The Secret Horses of Briar Hill

She tosses her head, throwing my hand away. She starts for the gate, but stops. Snorts. And then looks at me.

I know horses cannot talk. Even magic horses. But when I look into her eyes, I know what she is trying to say. Something eases deep in my chest. For a moment, as I find the strength to climb up the ivy, I don’t feel the ache in my bones. From my height, I’m able to slide a hand over her shoulders. She doesn’t buck. Doesn’t snort a protest. I pull myself up by her withers, avoiding her hurt wing, and wrap my legs around either side of her.

I weave my fingers into her mane.

I have never ridden like this. No saddle. No reins. Wings on either side of my legs.

There is only the wind and Foxfire and me. We are one.

“Go!”

She tears through the gate. Her muscles are rippling beneath my legs, her quicksilver hooves pounding the frozen ground. I gasp with the thrill of it. The fields streak around us, and I lean into the bitter cold wind. If she is this fast running, what must she be like flying? I think she could outfly the Germans, if she wanted. She could certainly outfly a Black Horse.

I clutch her mane harder and look over my shoulder. We are jostling, jostling, jostling, and the hospital disappears from view as we plunge down Briar Hill into empty fields. I’ve never seen the hospital from a distance. It looks so grand. Lights are shining in all of the windows. The two oaks in the front lawn rise like sentries.

A dark shadow ripples beside us, matching us in time.

“Faster, faster!”

And she does. She goes faster. She goes faster than I thought a horse could go. Some other part of me takes over. Presses my legs closer to her. Leans in. The wind cuts right through me, but I don’t feel it. I don’t hear Anna coughing. I don’t feel Benny’s thin hand on my wrist. There is only the wind and Foxfire and me. We are one.

“Don’t stop!”

Tears are coming faster down my face. The wind freezes them before they can fall. I hug my arms around Foxfire’s neck and want never to let her go. We reach the end of the field, and Foxfire leans hard to the left, circling the line of willows that skirt the stream. She slows, just a little. It isn’t until she has circled the field three times that I realize I haven’t seen the black shadow in some time.

She continues to slow until she switches to a trot that has me bouncing on the hard bones of her back. The gray sky is bare now. A few clouds, but no Black Horse.

We have escaped him—really escaped him—for one more day.

Foxfire slows to a walk, and I press my left leg into her side. She is a wild horse, so she does not know the signals, but she seems to understand. She circles around and heads back to the open garden gate.

We return to the fountain and the tarnished sundial. I slide off her back, feet catching on the fountain’s rim, and then hop off onto the ground.

She bows her head to me, and I press my hands to the sides of her face. I touch my forehead to the swirl of her horse-hair that is the shape of a spark, right between her eyes.

“I won’t let him get you. I made a promise, and I’ll keep it.”

Foxfire tosses her head again. She is breathing hard, and turns to take a long drink from the fountain.

Tomorrow I will find the last colors.

I will find something blue.

I will find something orange.

I will find something to keep the Black Horse far, far away from this protected place.

I trudge back to the hospital with feet that feel numb but a heart that feels alive.

All the lights are on in the windows. Thomas isn’t sitting on the steps anymore. There is no sign of Bog. When I push open the kitchen door, no one is sitting at the table, though the clock says it’s past suppertime.

I hold my hands over the woodstove until I can feel them again, and take down one of the big towels from the linen closet and wrap myself in it. I’ve started shivering, now that feeling is coming back into my body. Deep shivering that cuts to the bone. My legs are so weak that walking is getting hard. Each step up the stairs burns. I wipe my dripping nose.

The hallway is lined with children, all sitting quietly. They seem like they have been there for some time. Jack looks up. He isn’t crying. Benny looks up too. He is.

The door to Anna’s room opens, and Sister Mary Grace stands in the doorway. Her shoulders are stooped—it doesn’t look right on a woman of her young age. The sleeves of her habit are pushed back as she wipes her hands with a towel.

Her eyes are red.