Unexpected Magic (40 page)

“Harry Courcy! Wait till I get my hands on you!”

This was too much for Alex. He wanted to black Harry's eye and could not, for fear of a thrashing from Josiah, and now here was Cecilia in one of her embarrassing rages. He plunged forward, away toward the bay, scattering Courcys right and left, for he took them by surprise and he was a more practiced skater. There he dug his toes down and came to a sharp stop, while the others looked after him, crying out indignantly. So it was that they were all among the first to see the Wild Rider.

Alex saw him come from the island. One moment there was nothing but that huddle of dark trees, and, the next moment, there was a great blue-gray horse in the middle of its leap. The rider on its back was black against the low red sun, except for his flying orange cloak. Then the horse landed and was galloping in one movement, pounding through the bay among the treacherous sands and frozen snows as if there were nothing but soft turf beneath its feet.

Charlotte Courcy had scarcely time to totter on the tips of her skates, beginning to faint, before there were two more horsemen in the sky by the island. One after another they soared and landed, and then they were galloping after the first. Everyone in the field could hear the splash and bang of hooves as they galloped, off into the distance, through the river channel, and over the very quicksands themselves.

Then there was panic. One Wild Rider had been enough for the Gatlys and for most of the country people there, but three were too much even for the Courcys. People began skating, tumbling, running to get off the field and into the safety of a house. Some took their skates off and ran, some ran skates and all. Charlotte was lugged between Martin and Egbert. Susannah hobbled, helped by Harry. In no time at all everyone was on the road hurrying for home, help, and fireside and for someone to tell what they had seen.

Only Alex and Cecilia were left, watching side by side, as the riders grew smaller and smaller until they vanished at the dark edge of the bay.

“Alex,” said Cecilia, “that was Robert. I know it was.”

“Yes,” said Alex. “It was. And the others were chasing him.”

They looked for a long, long minute over at the edge of the bay, but there was not a sign of a rider. Alex said anxiously: “He had a good horse—I wish I had one half as good—and a small start.”

“I could not
bear
him to be caught!” Cecilia said frantically. “Alex, can't we do something?”

At any other time Alex would have realized there was nothing they could do and begged Cecilia to come home. They would have quarreled, but Alex would have won. Now, though, Alex had been hurt by the Courcys. He felt almost as if they had pinched him all over black and blue, it was such a real kind of hurt. And the Courcys were all in the farmhouse at the moment, no doubt telling their mother and Miss Gatly all about the three Wild Riders.

“We could go to the island,” he said. “We might discover what happened.”

“Oh, yes!” Cecilia was down on the ice unscrewing her skates before he had finished speaking. “Hurry, do, Alex!”

A minute later, they were stepping onto the shingle and rock of the long causeway to the island. It was not railed off in those days. The causeway was little more than a rough natural ridge of granite, strengthened long ago by the ancestor of the Courcys who had built the Castle. Nor was the island railed off. There was no need. No one went there if they could help it. Neither Alex nor Cecilia had ever been there alone before. Josiah, who had had a miserable rough childhood himself, made his children lead more sheltered lives. He would never allow them to wander by themselves in wild places. Alex, for one, had never even wanted to visit the island alone before.

Halfway along the causeway, Cecilia took Alex's hand. The sun was low, now, and red and purple mist was creeping in all around them from the sea and the marshes. They were alone in the middle of the wide grim estuary and the island ahead was all gloomy bare trees, with a few black birds wheeling around the castle tower. The air was raw and freezing and there was not a sound either from land or from sea.

Alex, attempting to sound brave, said: “How did they go across the quicksands? Would there be a secret causeway, do you think? A horse and rider is too heavy for—” Then he stopped, because they had both remembered the way those riders had seemed to come out of thin air. Anything supernatural seemed possible after that.

“Run,” said Cecilia firmly. “We can talk later.”

They ran until they came beneath the trees of the island. Then they stopped, hand in hand still, and stared up at it. It bulked huge and black now they were so near—much bigger, Alex thought, than one could have guessed from the shore. Its blackness and silence were appalling, and mist wreathed between the tree trunks.

Somehow, they made themselves go on. First Alex would pull, and Cecilia come reluctantly after. Then Alex would hang back, and Cecilia pull him. In this way they climbed the long steep hill among the stark winter trees and came gradually into more open land among spiny bushes and twisted small trees. Cecilia clenched one hand inside her muff to stop herself trembling. Alex slowly pulled to a halt.

“It—it seems bigger, Cecil.”

Cecilia agreed. It was the opposite of what she expected. She had last been here in summer as quite a little girl. She had thought it would seem small, as things did when one saw them later when one was nearly grown-up. Bravely, she pulled Alex on.

Something black moved away from a twisted tree. For a moment they thought the tree was walking. Neither of them could move. Then the thing moved again, three or four slow steps, until it was right in front of them.

He was another island person, a great deal younger than Robert, probably much the same age as Alex. He was taller, though—about Cecilia's height—and dressed in dense black velvet, with one or two small gold ornaments. The black plume of his hat curled almost around his white face and nearly disguised his pale fair hair. He looked at them angrily, narrowing his great blue eyes.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Cecilia, from what she could see in the dying light, suspected that his anger had to do with the fact that he had been crying. The tears shone on his cheeks, and had made a dark smudge where he must have leaned against the tree.

Politely and apologetically, she answered: “We saw someone we knew—Robert, his name is—riding across the bay, and we—”

That made him very angry. Cecilia saw she had been foolish to mention the outlaw. He put his hand on the gilded hilt of his sword. “So that is why you were sneaking so furtively through the woods! You have no right to be here if you are friends of his.”

