White Horse Talisman (17 page)

Auntie Lynne followed everyone into the kitchen. “If you kids are happy entertaining Chantel, I'll catch up on the ac– counts. Call if you need anything.” She drifted upstairs.

Everyone waited until her footsteps were heard overhead, then started talking at once.

“I had another dream,” said Chantel.

“Wait till you hear what happened to me,” Holly said.

“Last night was amazing,” said Owen.

“We had a fight with a dragon,” said Adam.

“Stop!” yelled Chantel, and put her hands over her ears.

Everyone laughed.

Holly dropped her voice. “We shouldn't talk here. Mum and Dad might hear.”

“Let's go to the stable,” suggested Owen.

“Mr. O'Reilly's there. Let's take Chantel to meet Mr. Smythe. He needs to hear everything anyway,” said Holly.

Chantel pulled a face. “We're telling an adult?”

“He's helping us,” Holly explained. “He knows about horse magic. And he knows about the lost red horses.”

Chantel sat up sharply. “He does? Mr. Smythe knows where to find the red mare?”

“Yes,” chorused three voices.

“Let's go.” Chantel reached for her crutches.

“We'll phone first. He might be busy.” Owen picked up the mobile phone and wandered out into the sunshine, dial–ing. Holly ran after him, leaving Chantel and Adam alone.

CCC

“Er … I'm glad you're home,” Adam said, not meeting her eyes.

Chantel beamed. “Really?”

Adam flushed but nodded.

Chantel waved a crutch. “You can try these if you like.

They're fun.”

Adam gave a strained smile. “Mom and Dad phoned you, didn't they?” he said.

“Yes … I don't remember much. My head hurt.”

Adam chose his words carefully. “So you don't remember how they were?”

“You mean, if they were fighting again?” said Chantel sadly.

“You know about the fighting?” Adam asked, astonished.

“I'm not a baby. 'Course I know.” Chantel's lip trembled.

“No one wants me around. They're too busy fighting and you're too mad at everything. So sure I know.” Her face sof–tened. “But I've a friend here. The White Horse wants me.”

“Hey, I'm your brother!”

“But you're always mad at me.”

Adam shrugged and looked ashamed. “Because you're the youngest and never in trouble. Mom and Dad like you best.”

“They don't.” Chantel's eyes flashed. “They like you best because you're a boy and the oldest. You get to do everything and I'm always left out.”

Brother and sister glared at each other.

“Will they get a divorce?” Chantel suddenly asked.

“They might,” said Adam.

“What will happen to us?” Chantel's eyes watered.

Adam shrugged. “Live with Mom and visit Dad at week–ends, I guess. That's what my friend Jason does.”

Chantel's face was white. She seemed tiny and frail.

“No matter what happens to Mom and Dad, we're still together,” Adam said awkwardly.

Chantel struggled to smile. “Okay.”

A Land Rover drew up in front of White Horse Farm, driven by Mr. Smythe. He stowed Chantel in the front seat beside a pile of old books. Owen, Holly, and Adam scrambled into the back.

CCC

“It's a beautiful day.” Mr. Smythe rubbed his hands to–gether. “We'll start at the White Horse. Seems a good place to listen to your story.” He circled the farmyard, saluting Uncle Ron as they passed the barn.

“The White Horse will like that,” said Chantel softly.

They drove sedately through the village and roared up the lane past Dragon Hill.

“Dragon Hill is so close in a car,” whispered Holly. “It seemed miles away last night.”

Mr. Smythe parked at the viewpoint, and they all got out of the car. The carving of the White Horse flowed away from them over the curve of the hill, but its face and eye could clearly be seen staring up at the sky. The blackened top of Dragon Hill stared up from the valley below.

Mr. Smythe gestured towards it. “I suppose you lot had something to do with that,” he commented.

Holly, Adam, and Owen looked uncomfortable.

“It wasn't our fault. Promise not to tell,” begged Holly.

“A good officer never jumps to conclusions until he's heard the full account,” Mr. Smythe hedged. He set up a folding chair for Chantel.

Everyone else sprawled on the warm grass.

Owen stared at the carved face. “The horse seems differ–ent, more alive. Does it see and hear everything, Chantel?”

Chantel thought for a moment. “I wouldn't say anything nasty about him.” She grinned. “He'd hear that for sure.”

Everyone started talking at once.

“One at a time, one at a time,” Mr. Smythe protested. “It's too complicated to work out unless I hear one story at a time. Who's first?”

“Chantel,” the older cousins chorused.

“Fine.” Mr. Smythe settled himself on his back with a grass blade in his mouth.

Once more Chantel told her story.

Next, Adam explained about the talisman, the dragon dream, and Wayland's Smithy. This time he told the whole truth.

Everyone listened intently.

“So that's how you knew what had happened to Holly when she disappeared from her bed,” commented Owen.

Finally Holly told about the uproar on Dragon Hill, how Owen had distracted the dragon, Adam had suggested sacrificing the talisman, and the White Horse had come to their rescue.

“So … what do you think, Mr. Smythe?” asked Owen.

“Weird, isn't it? But you do believe us, don't you?”

The four children gazed anxiously at the historian.

“I'm envious,” Mr. Smythe said slowly. “I wish I had the eyes and mind of a child to enjoy such a brilliant ad–venture.”

“Er … is that a yes or no, sir?” Adam prompted.

