Book II Chapter 11 The Twilight of Magic by Hugh Lofting
The ebb-tide
Luke had just come in from the stables. It was while he was still in the little dining-room, looking over the supper laid out there, that he heard Giles shout. He immediately came into the hall to see if he could be of any help. There he was bumped into, first by the innkeeper dashing for the yard, and then by Giles himself leaping down the stairs two steps at a time. His master grabbed him by the arm and poured words into his ear as though his very life depended on their speed.
‘Get yourself a fresh horse, Luke, and ride for the castle at once. You’ll have to travel all night. Change mounts a dozen times if need be. Beg, borrow or take them—I’ll look after that later. Don’t go round by the Harbour Turnpike. Take the short cut across the moors. You ought to reach the palace by daybreak, or soon after. Tell the King Barbara is safe and unharmed. There was no kidnapping. That’s all I know now. But you can promise him that if everything goes as I hope I’ll bring her back before sunset tomorrow. Where’s that fool of an innkeeper? Why doesn’t he hurry? Here’s some money. You pay the reckoning here. And tell me, did you put anything in the pocket of this tunic when you packed it?’ (Luke shook his head.) ‘No, of course not. Well, never mind that now. There isn’t a second to lose. Where is that man?—Ah, I hear Midnight now. He’s bringing her to the front door here. Goodbye, Luke. May good luck travel with us both!’
The door opened and slammed. The rest was a clatter of horse’s hoofs galloping down the road.
While the dazed Luke tried to pull his wits together, his speeding master was thinking of that ferry-boat. Would it be this side or the other side of the river?
Barbara so near! Who would have guessed it? Up there at the convent gate. And he wondering just a little while ago if she had crossed the seas! Finder’s luck!
In five minutes he had reached the landing. No boat in sight. He would not wait for it. It was a slow craft anyhow. He gauged the distance across the river with his eye. Yes, Midnight had swum farther than that in her day. Now, at the light touch of his spur, she leapt clean from the wharf’s edge into the dark water. Then with long steady strokes she churned her way out into the stream.
Giles, as he had often done before, slipped out of the saddle. This was to free her of his weight. And with his right hand twined in her flowing mane, he half swam and was half towed beside her. He peered ahead, upwards, at the lights of the convent chapel. The distance looked greater from here than it had from the boat-landing.
Presently, nearly in mid-river, a current was felt. It grew in strength, with almost overpowering suddenness. Both beast and man were being borne downstream at a terrifying speed. The thought of the sea, so close, flashed into Giles’s mind. What if they should be swept clear out into the ocean? The tide was certainly at full ebb.
He thought of letting Midnight go, free to gain the shore of her own accord without the drag of his body. A good swimmer himself, he could likely reach the shore alone. But he decided that once separated, they might have difficulty finding one another again in the darkness on the land. It was a risk; and at best would mean a loss of precious time.
No, he would cling on; and together they must do their best. He could hear her breathing hard as she changed direction a little, to head more upstream and make the crossing aslant. For Midnight, too, knew the danger of that ebb-tide, with the smell of the sea so near. Close by her neck, he gasped endearing words up into her ear to cheer her on. And, in answer, her mighty heels kicked at the evil, dragging current with still greater strength.
Soon, wriggling his arms out of the sleeves, he pulled off his tunic and stuffed it into one of the saddle-bags. He could swim better so, he hoped, and give the mare more help. But it did not seem to make much difference. His heavy spurred riding boots were his greatest hindrance. He should have thought to take them off before he leapt his horse into the stream. The current was getting stronger and the mare’s breath shorter. The lights in the convent chapel seemed to be going farther away, inland, instead of coming nearer. From this point he could now see the dark-grey horizon-line of the sea, stretching across the rivermouth.
Miserably he was blaming himself for his rash stupidity in not waiting for the ferry, when suddenly Midnight’s hoofs ground into something hard. Her great shoulders climbed, looming up into the air above him, and in the same second his own feet touched bottom. They had reached a shoal.
The shore was still a long way off. Near, around them, nothing but darkness and water. It seemed it was a gravel bar they must be standing on, risen with happy unexpectedness from out the river’s gloomy heart to hold them up. Over this hidden island, though, the tide was rushing out with a force that threatened to knock them down again any moment. Wading, staggering, floundering waist-deep, Giles felt and hunted till he found a shallower spot where they might rest and get their breath. Here the stream raced even faster still, but not deep enough to be dangerous. Midnight shook the water from her flanks with a sighing, thankful snort. While Giles, too breathless to speak, too weary to stand alone, leant upon her withers.
