Firehorse (9781442403352) (8 page)

“Um-hmm.”

“You have to promise me you'll stay away from her until we know her better.”

“I will.” Since he'd started talking, my eyes hadn't left her.

“I mean it. Don't go in there alone.”

“I
won't,”
I promised, and dropped obediently onto the quilt. “See? I just want to look at her. I want to stay with her.”

James's frown lifted into a smile. “All right, then. I'm off to polish some brass—a lot of it. And perhaps,” he added in a deep, ghostly sort of voice, “to be Father's informant. I'll see you at supper.” His happy whistling sounded all the way down the alley, fading away when he turned the corner. The Girl and I were again alone.

Saying that I wanted to look at her was an exaggeration, of course. The mare's injuries were so ghastly that I had to work to keep my stomach settled. I certainly had no appetite for the lunch at my elbow—cold chicken, bread, and jam. Yet I
couldn't
not
look at her. For some reason she kindled a flame inside of me, and I sat there trying to figure out how she was doing that.

The obvious answer would be that, amongst the blisters and bandages and soot, there were remnants of her beauty. Her mane, for instance, or at least the one tuft behind her ears, was as absolutely fine and white as fringed silk. And the dappling on her muscled hindquarters, an area that had escaped the flames, put me in mind of a spring rain on a silvery pond. It must have been something to see her galloping to a fire: nostrils flared, white mane blowing, tail flagged.
She mocketh at fear and is not affrighted
. The Biblical words that leaped from my memory had never seemed more apt.
She swalloweth the ground with her fierceness
.

As I saw past the awful injuries, my stomach calmed and actually began to growl. I'd had little more than a single bowl of porridge in close to three days, so, chasing away the flies, I picked up a chunk of Grandmother's bread and nibbled its crust.

From where I was sitting, staring up at the mare, she seemed taller than Peaches, though I don't think her legs were much longer. I think the deception came in her massive girth; her powerful shoulders and high, rounded withers gave her a certain grandeur. Her knees, in fact, were set lower than Peaches', and there was some feathering around her fetlocks. There must have been some draught blood in her veins. Her hooves were huge. Then there was her face. Even ignoring the hideous blistering,
it was so different from Peaches'. While she had had a narrow head, with sweet, almond-shaped eyes, this mare had a forehead as broad and flat as a skillet, and a long, Roman nose. Her eyes, large and liquid, burned like black fire.

My breath caught. That was it. It was something in her eyes, something about her spirit that was kindling my own.

Ever so slowly, she began turning her head. I could almost hear the burnt skin crackling and I tensed. When her gaze fell upon me, I was taken aback. The only way I could describe her look would be critical, and I realized nervously that it was my turn to be appraised. Self-conscious, I straightened, wondering if I'd measure up. The Girl stared hard at me, and through me, not even blinking. It was as disquieting as a surprise examination in Mr. Moore's science class.

At long last she let out a miserable groan and looked away. I had no idea if I'd passed judgment. Just like Mr. Moore, apparently, she was going to keep my grade for the morrow, leaving me to wonder.

There was something else on her mind. I could see that she was gathering all her strength in an effort to move. Shifting one hoof, and then another, she slowly began shuffling toward the rain tub. The procession took several minutes. I held my breath, agonizing every step of the way with her. When she finally reached it, she just stood, her head drooping over the water. It occurred to me that she was staring at her reflection, and while I knew the idea was absurd, I couldn't help but wince at what she must see.

Little by little, with her stout gray legs braced against the tub, she sagged over its rim and stretched toward the water. I heard the double gulp, watched her throat ripple as it delivered the coolness to her massive body. That probably brought no more relief than a drop of water cast upon a raging fire. Nonetheless, swallow followed swallow until, finally, she raised her neck. For an even longer time she stood motionless, and I worried again that she was going to fall over and die right in front of me. It took a slackened hip to show that she was dozing. I didn't dare move for fear of awakening her. I just sat, still as could be, and imagined what it was to be trapped inside a skin caught on fire.

I'm sure that at least an hour passed. When the Girl awoke with a shudder, as if from a bad dream, the first thing she did was turn her head stiffly, looking, I thought, to see if I was still there. I smiled. “Hello,” I murmured.

I don't know what I expected her to do, but when she made a great, heaving effort to move closer to me, my heart thumped wildly. This time when she stood looking down at me, she wasn't so much considering me as she was ordering me. As if she'd spoken the very words, I came to realize that she was hungry. That was a wonderful sign! She wanted to live! I jumped to my feet and … what? What could
I
do? Everyone had said she was dangerous. And I'd promised James not to go near her.

But she lived by her own rules, it seemed. Unconcerned by my pledge, she stubbornly kept staring at me … and staring at me.

There was nothing else I could do. I
had
to go to her.

With my heart beating at a thoroughly guilty tempo, I climbed under the rail.

Standing beside the mare was a little frightening; she was even bigger than I'd thought. All she had to do was snort and I jumped. Second thoughts filled my head. Maybe I'd imagined her command; maybe it would be better if I scrambled right back under that rail. But other, less cautious thoughts prevailed. Schooling myself to calm, I sidled toward the trough. Her black eyes rolled, watching my every move. Slowly I scooped some grain into my hands, crept back beside her, and cupped the offering beneath her mouth.

Her swollen tongue was still pushed past her teeth, and the purplish-red color of her muzzle was only slightly darker than the raw flesh surrounding her eyes. When I looked into the black depths of those eyes I saw a sharp hurt; she thought I was playing a cruel joke. Of course she couldn't eat; she could hardly open her mouth to drink. I should be horsewhipped.

