White Horse Talisman (13 page)

C
HAPTER
N
INE
A D
ASTARDLY
D
EED

Holly, Owen, and Adam exchanged swift glances.

“It's an odd story, sir,” Owen said.

“And we can't tell you everything, because Chantel's not here,” Holly added.

“Tell me what you can,” said Mr. Smythe. “We've been friends since you were little tykes. Shared a lot of secrets.”

“It began with Chantel,” Owen said slowly. “We went to see her in the hospital. She showed us the talisman.”

“Who gave it to her?” Mr. Smythe interjected.

Owen shrugged and spread his hands. “It was tucked in her hand when she came round from the anesthetic.”

“Like a lucky charm,” Holly added.

“But she woke up remembering a dream …” Owen con–tinued. He paused, searching for the right words.

Adam held his breath. Surely Owen wasn't going to tell about the White Horse.

“… that the talisman should be taken to Wayland's Smithy,” Owen finished.

“So we did,” Holly added.

Adam let out his breath. Owen and Holly were smart. They'd told nothing but the truth.

There was a long silence.

“Wayland's Smithy, eh?” Mr. Smythe grunted.

The three children nodded.

“And a coin-like talisman?”

The children nodded again.

Mr. Smythe fixed them with another steely glance. “You kids mixed up with horse magic?”

To his horror Adam started to laugh. He couldn't stop. It was all so ridiculous. The nervous laughter burst out of him and rang around the kitchen. “Horse magic … is everyone in England nuts?” he sputtered.

No one smiled.

Owen kicked his ankle. “Shut up,” he hissed.

Holly ignored them both.

Mr. Smythe stood up, walked over to the fridge and pulled out four cans of ginger beer. He offered one to Adam, then the others.

Adam grabbed it thankfully, opened the tab and took a long drink. He gave a small hiccup.

“Horse magic,” mused Mr. Smythe, pouring his soda into a glass. “It's always been practiced in these parts.” He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Of course, no one calls it that. The English government pays the National Trust to look after White Horse Hill. Scholars study the carving and discuss how it was made and used. Archeologists verify its age by ‘optical dating.' But the local people do what they've always done — the ancient tradition of ‘scouring' or cleaning the horse every seventh year. Interesting, eh?”

He took a drink from his glass. “Horses flourish in these vales. Ever wonder why?”

“Because of good grazing?” Holly offered.

“There are other good grazing areas in England,” Mr.

Smythe pointed out. “But this place has always been known for its racehorses. For thousands of years vale people have bred horses that are fleet of foot.”

Mr. Smythe placed his ginger beer on the table and wan–dered over to a pile of books. He pulled one out, riffled through to the pages he wanted and passed the book to Adam.

Adam held it so Owen and Holly could see.

“St. George and the Dragon,” Mr. Smythe said. “An old story from the vale.”

“From Dragon Hill,” Holly agreed.

“What's St. George riding?” Mr. Smythe asked Adam.

“A … a … white horse,” Adam stammered, looking at the picture with new eyes.

“Exactly.” Mr. Smythe jabbed the picture. “The horse, not St. George, fought the dragon. The monks added the saint to the story later.”

Adam sucked in his breath.

Mr. Smythe swung round to Holly. “Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross … Finish the rhyme.”

“To see a fine lady upon a white horse,” Holly chanted, then stopped. “A white horse? That's horse magic too?”

Mr. Smythe sat down again, leaned back once again and stared upward. “Adults forget or ignore magical rhymes. But kids
They're different.” He seemed to be speaking to himself. “They have open minds. If I was the Great White Horse and wanted to make my presence known, I'd talk to a kid.”

The three children stared at the floor.

“What about the dragon?” asked Adam eventually. “Why did the horse fight it?”

Holly and Owen looked at him curiously.

“Ah, the English dragons, sometimes referred to as worms. ‘Worm Hill' and ‘Wormley' are places where dragons lived.” Mr. Smythe shook his head. “Dragons are nasty.” He laughed. “Watch out for dragon talk. They twist words with a touch of honey to make them sound sweet!”

Adam squirmed. “Chinese dragons are lucky,” he said. “The Chinese zodiac has a Year of the Dragon. We celebrate it in Canada. Last February, Chantel and I went to Chinese New Year in Edmonton. There was a big party in Chinatown with a dragon dance. It's lucky to be touched by the dragon, and it touched me and Chantel.” He thought for a minute. “The Chinese people have a Year of the Horse too.”

“The same symbols crop up in different cultures around the world,” agreed Mr. Smythe, “but they are used in different ways. In England, the dragon is feared and not to be trusted.”

Adam shifted on his chair.

Mr. Smythe continued, “Our dragon symbolizes things like hatred, fear, jealousy, and the dark side of human nature.

During the last war, people said ‘the dragon's stirring.'” He shrugged. “Maybe it was. In the stories, the dragon symbol–izes evil and the White Horse symbolizes good.”

“We've got to go,” said Owen. “It's getting late. Thanks for the ginger beer.” He stood up and put the pile of papers back on the seat of his chair.

Holly did the same, then paused for a moment. “Mr.

Smythe,” she said, “we can't say more right now, but can we come back?”

“Of course.“ Mr. Smythe escorted them to the back door.

“Look after the talisman.”

Holly patted her pocket.

He opened the door and they stepped out into the twilight.

“Don't mess with dragons,” Mr. Smythe called after them. “But if one turns up, a personal sacrifice will give you power over it.”

“What did he mean?” asked Adam after they'd waved a subdued goodbye and retraced their steps around the side of the house.

“Dunno. You tell us. You're the one who was asking about dragons,” said Owen.

