Alchemist's Apprentice (13 page)

But from where? And how far? For a few minutes Jack stood and looked around him in confusion, but at last he began to think more clearly and made the simple decision to walk straight into the wind. It was colder than ever now and he noticed that it bore a few frosty flecks of snow which stung his eyes and cheeks. The smell did not come consistently and at times he thought he must have imagined it. But it always came again, carried on the softer little gusts, and then it didn't need to any more. On the other side of a nearby rise in the ground was a dark, rushy mire and on the nearest edge of it was the huge, round form of Jenny's work-horse, Bessie. She whickered nervously to Jack as he appeared in her vision, as though she were relieved to see someone coming, and she stood quite still as he walked up to her. She even dropped her head to let him slip the rope around her neck. But of the Arab colt, there was no sign.

‘Did someone find him, Bessie?' said Jack. ‘Did they take him away and leave you here on your own?'

The mare nudged him anxiously with her nose, nearly knocking him down, and making him drop his last, grimy crust. He picked it up and broke off a piece for her. She took it and mumbled it around in her mouth but dropped it again, all green and slobbered. Jack didn't mind. He was delighted to have found her. Fancy houses and Dukes' daughters were for other kinds of people. Bessie suited Jack just fine. What-ever else happened, he was sure to get a meal and a night out of the snow.

‘Come on, lady. We'd better get you home before it's too dark. Do you know the way?' He turned and pulled on the rope but the mare didn't follow. Instead she let out a shrill whinny that rang out across the heath and almost deafened Jack. He was about to protest when he heard a reply, short and feeble, more of a grunt than a whinny.

He was there; Jack saw him, or what little of him there was to be seen. He was not more than a few yards away, but it was no surprise that Jack hadn't noticed him before. The whole of his hind end was submerged in the mire. Only his head and shoulders were above it. The grass and rushes around his forelegs had been scrabbled into a muddy slush, but the ground must have been firmer there for he was still clinging on.

Jack stared, stunned by having found the colt and by the danger he was in, but most of all by the sheer beauty of the animal. He was wet, muddy, and clearly exhausted, but even so the clean lines of that noble head, the small ears, the soft, inward arch of his nose filled Jack with awe. He had never seen anything like it before.

‘Bessie,' he whispered, ‘we have to get him out.' It was nothing to do with marriages or fine houses; nothing to do with reward of any kind. All Jack knew was that a creature as beautiful as that could not be allowed to perish.

But he couldn't do it alone. Even if he could get a rope around the colt's neck, he would have no chance of pulling him out. He had to get help. More urgently this time he tugged at Bessie, but still she refused to follow. “With a speed and dexterity that would have amazed Tom, Jack knotted the rope into a halter around the mare's head and, grabbing a handful of her coarse mane, pulled and wriggled his way up on to her broad back, dropping his bread again, leaving it for the crows. In quiet desperation he kicked, then hammered with his heels at the taut drum of Bessie's ribcage. Nothing would induce her to move. She was not going to abandon her young sweetheart and Jack was powerless to change her mind. He threw himself off her back and landed running, heading back the way he had come. He had taken no bearings during the day, but instinct came to his aid and he found that he could remember the shapes of the hills and hollows and the character of paths he had trodden before. He ran without stopping until he was out of breath and then he ran without it. His lungs hurt, his legs were like lead but he was going to make it. He had to.

M
RS KEITHLY, JENNY'S MOTHER,
was shutting the hen-house door in the last gloom of dusk when Jack came hurtling down the steep hillside, lost his footing and landed in a heap on the roof of the pig-sty. He was so exhausted that he couldn't move, and she had to call her husband to carry him into the house.

‘What happened to you, lad?' he asked, but Jack hadn't the breath to reply. It was some minutes before he was able to speak and then, with the whole family gathered around him, he gasped out the story.

‘And how did you know Bessie's name and who she belonged to?' said Mr Keithly.

Jack looked guiltily at Jenny, who turned towards the corner with a shy smile. Her father registered it, but decided it was not worth pursuing.

