Her brother looked with disgust toward Gwyneth but nodded.
The contestants gently eased their mounts to the line about ten yards apart. Both horses sensed the air of excitement. Percy and Florilyn looked over and smiled at one another.
“Ready?” said Percy.
“I’m ready,” replied Florilyn.
“Courtenay,” said Percy, “why don’t you do the honors and start us off?”
“All right,” said Courtenay. “To the line then. All right. Set … go!”
The shout of his voice and Percy’s excitable kick in her flanks sent Grey Tide rearing slightly. Percy barely managed to keep his seat. By the time he had Grey Tide up to a gallop, amid frantic yelling and shouting from every side, Florilyn was twenty yards ahead and flying down the beach away from him.
He bolted after her, trying desperately to remember everything Gwyneth had taught him. He raised himself in the saddle, tried to feel Grey Tide’s side with his knees, and leaned forward and stroked her neck.
Florilyn glanced behind, hair flying, eyes on fire. A great laugh sounded. Percy saw the gleam in her eyes and couldn’t help laughing himself to see his cousin so full of joy.
Within seconds the cries and cheers from behind them were gone. The only sound remaining was of two sets of thundering hooves flying down the hard-packed sand, throwing great wet clods up behind them.
The distance to the stake and the first turn was some six hundred yards. Florilyn reached it first. As she turned Red Rhud sharply around, she was surprised to see Percy so close behind her that Grey Tide’s nose was in danger of being brushed by her rival’s out-flying tail and wicked feet. Florilyn had assumed herself pulling away. But so close was she to her twin that Grey Tide needed no guidance from Percy, mud splattering his face, to negotiate the tricky turnaround. She kept her position and spun sharply around.
They emerged from the turn with but a single length separating them. Florilyn glanced around a second time as they flew back toward the harbor, filled with the exciting terror of knowing that her cousin had learned his skills well. For the first time she realized that it would take all her prowess to keep him at bay.
By the time they were halfway back to the harbor and the shouts and yells came again into their ears, Grey Tide, her front splotched with wet sand from following so long, had drawn alongside Red Rhud’s midsection. The twin mares and rivals matched each other stride for stride, sharp short gasps of white air pulsing from their flared nostrils, hooves thudding in perfect rhythm, a hurricane of sand flying behind them.
On they came. Slowly the spectators backed away. As the riders came more clearly into view, with Florilyn’s long auburn hair flying in a tumult around her head on the bay mare beneath her, visible on the high side of the beach, with Percy on the gray toward the sea, Gwyneth and Courtenay took up positions on the finish line some twenty yards away from one another. Still no one, save those villagers lining the bluff above, could tell who was in the lead as the two riders slowly separated and made for their human turning posts.
With the yelling and cheering at a frenzy, they reached the line in a dead heat.
But Florilyn’s experience told in the turn. She wheeled Red Rhud so tightly around Courtenay where he stood that he gave the mare’s rump a swat as his sister flew back the way she had come.
Percy came in too tight to Gwyneth and could not hold the turn. This time Grey Tide had no one to follow and swung much too wide. Unable to correct his error, Percy and his mount drifted many yards past Gwyneth and toward the water line. By the time he recovered and was bearing again southward, Florilyn had widened her lead again to fifteen yards.
As he circled around to straight, Percy glanced back to where Gwyneth stood unmoved. Her face was calm, placid, serene in the midst of the roar around her.
His eyes met hers. The sounds around him ceased. Though a hundred shouting spectators were screaming and exhorting him on, Percy heard nothing.
With Grey Tide thundering beneath him, he entered a dream world … a world of silence. Out of its center, two tiny orbs of deepest blue drew him into themselves.
The lips of his tiny friend were moving. And he knew what she was saying to him. “Be one with Grey Tide … feel her rhythm … relax and let her run.”
She brought her hands together and held out her elbows as she had shown him a dozen times. Gently she rocked up and down with the fluid motion she had explained to him so often.
He had forgotten the most important principle of all—be one with the horse, let the rhythm of his body flow into hers. The movement of her arms and elbows reminded him that Grey Tide must feel nothing.