Mr. Smythe spread his hands. “So help me, I'm a trained historian. Historians demand proof.” He pointed to Dragon Hill. “There's proof someone was fooling around with fire, but it doesn't prove the events of your exciting night.”

The children's shoulders slumped.

“I've seen the talisman,” continued Mr. Smythe. “Most intriguing, but tests and research can't prove magic.” He shrugged. “Pity it's gone.”

He gestured towards the Ridgeway. “I've walked to Way–land's Smithy many times. But Wayland has never spoken to me.” He patted Chantel's hand. “Both of Chantel's dreams described many things I knew and much I didn't. Most facts will be impossible to check.” He gazed around at the disappointed faces. “Proof of your dreams and adventures is impossible … but … I believe you,” he finished.

“Hooray,” shouted Holly and Owen.

“Yes!” said Adam.

Chantel beamed. “Then I'll tell you about my last dream.”

“You've had another? You didn't say.” Adam huffed. “How come?”

“You were so full of the dragon adventure. Besides …” Ch–antel hesitated and gave an apologetic glance at Mr. Smythe. “I wanted to meet Mr. Smythe before I said anything.” Her voice dropped. “I don't want you to think I've still got con–cussion and should go back to the hospital.”

“I certainly don't think that, young lady,” Mr. Smythe reassured her. “Whatever else your dreams are, they are not nonsense.” He lay on his back again. “Fire away.”

Chantel dropped her hand and stirred the grass blades beside her chair. “I'm glad you brought us here so we could see the White Horse carving,” she said softly. “The horse brought me here for what he called a ‘scouring.'” She looked across at Mr. Smythe.

“Yes, that's the right word,” he agreed. “It means scrub–bing or cleaning.”

“Like scouring a frying pan after breakfast,” said Owen.

“Exactly,” Mr. Smythe agreed. “The carving is scrubbed clean of weeds. Do you know how often it happened?” he asked Chantel.

“Every seven years,” she answered.

Mr. Smythe looked impressed.

Chantel described the Pastime Festival and how it was brought to a halt with the announcement from the Eye Maker.

“After we'd learned that the red mare had been ploughed under, the White Horse said, ‘You are the Magic Child. You will raise her for me. You will make Thomas's wish come true.' Then he said something I didn't understand
” Chantel closed her eyes in an effort to remember. “‘The others will help. You have all the information you need. The blacksmith will also assist.'” Chantel opened her eyes and shrugged help–lessly. “Do we have to go back to Wayland?”

“He means me,” said Mr. Smythe softly. “I had an early ancestor who was a blacksmith.” He gave a huge grin. “Eve–rything is linked.”

Owen punched the air with delight and grinned at the others. “Told you!”

“That's not all,” continued Mr. Smythe. “Lord Craven-Smythe was my relative, like Thomas is yours. My family stopped using the title and the Craven name when I was a youngster and the money ran out. Not much point being known as a lord when you can't live like one.”

“You're a lord … Wow! Do you know the queen?” said Adam, his voice full of awe.

Mr. Smythe laughed. “I've met her, but what about your links to royalty?”

Adam's eyes bulged. “Ours?”

Mr. Smythe sat up and waved his hand at the valley spread below. “You children are a part of this area. Generations of your families have lived here. King Alfred was born here. So were Alin and Thomas. I suspect that, like many people in White Horse Vale, your family tree would show links to all three of them. That might be why the White Horse could show Chantel those episodes of the past.”

“So even though we were born in Canada, we might be related to King Alfred. That's wild,” said Adam. He looked sideways at Owen and smirked.

Owen tossed a handful of grass at him. “If you're related, so are we.”

Holly and Chantel laughed at each other, eyes shining.

Mr. Smythe rose creakily to his feet and brushed the grass from his pants. “Come on. Chop, chop! What are we waiting for?”

“Where are we going?” asked Adam.

“To Tysoe, to find the red horse. Where else?” said Mr. Smythe as he flung open the doors of the Land Rover. “We'll eat our sandwiches in the car to save time on the way.”

“Just a minute. I've something to show you,” said Chantel.

She reached in her pocket and held out her hand. The piece of talisman glinted in the sunshine. “It was on my pillow when I woke this morning. We still need it for when we find the other half.”

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE
S
IX FOR
G
OLD

The grassy downs flashed past and gave way to wooded hill–sides. The Land Rover bucketed up and down the country lanes, slowing to pass through small villages. Several times it darted through leafy green tunnels and burst out into glori–ous sunshine on the crest of a hill, another valley opening out before them.

“Nearly there,” Mr. Smythe called as they entered a series of steep zigzag turns that dropped them towards a small hamlet.

Owen clutched the back of the seat and yelled, “Stop!”

With a shriek of brakes the Land Rover skidded to a halt.

“What in heaven's name …?” Mr. Smythe's voice trailed off as Owen pointed to an overgrown sign at the side of the lane.

“YOU ARE NOW ENT THE VA OF RE HORSE,” the sign read.

Owen leapt out of the car and pulled away tendrils of ivy. The sign was cracked and peeling but the message clear: “YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE VALE OF THE RED HORSE.”

“There really is such a place,” Holly said.

“Well spotted, Owen.” Mr. Smythe gave a thumbs up. “That was almost worth giving me a heart attack.”

Owen climbed back in and snapped on his seat belt. “Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to startle you. But it is a good find, isn't it?”