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Serendipity's Rescue

N
orman trailed Amelie, silent and sullen, his eyes hardly lifting higher than his blistered feet. Late in the day now, Amelie was charging on ahead. She hardly spoke to him. The longer they went without finding any sign of Serendipity and the gypsies, the more emotional she became.

Norman had stopped pestering her to turn around and go in the direction he's suggested. He'd long ago given up on the hope of changing her mind and his advice was starting to bother her more than he intended, but if they were competing to see who could annoy each other, Amelie was holding her own. She looked back now and asked condescendingly, “Can you please keep up?”

He could hardly tell her that there was a point to his lagging behind. He was listening, watching, trying to be the protector that Aida had asked him to be.

“Why?” he retorted. “We're going the wrong way anyway.”

“If we're going the wrong way,” she spat back, “you are welcome to turn around.” There was a desperate tone to her replies now as they pushed on through their exhaustion and Amelie became less sure of her decision.

“You'd probably drown, and I'd get blamed for that too,” Norman said. Perhaps he was pushing it.

Amelie halted and glared back at him, arms on her hips. Her mouth opened momentarily, but the reply did not come. Perhaps she, like Norman, realized that this was getting them nowhere. She allowed herself one exasperated sigh before turning and continuing. It was different from all the other exasperated sighs he had heard all day, less angry, more tired-sounding.

She took only three or four steps before she stopped again. But this time it was like her legs just gave way on her, as if she had lost the ability to force them forward. She slumped to the ground like a marionette with slackened strings. Norman rushed forward, wondering if she'd passed out.

“Amelie?” he asked tentatively. When she did not answer he tried again. “Are you okay?”

Amelie pulled her knees into her chest and rested her forehead on them. Norman could not see her face. All he could hear was her shallow, quick breathing.

“Are you okay? Is it your arm?” he asked. The thick bandage on her arm was soaked with sweat.

“Just go away, will you,” her muffled voice begged from beneath her arms.

“I can't,” he replied, shocked by the weakness of her voice. “I have to help you.”

“You can't help me. No one can help me.” She sounded younger to Norman. She sounded like Dora when she completely lost it.

“I'm trying,” he told her earnestly. It was all he could think to say.

She sobbed in reply, “It doesn't matter.”

“We can still find him. Come on, let's try to find Aida's cottage.” Norman knew she was hiding her face so he wouldn't see her tears.

“It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what you do or what I do. I lose everything. Everything that I care about is taken away from me. Serendipity's not coming back either.”

Norman knew what else she had lost, but knowing was not enough. He had no idea what to do to fix this. He took a deep
breath and surveyed their surroundings. Maybe he should take her home now, but they were so lost.

As he gazed at the river, he was gripped by a strange sense of déjà vu. It wasn't enough to say that the surroundings looked familiar. They had looked familiar since they had left the farm, because the landscape was all the same around here. It was all muddy streams, clogged with cattails and purple loosestrife, occasionally opening up to a wider passage of water with overhanging willows. Every now and then, the ground rose up high enough to support a tight clump of upright trees. It was on one of these little hillocks of dry land that they rested. And one of these islands looked very familiar to Norman—a real island, a long, needle-shaped ridge in the middle of a wide passage of river.

“I know where we are,” he said, his excitement growing as he spoke. “I know where we are now, Amelie!”

Amelie looked up and swept her hair out of her eyes with a dirty finger, leaving a dark smear of soil on her forehead. She blinked and focused her bleary red eyes. When she spoke, her voice had regained its annoying authority.

“Yes, that's Thin Island.” You couldn't tell this girl anything. “Father takes me fishing there.”

“So we're near your house,” Norman said, relieved. “We're not lost.”

“We were never lost,” she said firmly, rising shakily to her feet.

Norman wasn't sure he agreed. “This is one of the places that they let Serendipity off to eat.” He wasn't sure why he said it, whether it was to try to cheer her up or just to tell her something she didn't know. Amelie didn't reply. She didn't even nod or shake her head. She just winced slightly, ducked her head and took a few tentative steps down the riverbank toward the island. Norman followed silently.

Whether or not Amelie wanted to admit it, they had been lost. It didn't matter that now they knew where they were—it was obviously an accident. They had walked in a huge circle. Norman
was familiar with this sensation too. Only this time he didn't need Simon Whiteclaw to point it out for him.

Norman, for once, wasn't going to press his argument. He preferred bossy Amelie to the crumpled, defeated Amelie he had just seen. Ahead, at the river's edge, Amelie had stopped and was listening intently.

“Shhhh,” she whispered, suddenly excited. “Can you hear that?” Her eyes grew wide and she stared at Norman for confirmation.

“What?” Norman said nervously. “I can't hear anything.” He peered into the brush, thinking of the wolf again.

“Shh,” Amelie said breathlessly. “Listen.” Her voice was almost cracking.

All Norman could hear was the sound of the water, the bugs and now the wind that was picking up and rustling the trees. He shrugged and glanced over at Amelie. She looked different. Norman couldn't tell whether it was weariness or excitement or despair. She bit her lower lip and fidgeted with her sling.

“Did you hear a horse?” she asked him.

“But I don't hear any—” A high-pitched whinny interrupted him. Now he did hear something.

“It's him,” Amelie declared, quickening her pace and rushing toward the water. “It's him right? It has to be him!” Now she needed his reassurance—his opinion suddenly mattered. “Come on,” Amelie commanded. “I know where there is a boat.”

