Storm Horse

by Nick Garlick

  “You’re a good lad, Flip,” he said. “You’ve turned out well. I didn’t think you would but you have. And I’m proud of you.”

  “We all are,” Mr. Bouten added.

  “Yes,” Uncle Andries agreed. “We all are. Now go and find Sophie and get her back home.” And with that, he turned and strode off toward the lifeboat station with Mr. Bouten at his side.

  Flip ran to the field, fitted the halter, and climbed up onto Storm’s back. Soon he was trotting along the path, past an anxious-looking Mrs. Elberg, and then overtaking Uncle Andries and Mr. Bouten.

  When they were no more than specks in the distance, he wheeled Storm left and made his way down through the woods and the dunes. The faintest of breezes ruffled his hair as he rode out onto the beach. On the horizon, a smudge of darkness broke the clear blue of the sky.

  Just as Mr. Bouten had predicted, the storm was coming.

  TO THE WEST, there was nothing to see but empty sand stretching away to the horizon. In front of Flip, a family of vacationers was building a sand castle. To his right—east—far away in the distance, he saw shapes ambling along at the water’s edge. Trotting up to them through the surf, he discovered it was just another group of vacationers. When he described the Ghost Girl, though, and asked if they’d seen her, he was told they had. Up near the lighthouse.

  Urging Storm forward, Flip galloped up the path to the lighthouse. But she wasn’t there. He stopped and gazed down along the island.

  Before him lay the village and the church tower, the fields and the farms and the long golden sprawl of The Yellow. Out to sea on his left was the ferry coming in from the mainland, sunlight sparkling off its windows as it headed into the harbor. And there, at the end of a second smaller jetty, lay the little boat Mr. Mesman had hired for his trip. Flip could see him bustling about on board and the four investors taking their places in the seats at the stern. The sky on the southern side of the island was still so clear that Flip could see the sun shining on a white linen tablecloth, and on the bottles and glasses stacked on top of it.

  To his right, far out in the North Sea, the smudge of darkness had grown into three thin fingers of cloud poking up over the horizon. As he watched, they grew longer and wider. Another gust of wind pushed the hair off his forehead.

  He looked back down to the harbor, where he saw Mr. Mesman’s boat cast off and chug happily away from the jetty. And then into view directly below him, wandering along the beach at the base of the dunes, came the Ghost Girl.

  He backed away so she wouldn’t look up and see them. How was he going to get to her? He was pretty certain she’d run away from her mother because she didn’t want to leave Mossum. What if she thought Flip was part of a group of people who had come to find her and she ran away again? Then he had an idea. What if she only saw Storm?

  Slipping off the horse’s back, he waited until the Ghost Girl had disappeared behind a dune, then descended as quickly and quietly as he could toward the beach. As soon as he reached a fork in the path, he let go of Storm and urged him forward, to the left. Flip ran around to the right. His plan worked perfectly.

  Storm strolled out onto the beach, almost directly in front of the Ghost Girl. The moment she saw him she stopped. Instantly, Storm stopped too. She looked around to see if anyone was with him and, seeing no one, walked slowly toward him with her hand held out.

  Behind Flip, the wind was picking up. The thin fingers of cloud on the horizon had now grown into big grasping claws trailing black strands of rain. When he emerged from the dunes, sand was blowing off the tops and against his back. He couldn’t believe how fast the weather was changing. It definitely helped him, though, because neither Storm nor the Ghost Girl had heard him approaching.

  She saw him and tried to run, but Flip caught her arm and held tight.

  “Your mom’s looking for you,” he said.

  She heaved and pulled but it was no good. She couldn’t break Flip’s grip.

  “Come on,” he said. “Get up beside me and we’ll ride back home.”

  She shook her head.

  The wind whipped at their hair and clothes. Above them, the blue sky was vanishing behind a rolling wave of cloud. The temperature was dropping fast. Drops of rain began to splatter down on the sand around them.

  “You don’t want to get caught in this,” he said.

  She shook her head again.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m not angry with you.”