Then he saw on Gwyneth’s lips the words, “You will win. “
He glanced to the front. Suddenly his brain was again assaulted by the urgency of the race. There was Florilyn increasing her lead!
His instincts were to kick and yell and try all the harder. But Gwyneth’s words remained. He forced himself to remain calm. He leaned forward, relaxed, and felt himself beginning to rise and fall in harmony with the powerful beast beneath him.
Moving lightly and rhythmically, immediately Percy saw the gap between them begin to shrink. Grey Tide again came even with Red Rhud’s tail.
Percy had learned the lesson from his ill-fated turn around Gwyneth. He glanced ahead. The stake was some two hundred yards away and slightly up the beach from their present heading. He guided Grey Tide gently to the left then urged her alongside Red Rhud’s flank.
Florilyn glanced to her left with a grin full of competitive fire. But intent merely to keep ahead, she did not perceive Percy’s strategy until it was too late.
The two horses reached the stake side by side. This time, however, it was Percy who clung to the post. Having thoughtlessly allowed him to overtake on the inside, Florilyn was forced to swing wide.
Keeping some reserve of power for the last, Grey Tide came out of the turn and thundered for home with Percy half a length in the lead. He did not relinquish it.
To exultant cries from the watching throng, Percy crossed Stevie’s line two and a half lengths in front of his cousin.
FORTY-FIVE
The Accident
Exultant and smiling, Percy reined in and wheeled around as Gwyneth, Stevie, Eardley White, and Chandos Gwarthegydd, and half the youth population of Llanfryniog came running in jubilation to surround him with congratulatory shouts and cries. Whatever some may have thought of him two months before, he had reached exalted status now. Suddenly the young Scot, who had so recently come into their midst as a stranger, had, in a few exciting minutes, become a folk hero who had bested the daughter of the viscount.
No one was left to console Florilyn in her defeat but Courtenay and Rhawn Lorimer. And it was true that Florilyn had begun to change. It was equally true that such a beginning was admirable. Those of the village who considered her snooty and arrogant would in time come to alter their opinion.
Alas, it would not be on this day they would do so. For the demon of pride is neither easily nor permanently exorcised. As long as one remains in the flesh, it may rear its head, and violently, at a moment’s notice.
The instant Florilyn realized that Percy had stolen a march on her at the far end of the beach, grabbing the post and forcing her wide, all the former antagonism toward him surged back upon her in a wave.
Seeing the back of Grey Tide’s powerful haunches pulling away down the beach had enraged her. The pleasant banter between cousins and friends from minutes earlier vanished in the wind.
Crossing the line and realizing that she had been soundly trounced in full view of the entire community, the rage of her brother came rushing to the fore as if it were a familial curse. It possessed her with the evil spirit of anger and revenge.
By now a considerable crowd had gathered on the beach in a tumult over the exciting finish. Hardly slowing as she flew into its midst, Florilyn wheeled recklessly around. Heedless of whoever might get in her way, she powered her way toward Percy, breath
ing fire and shrieking irrational accusations. Men, women, and boys scurried from her path, for the glint in her eyes was dangerous.
A moment later, only Percy and Gwyneth remained on the sand ahead of her. Stevie was leading Grey Tide away, sweat pouring from her flanks, to calm her down.
Percy was gazing down with a tender smile of affection for his teacher. He had just thanked her for the reminder at the halfway point.
Florilyn saw the look that passed between them and apprehended all. The treachery against her had been Gwyneth’s doing!
She flew toward them in a white fury. “You little urchin!” she cried. “What business is it of yours to interfere?”
Startled and shocked, Percy leaped aside.
Thinking Percy in danger, and for once in a position to help him, Gwyneth stepped in front of the horse’s path. What had she to fear? All the horses at the manor were her friends. She stood calmly then lifted her hand to the charging animal. “Hello, Red Rhud,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s your friend, Gwyneth. You don’t need to be afraid.”