Tied up and hidden among the trailing branches of a weeping willow was a small red fibreglass canoe that had seen better days. Its sides were bleached pink from the sun, and a brown sludge of muddy water filled its hull. Norman might have preferred to skip ahead to the inevitable and just swim out to the little island, but Amelie as usual was having none of it.

She untied the canoe quickly, grabbed one oar and thrust the other at Norman. He took it warily. He had a premonition, and he was right. If they were a bad team on foot, they were disastrous in a canoe. Amelie tried her best to steer, but Norman always seemed to be paddling on the wrong side. It wasn't that Norman didn't
know what he was doing, and it wasn't that he couldn't work with a girl. His mom always sat at the back and steered on camping trips. It was just Amelie.

All this was forgotten when they reached the island. Amelie rushed ahead and let Norman tie up the canoe. He expected her to have the long-lost foal in her arms by the time he caught up with her. Instead, she just stood there in the open at one end of the narrow clearing. Norman slowed as he approached her, unsure of what to do or say. Amelie seemed to sway a little with the grass in the breeze. Both hands covered her mouth, as if, if she let them fall away, she would be incapable of suppressing a howl or screech.

“What happened to him?” she asked hoarsely when Norman finally arrived at her side.

Norman couldn't bring himself to answer her.

“What did they do to him?” she asked more forcefully.

At the other end of the island the little foal snorted and raged. Jumping from side to side, stomping the ground, feinting from left to right with his head, he seemed to be doing battle with some imaginary enemy. Norman could picture the shape of this imaginary foe all too well.

When Amelie finally turned to Norman, the look in her eyes was as wild as that of the foal. “What did they do?” she shrieked. There was a manic sound to her voice, as if she too was about to start flailing out wildly.

“They didn't do anything,” Norman answered firmly, but his voice dropped to add, “It was the wolves. The wolves freaked him out. He was trapped in the stall with them.” If Amelie had been paying attention, she would have heard the guilt in his voice, but she was already running across the field toward the foal. Serendipity lifted his head in recognition but did not dash across the clearing to meet her. Instead he began to snort and buck even more wildly. He gave up the battle with the imaginary demon and began to canter in a tight circle. Amelie stood right in his path to stop him, but the little foal would not look at her. His giant eyes rolled back into his head, exposing the whites. His nostrils flared and his hooves beat
the ground again. The sound of Amelie's voice seemed to help a little, but his breathing was still ragged and loud.

“What have they done, poor thing?” she sobbed, stroking the foal's long neck. Serendipity backed up slightly, but did not pull away when she tried a second time to touch his mane. All Amelie could do was keep repeating the question, “What have they done?” Her voice was more and more despairing as she failed to calm the horse. She wanted to reach both arms and throw them around the horse's neck, but the foal could not tolerate it. Every time she pulled closer and raised the second hand, he balked. The lightest of caresses with the just the tips of Amelie's fingers was about as much as he could take. Amelie stayed there like that for the longest time. She made no other sound. She did not sob, but when Norman dared to look up at her face, her cheeks were wet with tears.

 

The easiest thing would have been to fetch help from the farm. Norman offered to stay with the foal while Amelie brought help, but she would not hear of it. She was not leaving Serendipity now. Norman had stopped reminding her that it wasn't her horse. On top of everything else, this would have been too much.

“Well, you don't expect to put a horse in a canoe, do you?” She was too upset to rise to his joking challenge.

“You take the canoe.” She was still sniffing and blinking to stifle her tears, but her voice had regained its presumptuous tone. “I'll swim across with Serendipity.”

Norman shook his head in disbelief. “If the horse can swim across, it doesn't need you with it.” She glared at him for a moment and was about to disagree but stopped herself. She didn't actually say “you're right” or even nod, but she saw that it was true.

She coaxed the foal to the side of the island closest to the river shore. Here the water was only a half dozen metres wide, and shallow. Serendipity would be able to touch the bottom most of the way across. Amelie took the canoe back to the riverbank, while Norman stayed with the foal. Once she reached the other side, Amelie clapped her hands together and called to the little horse.
Serendipity may have been afraid of imaginary wolves, but he had no problem with water. With the encouragement of the lightest tap on the haunches from Norman, he bounded into the water like a kid at the beach. On the other side, Amelie continued to clap and coax, her face brightening as the horse pushed powerfully through the water, responding to her calls. It was strange to see him so calm and powerful in the water when he was so skittish and hesitant on land. Stranger still was how much lighter Norman felt, seeing Amelie so happy to have the horse back.

Serendipity emerged from water on the other side, shaking the water from his mane with playful glee. They would be all right, Norman told himself. The horse would get over his scare. Amelie would convince her father to let her keep him. That's what
Fortune's Foal
was all about. It wasn't about battles and swords. It wasn't even much about kidnapping. It was about girls being reunited with their horses. Crazy as it sounded, Norman almost understood it.

That's why what happened next was so terrible. It had no place in this book.

The dark shape on the riverbank behind Amelie shattered Norman's dawning understanding of
Fortune's Foal.
The hunter was even more haggard than the last time. His grey hair was matted and tangled with burrs. One eye was almost closed shut from a cut just above it. He looked lean and angry and desperate, and he was looking directly across the water at Norman. For a moment Norman thought only of himself, glad that he was separated from the wolf by the narrow flow of water. But he regretted his cowardice immediately. Amelie and Serendipity were completely exposed, and now Norman was powerless to help them. All he could do was watch. He opened his mouth to warn Amelie. Even this was hard, because by shouting he was again destroying her happiness. She was wearing a white blouse, just like the other day. It was grubby and torn from their trek through the swamp, but Norman imagined it blossoming red again with blood.