  From the way her eyes widened, he knew what she was thinking, even if she wouldn’t say it. Really?

  “The only ones I’m angry with are the Mesman Boys and their dad. Not you.”

  Another really?

  “Yes,” he said. And then he knew just what to say. “So can we go home, please, before Storm gets completely soaked?”

  It was exactly the right thing to say. She stopped struggling and looked at the horse. Her face softened and she nodded. Using a clump of sand and grass to stand on, Flip helped her up onto Storm’s back, then climbed up behind her and set off along the beach.

  As they rounded the eastern tip of the island, the lifeboat siren began to wail.

  AT THE SOUND of the alarm, Flip reached around the Ghost Girl, wound his hands in Storm’s mane, and urged him into a trot. When they swung around onto the northern shore, lightning flashed across the sky.

  Flip saw the lifeboat in the distance, rolling across the sand to stop before a dark and muddy sea flecked with white foam breakers. He saw Mr. Bouten jump down from his cart and stride into the waves to find the right spot for a launch. It wasn’t long before the horses had been unfastened and reattached to the rear of the trailer. Uncle Andries and the rest of the crew were pulling on their heavy-weather gear and climbing up into the lifeboat.

  Another flash of lightning, closer this time, followed by a loud clap of thunder.

  Storm didn’t like the weather. His ears were pinned back flat on his head and his tail was flicking nervously from side to side. He stomped at the sand and snorted. He’d slowed to a walk by then and kept swinging to his left and his right. It took all Flip’s strength to keep him going in a straight line. He didn’t blame him for this behavior: the wind and the waves must have been bringing back lots of bad memories.

  Beyond the dunes, in the woods, the tops of the trees were whipping back and forth. Flip could see the flagpole on the church tower actually bending. All that was left of the flag were a few tattered scraps of cloth snapping furiously in the wind.

  Ahead of them, the horses were hauling the trailer into the waves. In a crash of spray, the lifeboat slid loose from its restraints and hit the water. It rolled back and forth as it righted itself, then the engine roared into life and it fought its way through the breakers and out to sea.

  Lightning struck a third time, a dazzling fork of silver light so bright it was as though somebody had turned on a massive flashlight. For a moment the beach was illuminated like the inside of a room and Flip could see every single detail—the horses, the ropes, the men in green waders, and the sand-caked tracks on the trailer.

  Then he heard a crash.

  And it came from the village.

  The fork of lightning that had struck just seconds before had hit the tree that grew beside the church tower. As Flip and the Ghost Girl watched, the top half of the massive elm folded in on itself, like somebody closing his fingers into a fist. Clumps of small branches were ripped loose. Leaves were torn away into the rain.

  The falling trunk struck the side of the tower, ripped open a giant hole, and smashed away half the roof. Bricks and mortar, broken tiles, and wooden beams cascaded to the ground in a cloud of dust that the wind whipped apart in seconds. The flagpole wavered, broke free, and plummeted out of sight into the churchyard.

  On the beach, the men by the lifeboat stood transfixed. They obviously couldn’t believe what they’d seen and didn’t know what to do.

  But Mr. Bouten did. Flip saw him wave them away, into the village. They hesitated, but he insi
sted. Flip could tell from his hand movements that he was telling them to help at the church, that he’d uncouple the horses and get them onto the beach.

  So they stripped off their waders, grabbed their shoes, and ran back through the dunes. As they disappeared from sight, Mr. Bouten strode out to the horses waiting in the surf. Alarmed by the ferocity of the weather, they were bucking and jerking from side to side, anxious to be free, making such a commotion that he had to focus all his energy on them to make sure they didn’t knock him down. That was why he didn’t see what was approaching.

  It was a huge wave, higher and thicker than all the others that had preceded it, and it came rolling in from far out to sea, gathering speed and height and weight as it advanced. It hit Mr. Bouten in the back and slammed him headfirst into the trailer, then drove him under the surface and into the surf.

  A moment later he reappeared, sprawled on his back at the water’s edge. A fresh wave submerged him. When it receded, he was still on his back. And still not moving.