Seeing the tiny girl in its path, the horse reared. Florilyn screamed and pulled back on the reins. She managed to keep herself in the saddle, but not without a frantic rearing and pawing and whinnying from the excitable and terrified horse.
When Florilyn found herself again secure on Red Rhud’s back, Gwyneth lay unconscious on the sand, blood dripping down the side of her forehead onto her cheek where one of the flailing hooves had grazed her above the ear. Staring down at what she had done, Florilyn’s eyes widened in shock.
Percy came yelling toward her and pulled her from the horse in a rage. She hardly heard a word of the dreadful things he screamed in her face. He could only be kept from hitting her by Courtenay hurrying forward and pulling him away.
Meanwhile, Stevie rushed in, scooped Gwyneth into his arms, and ran for Grannie’s cottage. She would know best what was to be done.
FORTY-SIX
Grannie’s Cottage
The crowd, so recently jubilant, was dead silent. No sound was heard as they watched Stevie bear the limp form in his arms, the white-haired head drooped bleeding over his elbow.
When Percy came to himself in a cold sweat, tears streaming from his eyes, the crowd was slowly moving away from the scene. Courtenay had had the presence of mind to secure both horses and was leading them away with Florilyn clinging to him like a child.
Percy staggered away to Grannie’s. Stevie was already inside when he arrived. Gwyneth lay on Grannie’s bed and was being tended by the only hands in the village to which the imperative ministration of love would be added to whatever physical succor they could provide. Someone had gone to the doctor’s, but he was away and his wife did not expect him till after tea that evening. Someone had also run to the mine to find the girl’s father.
The crowd slowly and silently followed through the streets, with many quiet murmurings and shaking of heads and clicking of tongues. None dared venture too close, though the cluster of curious onlookers gradually filled the lanes nearest Grannie’s.
A pall set in over the entire village. Talk gradually resumed. Much quiet conversation hinted that something like this had been bound to happen to the girl because of her peculiar ways. No good came to those who dabbled in witchcraft.
On the other side were abundant speculations on the part of those who said that the viscount’s two offspring had never been any good and that this was the inevitable result. Would his daughter hang? wondered not a few. Not with Styles Lorimer as magistrate, shook the heads of others. As everyone knew, he and the viscount cared more about their reputations than the law.
Eventually even Courtenay and Rhawn, with Florilyn stumbling between them in a daze, followed, though the talk about their fathers did not come within their hearing. They did their best to keep Courtenay’s disconsolate sister from breaking down altogether. As they passed, the crowd parted noiselessly. Whatever may have been little Gwyneth’s acquaintance with the forces of evil, there were a hundred eyewitnesses to what Florilyn had done. She was suddenly a pariah in their midst. They backed away with looks of revulsion, as if she were a leper.
In truth, it is doubtful that Florilyn meant to harm anyone. She was full of mischief and petty jealousies. But she was not an evil girl, only an immature and feisty one. It now remained to be determined what her outburst of temper was capable of making of her.
After some time, Grannie had Gwyneth comfortable and was wiping her face with a wet cloth. The wound was bandaged and the bleeding stopped. Grannie was speaking and singing softly to her with unintelligible words. Percy and Stevie sat at the bedside.
The time since the accident had calmed Percy from his fierce explosion on the beach. With Gwyneth’s life hanging by a thread, in a vicarious sense, sixteen-year-old Percival Drummond’s brief existence had also passed before the inner eyes of his soul. In the short time that had elapsed, he had grown still inside. Inexplicably, again the image of his father rose before his mind’s eye. He knew his father’s profession often required him to sit as he was sitting now, beside bedsides where death approached.
How did his father handle it? What did he say? What did he do?
Percy knew the answer. His father would pray. His father would speak to the grieving loved ones about God’s fatherhood, about God’s goodness, telling them that God’s love covered all, even those things they could not understand. One of his favorite sayings was, “God is immeasurably more the lover of our loved ones than we are. And because He is their Father, He sometimes takes one of His children into His heart before we think it is time.”
Some impulse caused Percy to glance toward the door where it stood open to the street.
