing together on the sand, gazing up at the light cutting through the mist, it was as though he and Storm were the only two creatures alive in the whole world.

  And that was wonderful. Just wonderful.

  On most days, though, the sky was clear, and every time Flip reached the lighthouse, he’d stop at the base of the tower, gazing down over the island. He could see the beaches and the fields, the woods and roads and the village and the harbor. If it was low tide in the Wadden Sea, he’d stare at the endless stretches of sand and mud that glistened in the sun and attracted seabirds in the hundreds, hunting for worms and tiny sea creatures.

  One day, he suddenly found himself wishing he could show his mom all this.

  “She’d like it here,” he said to Storm. “And we could show her the whole island, all the places we’ve been together. I really think she’d enjoy that.”

  Storm’s ears twitched a little, then he stood still the way he always did when Flip mentioned his mother, as though he was paying extra attention.

  With a start, Flip realized that it was the first time he’d thought about her in at least a week. Worse still, he realized that he couldn’t picture her face clearly. When he thought of her, it was like looking at somebody through the bottom of a bottle. He could see her face but not her features. Her eyes and her nose and her smile—they were all beginning to fade. How could that have happened? He knew he’d been busy, with his work on the farm and with Storm, but how could he have forgotten what his mom looked like?