  There was nobody to see it and nobody to help. Everyone was in the village, gathered at the church tower. The only ones who knew what had happened—and who could do anything about it—were the two children on the horse.

  Flip didn’t hesitate. Yelling at the Ghost Girl to hold tight, he urged Storm forward, down the beach toward the fallen man and the eight stranded horses.

  AS IF HE sensed the urgency of the situation, Storm broke from a trot into a canter and then a flat-out gallop. It was like some vast machine uncoiling itself and rumbling into action. He didn’t need to be prompted. He hurtled along the beach with his hooves flying and his mane snapping and flapping in the wind. His breath came from his nostrils in short, shuddering bursts. His strides grew longer and the sound of his hooves on the sand was like distant thunder. Down the beach he flew, with Flip and the Ghost Girl clinging to his back with every scrap of strength they could summon and the wind roaring in their ears.

  The lifeboat trailer drew closer. Flip could see the horses in the water on both sides rearing their heads, neighing, and kicking futilely in their harnesses. Behind them, Mr. Bouten lay motionless in the surf.

  Flip jumped from Storm’s back, pulled the Ghost Girl down after him, and ran to the old man’s side. He was unconscious and there was a gash in his forehead from where he’d been thrown against the trailer. Blood had soaked his face and his clothes.

  The two of them tried pulling him up out of the water but they couldn’t move him. He was too heavy. As Flip tried to think what to do, he heard a snort behind him and looked up into Storm’s eyes.

  Of course, he thought. He ran to the cart, found a length of rope, looped it under Mr. Bouten’s arms, and tied it in a knot over his chest. The other end he tied around Storm’s neck. Grabbing the halter, he urged him back up the beach.

  In four easy strides, Storm pulled the old man out of the sea and onto dry land. Flip knelt beside Mr. Bouten and saw that he was still breathing. But before he could do anything else, terrified whinnies from the sea pulled him away.

  All eight horses were bucking and kicking, trying to escape from the waves crashing in on them. There was no sign of anyone from the village. And worse, Flip realized, no time to go and get them.

  Each horse had a thick canvas harness around its neck and shoulders, and each harness was attached to the trailer by two big ropes that ran down the horse’s flanks to a wooden cross brace and then to the trailer. But Flip couldn’t see how they were fixed to the trailer because it was now under the water. Fear flashed through him. What was he going to do? Where did he start?

  Then he saw it. If he could cut the ropes between the horses and the cross brace, they’d be free. They’d still be wearing the harnesses but they’d be free. He dropped to his knees, hunted through Mr. Bouten’s pockets, found his knife, and pulled it loose. As he opened the blade, the Ghost Girl jumped down from the cart with a length of thin rope. She grabbed the knife, fastened one end of the rope to the metal loop on the handle, and tied the other tight around Flip’s wrist. He turned and ran into the surf.

  The first wave hit him in the chest and knocked him down. He came up spitting out water and spluttering for air, wiping his hair from his eyes. Before the second wave could strike, he pushed himself forward and grabbed the edge of the trailer to hold himself steady. Then he reached out, grabbed the first rope, and started cutting.

  The blade was sharp. It went through the rope in seconds. A moment later, the second parted. When the horse felt the pressure on its chest and shoulders loosen, it kicked forward. But it didn’t break loose. Instantly, Flip saw why. Another rope, attached to its halter, bound it to the halter of the horse on its right. Flip had to free two horses before either one could escape.

  He clawed his way back down to the second horse’s rope and cut again. Finally freed, both animals stumbled forward, regained their balance, and turned and splashed up onto the beach. The Ghost Girl grabbed the ends of the trailing ropes and fastened them to Mr. Bouten’s cart.

  Flip didn’t see this. He’d already moved on to the next pair. Again the knife did its work. Within minutes, the third and fourth horses were splashing up onto the beach to join their companions, and only too happy to be fastened to the cart by the Ghost Girl.

  Soaked from head to foot, shaking and shivering, Flip now waded through chest-high water and around to the other side of the trailer. He hadn’t been in the sea long but his fingers were cold and beginning to lose their feeling. If the knife hadn’t been tied to his wrist, he would have dropped it long ago.