There stood Florilyn in the light of the doorway. A look of abject horror was on her face. Tears stained her pale cheeks. As if in a trance, she slowly stumbled into the darkened cottage where none of the other villagers would have dared venture.
At the sight of her eyes, again rose the image of his father in Percy’s mind. His father not only spoke of God’s love, God’s fatherhood, God’s goodness, but he spoke of God’s forgiveness and healing. He was always talking about reconciliation, between mankind and God, between friends, between parents and children. Reconciliation and healing—they were his father’s constant themes. “If God’s forgiveness is total,” he had heard his father say, “can our forgiveness toward one another be less?”
In the second or two that passed as Percy stared into Florilyn’s forlorn, desperate, tormented eyes, he knew that this was a moment for the healing and forgiveness his father spoke of. He knew exactly what his father would do at such a time. It was a moment to let the fatherhood of God bathe the wounds of a broken humanity with the balm of its forgiving love. Slowly he rose.
“Percy,” whimpered Florilyn like a lost child, beginning to crumble. “I am so sorry … I didn’t mean—” She began to collapse.
Percy hurried to her as she fell into his arms. She burst into sobs of bitter remorse. Percy held her tight, and she wept like a baby.
FORTY-SEVEN
The Vigil
Codnor Barrie arrived an hour later.
By then, much of the crowd had returned to their homes. Percy went outside to see if Courtenay was anywhere about. Finding him, he asked him to bring a buggy from the manor for his sister. She was resting, he said, but he doubted she would be able to walk further than to the cottage door.
Barrie went back to his home to get a few things then returned to spend the night on Grannie’s floor. Stevie also returned home. The way was considerably longer and the dusk was well advanced by the time he again walked into Grannie’s where he also intended to remain for the night.
It was nearly dark by the time Percy and Florilyn were again at last in their beds at Westbrooke Manor.
Percy slept but fitfully and was on his way back to the village the next morning shortly after dawn. He arrived at Grannie’s cottage to find no change.
Under the circumstances, it
was the best news they could hope for.
Florilyn did not leave her room for three days.
Dr. Rotherham examined Gwyneth and said that there was not much he could do for her beyond wait. He did not exactly couch it in such words, but the gist of his report to Codnor Barrie was essentially that his daughter would eventually wake up in the presence of her earthly father or her heavenly Father. No one at this point could tell which.
The bedside vigil of the small praying family continued.
On the fourth day, eyes drawn in spite of so much sleep, Florilyn accompanied Percy to Llanfryniog. She had hardly eaten since the race. Her cheeks were sunken, her whole face haggard and pale. The others received her kindly. Like true Christians, they knew that Florilyn’s suffering was even greater than their own. Their compassion went out to her, and they took the suffering, foolish, immature girl to their hearts. When Codnor Barrie took her in his arms and stroked her hair as if she were his own daughter, Florilyn wept great tears of cleansing such as had never flowed from her eyes all the days of her life.
Thereafter, Florilyn insisted on sitting as much as she could at Gwyneth’s side with the tiny white limp hand resting in hers. On and off she wept. At first her tears rose out of the well of her own guilt. As time went on, however, they became tears of repentance. The change may not seem like much to those who understand neither guilt nor repentance. But there is all the difference in the world in the eyes of Him who would have people’s tears turn them to Him, that they might grow into His humble sons and daughters.
In a strange way, being at Gwyneth’s side gave Florilyn hope. She began to eat and drink and regain her strength.
Then came a day when Percy could think of nothing but that he was soon scheduled to leave on the northbound coach. All day he and Florilyn took turns at Gwyneth’s side, helping Grannie with tea and food for the small band, for Gwyneth’s father and Stevie remained with them when not at their work.
A few of the more stouthearted and compassionate villagers began coming by, reminded of old friendship and at last laying aside foolish aversions. They remembered how Gwyneth always returned good for evil and how often Grannie had come to the aid of one or another in time of sickness. Some of these, as women do, brought food. Before many days, there was more on hand than would have been needed to feed twenty people.
From Across the Ancient Waters Page 24