‘Will the colt last until morning?' he asked.

‘I don't know. I don't think so.'

‘Then we'd best act. Can you find the way back?'

Jack remembered the colt's fine, delicate head and the quiet patience of his suffering. ‘I think so,' he said. ‘I'll have to. We have to get him out.'

The rescue party was blessed with a clear night and an early-rising moon which was just waning from the full. Mr Keithly walked in front, leading the weary Jack on a spritely little grey pony, sure-footed as a goat on the narrow paths. Behind them came two of Jenny's brothers with a second pony laden with creaking baskets which held the tackle that would be needed to pull the colt out. This time Jack was sure of the way, even in the dark, and was able to bypass some of his earlier meanderings and take a more direct line. Even so it seemed to take forever. The young Keithlys chattered to each other in excitement for the first mile or two, then fell into the same dogged silence as their father. The moon rose higher, and Jack could sense Hermes reposing in the shadows it cast behind hills and hummocks, watching with a crafty smile. There was no knowing what he planned for them that night.

Although the snow was still little more than a threat, they were all chilled to the bone by the time Bessie heard them coming and called out a welcome. The grey pony recognised her voice and replied with a piercing whinny. To Jack's delight there was a third call, short and frail, but proof that the colt was alive.

The farmer and his two sons stood beside their mare and looked out into the bog. Jack felt proud to be with them and wondered whether his own brothers might have been a little like these boys, had they lived. ‘There he is, see?' he said, pointing. ‘Isn't he beautiful?' The colt was no further enmired than when Jack had last seen him, but the farmer's face was grave as he assessed the situation.

‘It's not going to be easy,' he said. ‘Not easy at all.'

He thought for a moment more, then turned to the pack pony and took something out of one of the baskets. It was a roller, a broad band of heavy leather fitted with a variety of rings and buckles, designed for breaking young horses. He handed it to Jack.

‘You're going to have to do this now, lad,' he said. ‘You're the lightest of us, and in any case, it's your business, not ours.'

Jack slipped down from the pony and Keithly handed him the roller. ‘I don't know if it'll be possible, but you'll have to try.' As he spoke he was busy with a coil of strong rope, working the loose end free. ‘This is for you, not the horse.' He tied it tightly around Jack's chest, under the armpits. ‘So we can get you out if you start to go under. You've no idea how hard these bogs can pull once they get hold of you.'

Jack shuddered, remembering the sucking on his feet. He might have had a narrow escape already.

‘What you have to do,' the farmer was saying, ‘is try and get that roller round the colt's middle. There's no other way to get him out. If we try and pull him out by his head we'll only break his neck. So you'll have to try and dig under him, like. Do you understand?'

Jack understood, but he wasn't sure that he could carry it out. The colt's withers were above the surface of the bog, but his chest was far beneath it. Somehow he would have to get the roller down under him and pull it through to the other side to buckle it. From where he was standing it looked impossible.

‘Off you go, then. No use waiting around.'

Jack began to walk forward, but Keithly pulled on the rope to stop him.

‘On your belly, lad! Otherwise you'll just go straight under. Lie down and slither across. Spread the weight.'

Reluctantly, Jack did as he was advised. Immediately the freezing damp of the marsh soaked into his clothes and chilled the marrow in his bones. But a moment later he had forgotten about it, so hard was he concentrating on the work ahead of him. His worst fear, he realised, was that when he got close the horse would panic and struggle, sinking himself further; entirely, perhaps. As though the farmer knew what he was thinking, he called out from the bank. ‘Quietly, Jack. Talk to him. You must always talk to a horse.'

No one had ever told him that before, but Jack realised that he knew it to be true. The best horsemen he had seen in the streets of London had always been talking to their animals, coaxing and approving and encouraging. The moonlight caught the bright black eye of the colt, turned towards him as he crawled spreadeagled. He stopped. He had peat in his mouth. He didn't know what to say.

‘Shall I put Bessie's collar on?' asked one of Keithly's sons.

‘Not until she has something to pull,' his father replied.