So for a while they stood, horse and man, under the stars out there, like ghostly statues in a flat and empty world. No sound broke the peace of their grateful rest but the gurgling of the river round their ankles and their own breath pumping in and out.
Giles was the first to move. Still dead weary, he was itching to hurry on. The very idea of food was long since forgotten. But, at that, he had had an easier fight than Midnight. The mare’s neck was still stretched downward and forward in that hangdog fashion that shows a horse badly spent. There was no telling whether there would be more swimming ahead, or if the shore could be reached by wading. In spite of the pressing need for haste he dared not, and would not, risk ruining her wind. She must have some minutes at least.
Meanwhile, what of Barbara? Had she gone into the convent by now? His work was difficult enough already without added difficulties with the nuns. He clenched his hands in desperate, powerless impatience. What would he do? What could be done besides wait!
But the shell! Maybe he might learn something more from that quarter.
In an instant he had felt along his horse’s back and was tugging at the wet tunic, trying to get it out of the saddle-bag. How stubbornly it stuck! Then, as so often happens, it came flying out of a sudden, like a crumpled flag.
There was a flash—and a splash. In the tussle the shell had fallen from the tunic-pocket into the rushing stream. Giles leapt for it, grabbing and snatching on his knees in the wet gloom. But the pale starlight had given him only one glimpse: when it first struck the water, turned over like a fish—green above and white below—then sped away, in the rolling tumbling ebb-tide, downstream.
For a moment, still on his hands and knees in the water he gazed after it wide-eyed and dazed—while the truth slowly took shape in his mind. The Whispering Shell was gone—and with it the secret of its power—for ever! Who now would ever learn whether it were magical or no? Underneath that flat wet darkness it was rolling along the gravel floor of the river, rolling back to the home from which it came, the sea!
Giles lifted his dripping body upright.
‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘for good or bad, that means its work is done.’
A bell tinkled softly from the convent on the hill. Barbara, perhaps, ringing to be let in.
He looked again at Midnight. Dared he push on yet? Brave Midnight! She seemed somewhat less droopy, and her breathing calmer. A light breeze came whispering down the river, very chilly to wet skins. Suddenly the mare raised her head and pawed the water as though she would be glad to be out of this.
Taking her by a long bridle, Giles set off towards the shore. Going ahead very, very carefully he felt out every yard of the way with his feet, on guard for hidden holes or sudden drops. And though the depths kept changing—sometimes breast-high, sometimes no more than a few inches—he finally crossed the whole distance to the land without mishap.
Directly he was clear of the mud and reeds along the water’s edge, he swung himself into the saddle and patted Midnight on the neck.
‘Now, old friend,’ he whispered, gathering the reins in his hands, ‘you’ve shown a brave spirit. But your trickiest work still lies ahead. We’ve got to get to the top of that hill, to the main gate of the convent, as fast as it can possibly be done. And it’s very little help that I can give you. Get to it now and warm yourself up.’
The mare, as though she understood his words and knew the great importance of her help, never showed her sure-footed cleverness better than she did that night. Her rider barely once drew the bit against her mouth. In a moment, as if by magic, she had found a trail. It might have been an old disused tow-path or something of the kind. And, while it had plenty of breaks and wash-outs along it, it led in the right direction, inland. Midnight turned her back to the sea and followed it. There were stretches where trees and high alders, overhanging the way, shut out even the poor light of stars and waning moon. But not even the pitch-dark seemed to hinder her greatly. She covered the ground in short, quick rushes. Every once in a while she would pull up sharp, sniffing, snorting and pawing—as though by some unknown sense, she knew that here a bad place lay, some hidden danger or a bend in the trail. Then in a moment, full of comfortable confidence, she would rattle along again—over gravel, turf or rock—a man could only tell the nature of the going by the sound.
Giles had often said that his beloved mare could see in the dark. Certainly anyone who had watched her then must have admitted that for this sort of work she had no equal. The King never gave a finer gift than this queen among horses—nor named one better, Midnight.