An image of Peaches came to mind. There was a time, last October, when she had been sick and stopped eating. The veterinary had examined her and, finding no specific ailment, had recommended feeding her a warm bran mash. Because it was as soft as porridge, I'd been able to spoon-feed it to her. Maybe, just maybe, I could do the same with this mare. I let the grain dribble through my fingers. “I'll be right back,” I promised, and cautiously climbed under the rail. The moment I was outside the shed, I ran to the kitchen to light the stove.

The house was quiet as I set a pot of water to boil. Mother
hadn't yet returned, and Grandmother must have still been resting in her room.

Worried and anxious, I paced. My thoughts wandered soberly from fires to firebugs, to galloping and God, to newspapers and Father. How was I going to tell Father about her? I dreaded doing that. Maybe James could. After all, he was her official caretaker. He'd actually arranged the deal. I conveniently ignored the fact that he'd done it for me.

The water was taking forever. When it finally sent up its first few bubbles, I dumped in two cups of bran, stirred, and waited some more. By the time I was lugging the small iron pot of mash to the shed, the shadows were lengthening across the yard.

The Governor's Girl looked distressed. With shameful pride, I wondered if it was because she'd missed me. The moment I ducked under the bar, however, I was humbled. She pinned her ears and grunted like some wild creature from the woods.

“Easy now,” I murmured, as much to myself as to her. “There's no reason to be frightened.”

She grunted and squealed and made ghastly, unhorselike sounds. I'd never heard such before, but I understood their warning. My knees began trembling. There were only two choices now: stay or leave. I screwed up my courage and inched toward her.

“This is just a simple old bran mash,” I soothed in a singsong voice. “As soft as pudding and as sweet as molasses. Try it and you'll be as good as new in no time.” Even I could
hear the utter lack of confidence in my voice. The Girl waggled her head menacingly.

My hands shook as I dug the wooden spoon into the pot. Lifting it high, I shoved it in the direction of her mouth. She flung her head defiantly, and the warm, pasty mush splattered across my bodice. Too late, I realized I was still in my good white dress. Mother would howl blue murder for certain.

Well, so be it. I was going to finish this job. Mustering my courage again, I inched closer, eyed the least ulcerated spot on her mouth, and pushed another spoonful of bran at her. Just as deliberately, the Girl swung her head again. Only this time, instead of just knocking away the spoon, she hit me across the cheek. Bone cracked loudly upon bone. I staggered backward. Everything was flooding to blackness as I reeled out of the stall and crawled toward the quilt. The inside of my head felt like a smashed egg, a jellylike confusion of yellow and white.

“Gracious, girl!”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Grandmother again. Her unexpected appearances were going to be the death of me, if this mare wasn't.

“What's happened? Are you all right?” Not getting an immediate answer, she talked louder. “Rachel! Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Queasy and hot-faced, I braced myself against the quilt's undulating support.

“That horse do this?”

I managed a painful nod, which set the yellow, eggy bits to dancing.

“Your mother's going to raise the roof when she gets a sight of your dress.”

I knew she was right. “She can't eat her grain,” I explained, gingerly testing my jaw. “I was trying to give her a bran mash.”

“Doesn't appear that she wanted it.” Grandmother actually chuckled. “You know, you do have a tendency to add too much salt.”

An unplanned laugh burst out of me, making my head shriek.

“Come along to the kitchen,” she said. “If you're having trouble with her appetite, I'll show you how to stir up a wondrous tonic. She'll lap it up like a kitten does a bowl of cream.”

“Maybe we should wait for the veterinary,” I cautioned. “Or James.”

“Nonsense.” She was already on her way back to the house. “Men don't know a thimbleful about how to treat people or animals. That's up to the women. Are you sure you're all right?” she called over her shoulder.

“Yes, I'm fine.” A lie. My head was throbbing fiercely. Steadying it between my palms, I studied the mare. She was still staring at me, her eyes burning with emotion. Had I misunderstood what she wanted? She'd just taught me a lesson, I knew. A lesson about us. But did it mean that our relationship had ended … or just begun?

EIGHT

G
RANDMOTHER CALLED FROM THE CELLAR AS SOON AS THE
screen door slammed shut. “Rachel? Find the funnel if you can and an empty bottle—no, don't bother with that, I see one here.”

The kitchen wasn't fully unpacked yet. Mother hadn't had the time to find a suitable servant girl, and she'd concentrated on putting the front rooms in order first, anticipating the critical eyes of new neighbors. So it wasn't easy finding anything, let alone a small tin funnel, amidst the haphazardness that was the pantry and the kitchen table and even the floor. To make my task harder, the cramped room, being on the back of the house and having no window of its own, was already shrouded in dusk. I set about lighting the two gas lamps, as well as a lantern, and began my search. Grandmother was climbing the cellar stairs, each wheezy grunt echoed by a squeaky step, before I found the funnel rattling around inside a dented sieve. I plucked it out reluctantly, still unsure about taking the mare's medication into our own hands.

“I don't know what's keeping your mother,” Grandmother said upon making it to the top. She gripped the doorjamb with her knobby knuckles, swaying as if holding the mast of a rocking ship. “I hope she's not lost in this big city.”

Her armful of clinking jars and bottles was loosed onto the kitchen table, accompanied by several packets of spices. With a wistful smile, she held up one sealed, blue-green jar. “Look at this,” she said. “Last year's tomato preserves. I didn't know anybody had cared enough to pack them.” She set the jar down, exhaling a sigh, and slid it toward the wall. “The last taste we'll have of the garden, I suppose. I wonder what's become of it.” She seemed to have carried an invisible melancholy from the cellar as well, because the sparkle had left her eyes and the pouches of skin beneath them sagged more. “It's probably overgrown with weeds by now. Dead.” She balanced the funnel in the neck of a flat-sided brown bottle. “My fate soon enough.” Grimly she began mixing the tonic.