Jack found his tongue. ‘You're a great lad,' he said softly. ‘You're the finest horse I've ever seen and I'm not going to let you die, you hear?' He edged forward as he spoke, elbows and knees squelching on the treacherous surface. ‘Don't you be afraid, now. It's only Jack. I'm a runaway, too, like you. But this isn't freedom that you've found, is it?' He hardly knew what he was saying, but he was getting closer. The horse surveyed him impassively, as though he knew that neither of them had much choice in the matter. ‘Don't be scared, now. Whatever happens next it has to be better than this, doesn't it?'

Jack's limbs were sinking deeper. The last few yards were like swimming through icy porridge. It took tremendous effort, but no matter how hard he was panting, he still spoke to the horse. ‘Nearly there, now … stay quiet … beautiful boy … nearly there.' His hand made contact with the colt's neck. He felt hard muscle beneath the matted coat. ‘Have you out of here … in no time …'

‘Well done, Jack,' called Keithly. ‘Take your time now. Quietly does it.'

Jack planted the roller on the colt's withers where they emerged from the sludge. The colt shook his head and clawed at the mud with his forelegs until he realised that it was still as futile as it had been before. He calmed down again as Jack prattled on. ‘Woah, lad. Easy, now. Settle down. We'll get you out, you see if we don't.' He took the buckle end of the strap and began to push it down into the peaty soup beside the horse's ribcage. It went down easily, but Jack's arms weren't long enough to reach down to the bottom of the colt's chest. He tried to dig a hole but the surrounding mire just flowed back into it again. His face was in the mud and he was gasping and spluttering and spitting black mouthfuls into the darkness. He stopped to get his breath.

There was no sound from the watchers beneath the lee of the hill; no sound to be heard at all, apart from the combined breathing of himself and the horse. But Jack heard it nonetheless, the mocking laughter of Hermes as he looked on and saw the absurdity of mortal endeavour. For a moment he thought it meant the end, signalling another failure. But Keithly's voice dispelled his impending despair.

‘Take your time, Jack. You're not beaten yet.'

‘I can't get it down far enough!' he called back.

‘You will, you will. Don't rush it. And keep talking to him.'

Jack found the breath to gabble again, any sort of nonsense that came into his mind. Soon afterwards his energy returned and he resumed his battle with the bog. Each time he pushed on the roller he managed to get it a little deeper, but never quite deep enough. As his strength waned he began to hear Hermes again, chuckling with the voice of the wind, and with sudden determination not to be defeated, he upended himself like a duck in a pond. With his bare feet waving in the air, he thrust himself downwards until his fingers, still grasping the roller, reached the bottom of the horse's chest. He grabbed the rope to pull himself back up, and on the bank, Keithly lent a hand.

‘Got there?' he called.

Jack nodded, sobbing for breath. ‘Halfway,' he called.

Still talking to the colt, he slipped over his submerged back to the other side. ‘We'll soon have you out, now. I'll eat my hat if we don't. Or I would if I had one.'

He took a deep breath and repeated his diving act. On the third attempt his fingers found the buckles and on the fourth he grasped them and hauled them up. A minute later the roller was tightly fastened round the colt's girth and a cheer went up from the Keithlys as they swung into action.

Bessie behaved quite differently now that her boss was there. She moved willingly wherever he asked her to and soon she was tacked up and ready to do what she did best; pull.

‘Now, lad,' said Keithly. ‘Can you untie that rope from around your middle?'

Jack's hands were numb with cold, but the knot relinquished itself easily enough.

‘Good. Now tie it good and tight on to the roller up there on his withers.'

Jack did as he was told, his frozen fingers slow and fumbling. When he was finally satisfied with his work he called out. ‘But how will I get out?'

‘On his back,' said the farmer.

‘On his back?'

‘Behind the roller.'

‘But …'

‘But nothing. Catch hold of his mane and hold on tight. He'll be too tired to even notice you're there.'

Jack acquiesced. The colt's mane was a lot sparser than Bessie's, but he collected two good hanks of it and wrapped them round his hands. His knees sunk into the mire around the horse's flanks.