  There was still no sign of anyone from the village.

  He grabbed the first rope he came to and started cutting. As he did so, a massive wave crashed into the line of horses, swept around their heads, picked Flip up, and threw him onto the beach. He got up, shook his head, and staggered back into the water.

  It was up past the animals’ shoulders now, fast approaching their necks. All four were bucking and kicking and struggling desperately. But the ropes were strong and the canvas harnesses even stronger. Designed for hauling a lifeboat trailer, they wouldn’t break if fifty horses tried to pull them apart.

  Flip sawed and hacked, not even counting anymore, just concentrating on cutting. The fifth and sixth horses were freed and scrambled to safety. Now there were only two to go. But severing the ropes for the seventh horse took twice the time the sixth had. His arms were aching, and his fingers were turning numb. As he dragged himself forward to the eighth horse, a wave he didn’t see coming slammed him against the trailer tread. He felt an icy flash of pain in his shoulder. Before he could lift his head, a second wave pushed him under, and a third drove him up onto the beach.

  He lay on his side, almost too tired to breathe. As he watched, the heads of the last two horses vanished beneath the swell. It was only for an instant, and then they emerged again, eyes wide with fear, mouths open and gasping for air. He knew they were only minutes away from drowning.

  He looked around for the Ghost Girl, to ask for her help. But he couldn’t see her. There was no sign of her anywhere. With a sudden flash of anger, he realized she’d run off and left him yet again. If she had, that meant the only chance of survival the horses now had lay with him. Ignoring his trembling arms and legs, Flip pushed himself upright and staggered back into the waves.

  He grabbed for a rope, only to be knocked sideways by a breaker. He swallowed seawater, coughed and spat it out. He struggled forward. Another wave pushed him back, but this time he felt something behind him, holding him steady, supporting him. He looked around into two big eyes and a breath of hot air from flaring nostrils. It was Storm. With the water surging and crashing around him, the horse was supporting Flip, keeping him in place.

  It was all he needed. He reached out, wrapped his arm around the remaining ropes, and with the last of his strength, started cutting. The first rope parted. He moved to the second and began again. But his fingers were now so cold and numb he could hardly hold the knife—he kept dropp
ing it. He just didn’t have the strength to finish the job.

  He didn’t need to, though. All the time he’d been cutting, the terrified horse had been jerking and twisting its head. And it was the jerking and twisting that finally broke the partly severed rope in two. Freed at last, the final two horses swung around and struggled up onto dry land with water streaming from their flanks.

  Flip turned and scrabbled for the rope attached to Storm’s halter. Grabbing it with both hands, he managed to hang on just long enough for Storm to pull him to safety. When he let go, his head hit the sand with a thump that made his teeth rattle.

  That was when he heard a noise, coming from far away. Glancing up, he saw a stream of villagers pouring out of the dunes. And right out in front of them, running for all she was worth, was the Ghost Girl.

  WHEN FLIP WOKE up, he was lying in a wooden box. There were planks above him, beside him, and down by his feet. But he was also warm and dry, wearing pajamas and tucked up beneath a big thick quilt.

  That was when he realized where he was: in Renske’s bed, in the kitchen, at the farm.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking cups of coffee and eating apple pie, were his aunt and his uncle, Renske, and Mr. Bouten. And beside them sat the Ghost Girl and Mrs. Elberg.

  They didn’t look like they usually looked and it took him a while to work out what it was about them that was different. When he realized, he laughed.

  They were smiling.

  Both of them.

  Then the Ghost Girl looked over at him and he got another shock.

  “You’re awake,” she said.

  “You’re talking!” he said.

  “I’ve been talking for a day now!” she said.

  There was a brightness in her eyes Flip had never seen before. Even though her face was still even paler than her hair, and her eyes were as round as ever, he didn’t think she looked like the Ghost Girl anymore. She was lively. Excited. Happy. It was as if the Ghost Girl was gone, gone for good now, and in her place was … Sophie.