Adam lapsed into guilty silence again.

“Let's bring Chantel over tomorrow and tell Mr. Smythe everything
,
” said Holly. “'Specially now that we know about the Tysoe horses. He'll help us find them. I know he will.”

“The magpies were right,” pondered Owen. “Five for silver. Mr. Smythe's book was in a silver box.”

“Six for gold is next.” Holly gave a little skip. “Maybe we'll find gold treasure and be rich, rich, rich!”

“Rich enough to fly to Disneyland,” Owen fantasized.

“Rich enough to buy Disneyland,” Adam countered.

They burst out laughing and walked back to the farm warbling, “When you wish upon a star …”

Chantel was practicing on crutches. The evening was quiet and the hospital corridors free of traffic. All of a sudden she got the hang of it. She swung her cast and let the momentum move her body forward. Grinning, she flew down the corridor, bumping into a nurse who turned the corner unexpectedly.

CCC

“Goodness, Chantel. You've learned to move in a hurry. Be careful or you'll fall and be back in bed instead of going home tomorrow.”

Chantel laughed and started back to her room.

“Bedtime,” warned the nurse. “I'll be up with your last dose of medication when I've finished the patients at this end.”

Chantel placed her crutches against her chair and eased herself into bed. She smiled. She was mobile again.

“Here you are.” The nurse stuck two pills and a glass of water under Chantel's nose. Chantel swallowed, grimacing at the taste.

The nurse tucked her in. “Enjoy a good night's sleep and you'll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow. You're do–ing well, but another dull night in hospital won't hurt.” She clicked off the overhead light and bustled out.

Chantel smiled. Dull nights? If the nurse only knew. She made herself comfortable, and closed her eyes.

CCC

Horse, are you there?

I'm here, child. Are you ready?

I'm ready. What are you going to show me this time?

Chantel wound her fingers through the silky mane, and sat confidently astride the Horse King's powerful back.

The last great celebration held on White Horse Hill. A
fair called the Pastime held during my scouring.

What's a scouring?

When the villagers clean my carving so I shine for an
–
other seven years.

How long ago did this happen, Horse?

Time is different in my world. To me it is the blink of an
eye. In your counting, the days of your great-grandparents'
grandparents.

Chantel tried to work it out in years but failed. She gasped as the White Horse leapt for the stars. They sped through the evening, riding the warm summer breeze.

I need your help, little one. Our leap into the past will take
all my magic, for I too will be seeing this for the first time.

What do you mean?
asked Chantel.

The night before the Pastime, the red mare and I rode
the wind together. Then she left for her scouring, and I for
mine. Our bodies and the carving are one and the same
during the scouring ceremony.

After I was cleaned, I rose again and rode the wind as
usual, but the red mare never joined me. I never saw her
again. Our time and your time are different. When I next
came to her valley, many of your years had passed and the
land had changed. I recognized nothing. I searched but there
was no Magic Child to help. Now you have arrived. I will
blend our magic together so we can both watch the Pastime
and learn what happened.

What is my magic? What do I have to do?
Chantel asked.

Just believe in me with all your heart.

I do
. Chantel leaned forward and stroked his neck.
Oh
horse, I do
. She sent a stream of love towards him.

They left the night far behind, and landed in brilliant sunshine beside the Ridgeway.

Watch, child. See through the eyes of Thomas, your
ancestor.

CCC

Thomas Maxwell jiggled on the seat of the pony trap. His mother sighed and their groom stared straight ahead.

The day was hot and the Ridgeway crowded. People, horses, donkeys, and every kind of hand-pulled or horse-drawn vehicle were jammed together. The progress was slow … oh so slow … as they wound towards the giant earthworks at the top of White Horse Hill.

“Please hurry up. We'll miss the best part of the Pastime,” Thomas fretted. He was hot and uncomfortable. He looked around for his Uffington friends, but there were too many people. Then he spotted Joe running through the crowds. He waved, but Joe didn't see him. Thomas sank back, wish–ing his mother would let him run on his own.

“This pony trap has the speed of a slug,” he grumbled. De–spite the tightness of his Sunday-best breeches, Thomas leapt off the carriage and ran alongside. He reached the pony and gave its rear a swat with the willow switch he was carrying.

“Nay, Master Thomas,” said the groom “'Tis no use wor–riting the pony. The Ridgeway be fair choked with convey–ances. We'd go no faster with a whole team of horses.”

Thomas's shoulders slumped. This was the first year he'd been allowed to attend the Pastime, and they were going to miss all the best parts.

He walked beside the slow-moving carriage. “But I don't want to miss the jugglers, and the fire eater, and I want to buy one of Granny Bates' pies. They're the best. Everyone says so.”

The groom laughed. “There be plenty of pies, and pig's ears, and cheese and ale. Thou will never starve, Master Thomas, as long as thy pockets be well lined.”

Thomas drew a silver sixpence from his pocket and held it up proudly. “Look what Grandfather gave me.”

“Thomas, put it away,” said his mother sharply. “Pick–pockets wander the crowds, not just jugglers and fire eaters.”

She rearranged her shawl around her shoulders.

The carriage lurched to a stop.

“Whatever's the matter now?” moaned Thomas's mother.

“There be a cart stuck in yon rut. No one will be passing till she be shifted.” The groom left the carriage and went off to help.

Thomas's mother gave a deep sigh, closed her eyes and tilted her parasol to shade her face.

Thomas looked around. There was Joe again, with some friends. He took advantage of his mother's closed eyes to slip across the Ridgeway. He tugged Joe's sleeve. “What you doing, Joe?”