Cecilia stepped back behind Alex, very nervous of that sword and of the commanding set of the boy's head. Alex, however, stepped forward, angry too. It was that same set of the head that annoyed him. There was something Courcy-like about it. Harry had the same manner.

“What do you mean, no right?” he demanded. “I have every right in the world. My father owns this island. One day I shall own it.”

“You!” exclaimed the boy. “Then you are an usurping hound. Draw your sword, or I shall run you through where you stand.” And he drew his own sword with a clang and a flash of red reflected sun.

“Don't be a coward,” said Alex. “Can't you see I haven't got a sword? Drop that and put your fists up like a man.”

“Call me coward again—” threatened the boy.

Cecilia hung onto Alex by his shoulders. She had realized what had happened. In the dim light, Alex in his school cape must have seemed another island person, particularly if one was not expecting to see anyone different.

“Stop it, both of you!” she said. “My brother and I do not belong here. We—we live at the farm along the causeway.”

This alarmed the boy. He stood back a little with his sword trailing. “You are Outsiders? Then God forbid I should kill you! How is it you know that Howeforce? Did he run away Outside? I might have guessed he would.”

“He did not have much choice, did he?” Alex answered. “The way he seems to be hounded here.”

“So should vermin be hounded,” the boy retorted. “And pray God he is dead by now.”

“Oh, no!” said Cecilia. “Pray
not
!”

The boy was furious with her, with them both. “Go away! Leave this island! Who are you, mere peasant's children from Outside, to come here and judge us? How dare you support such a man as Howeforce! How dare you call me coward! Go away, I tell you!”

Cecilia was only too ready to go. The island was a terrible place. She was cold, frightened, and miserable at the outlaw's probable death. She hated this boy and she wanted never to see him again.

Alex hated him too. He was even ruder than Harry Courcy and more hurtful than Susannah. He was bigger, too, which was very satisfactory. “I shall not go,” he said, “until you take that back. Take it back, or I shall black one of your big blue eyes, sword or no sword.” His accent had thickened again, but he did not care.

The boy sheathed his sword, put his hands on his hips, stuck his chin in the air, and laughed sneeringly. “Go away, little peasant.”

Alex hit him, beautifully, and as hard as he could. The other boy took it well, staggered, blinked, and hit him back. Alex dodged and closed in. He was the best fighter for his size in his school. He had fought many times in defense of Josiah's pretentions, and it pleased him to do it again now, in such strange circumstances. The island boy was not using his height and reach to advantage. Perhaps he was more used to fighting with that sword of his. Alex kept an eye on his sword-hand, in case he should suddenly use it. He was rather surprised that he never tried to.

Cecilia hovered, anxiously watching, biting her muff so as not to cry out. She had learned not to interrupt Alex when he took to his fists. She winced each time Alex was hit as she always did. Then after a while, she began to wince for the other boy. He was getting much the worst of it. Alex beat him to a tree and went on beating him. The boy was reduced to keeping one arm over his head and trying to push Alex away with the other. He had long ago lost his hat and his hair was all over his face. Even so, Cecilia could see that his nose was bleeding.

“I think you should stop,” she said. But she forgot that she was biting her muff, and Alex did not hear her.

Soon, even Alex began to feel some shame at hitting an opponent who was so obviously beaten, but he was irritated that the boy would not admit it. He held the boy against the tree with one hand and tried to see his face. “What's the matter with you? Don't you know when you're beaten?”

The boy did not answer. Alex shook him. “Come on, say you're sorry.”

The boy raised his head. “Why should I? I am not sorry. What I said was true. You
are
the son of a peasant—I can tell from the way you speak.”

Alex was so angry and exasperated at this that he shook him again, harder. He was afraid that if he hit the boy any more he might do him some serious injury. “Do you need to be broken into little pieces before you give in?” he said. “You can apologize at least. You can admit you believe my father owns this island.”

“But he does not,” the boy answered, sounding really surprised.

Alex could have screamed. He could have picked the boy up and thrown him into a spiny bush. “All right, then. You can take back what you said about Robert. He is not vermin. And he swore to us that he did not kill this man he is supposed to have killed.”

“Of course he would say that,” the boy replied disdainfully. “I have no doubt he would swear to anything. But I should know the truth, since ‘this man he is supposed to have killed' was my father.”

“Oh!” Alex let him go and stood back, truly ashamed of himself. That would explain the black clothes, of course, and why the boy had been all by himself, crying. Alex had done much the same soon after his mother died, and he had nearly been lost in the fog, too miserable to notice where he went. He was about to apologize, when the boy said:

“Now, take back what
you
said. You should apologize to me.”

“I'll be hanged if I shall!” said Alex. “You'll apologize to me before I say a word of apology to you.”

“Then you can wait till your dying day,” answered the boy. “You may leave us now.”

“Oh, may I?” said Alex. “And you may leave
us.
Go to blazes if you like. Come, Cecilia.” And he swung around and stalked off the way he had come, with Cecilia hurrying behind, sober and sorry and very, very chilly.

Alex marched along the causeway in a fine glow of anger, sucking the bruised lip which was all he had to show for the fight. “I wish,” he thought, “that I
had
thrown him in a bus now.”

“Alex,” said Cecilia, “I think you should have said you were sorry. After all,
somebody
must have killed his father.”

“Well, how was I to know? And he brought it in so meanly too, right at the end, and seemed to think it gave him no end of an advantage. Cecil, I promise you that, if I ever say I'm sorry to that big—big
caterpillar
, you can kick me from here to Arnforth. So there!”