Читать книгу Stagestruck - Shelley Peterson - Страница 10

1

THE OLD THEATRE

ABBY MALONE RODE her elegant bay mare, Moonlight Sonata, to the top of the ridge. She looked down at Saddle Creek, and observed that the grey water, as it rushed over the rocks, mirrored the turbulence of the darkening skies.

At sixteen years of age, Abby was pretty and long-legged. Her silky blond hair was pulled into a low ponytail under her old black riding cap, and her cheeks were ruddy with health and energy. Her shape was fast becoming that of a woman, but her attitude remained unabashedly tomboyish.

Moonlight Sonata lowered her head to nibble the tender spring grass under the winter-coarsened weeds. Abby patted her sleek dark neck and studied the wild beauty of the scene below. The wind was coming up. Treetops swayed and tall reeds waved. She inhaled deeply and savoured the smells of water, earth, and pine. The air around her tingled with edgy energy, signalling the onset of an electrical storm.

“There’s quite a storm coming, Moonie,” she said to her trusted companion.

Suddenly, a two-year-old filly raced up the rise at full speed.

“Whoa there, Leggy!” Abby yelled authoritatively. The filly stopped inches from the edge of the ridge, reared up, then stamped her front hoof impatiently.

“You little brat,” seethed Abby. “You scared me!”

Abby reached for the rope that dangled from the filly’s halter and grabbed it firmly. “That’s the last time I’m taking you with us, no matter how much of a fuss you make.” As an act of kindness, Abby had decided to bring the anxious Leggy along for the ride, but no sooner were they off the road than she’d bolted in search of her own excitement. Now the scheming look in the young horse’s eyes made Abby glare back at her in exasperation.

Moonie had given birth to this beautiful creature two years earlier, and Abby had proudly named her Moon Dancer. The youngster was already taller than her mother and still growing rapidly. The exceptional length of her legs had given her the stable name of “Leggy,” and it had stuck. Her glossy chestnut coat was the exact shade of her father’s, and her spirit was rebellious. “You’re your father’s daughter, all right,” Abby observed aloud.

Leggy’s sire was Dancer, the local legend. He and his owner, Hilary “Mousie” James, had won countless jumping competitions. They’d been an unbeatable team until the cruel and savage attack five years earlier by Samuel Owens. Owens had quickly been judged legally insane and sent to the mental hospital at Penetang. That Dancer had survived at all was remarkable, but he had never competed again. He was now retired at Hogscroft, the James’ farm.

Abby sniffed the air; they were minutes away from a downpour. “Okay, ladies, gotta get back.” The light was fading fast. Trying to radiate calmness for the horses’ sakes, she gently pulled Moonie’s head up from the grass and turned her around. Leggy followed on the lead line but hopped around nervously, afraid of the changing weather. Just then, something dark and furry darted out from the trees.

“Hey, Cody!” A small grey coyote looked up at Abby adoringly, eyes shining. This girl was his best friend.

Abby returned his gaze. She’d found him when he was only a few days old and dying of starvation. She’d fed him a special mother’s milk substitution every few hours until he could eat on his own. Cody survived and grew into a small but healthy adult. Abby constantly marvelled at his intelligence and ingenuity. He was completely devoted to her; her shadow.

Abby, Moonie, Leggy, and Cody headed toward home. Old trees groaned and strained against the wind as the little group trotted down the path through the woods. Overhead, branches blocked what little remained of the light, leaving them to ride in near darkness. As they came out of the woods into a hay field, a strong gust of wind hit them. Angry-looking clouds were rapidly closing in, and the sky was turning black.

The rain started suddenly. Stinging, cold, driving rain. The wind howled, and Leggy lurched away in fear. “Leggy, honey, don’t you worry, we’ll be home soon.”

A long serpent’s tongue of lightning shot from the heavens in front of them, followed by a deafening, horrifying crack. Abby counted five seconds between lightning and thunder, which meant that the lightning had struck approximately one mile away, very close to home.

They were now galloping across the Wick property. It had been for sale for over two years, and the place was neglected and overgrown. The house had long been empty and there were “No Trespassing” signs posted on trees. The barn was said to be haunted, and a shiver went down Abby’s spine at the sight of its dark looming shape.

Cody, nose down and tail flat, turned sharply and made a beeline toward the barn. Abby called after him, but the coyote didn’t look back.

A streak of electricity lit up the sky and thunder crashed simultaneously. Moonie reared in fright, and Leggy squealed a high-pitched alarm. The rain was coming down hard, pelting them mercilessly. Abby made a quick decision. She turned Moonie and Leggy toward the barn, following Cody’s lead.

The barn was a huge weather-beaten structure, about a hundred and fifty years old. The main floor was fieldstone, and faded grey barn boards housed the hayloft. Through the curtain of rain, Abby noticed a more solid shed, which stood on the other side of the farm lane. Dutch doors opened to a small paddock, and Abby thought that it must once have been shelter for horses. Since it was accessible and looked far safer than the barn, Abby headed for the shed.

Young trees were now bending with the force of the gale, and the rain came down in sheets. Abby’s face stung, and her hands were red and cold. Carefully, the group made its way through soggy, rotten debris and tangled vines. At the paddock gate Abby dismounted and threw the reins over Moonie’s neck. She led the two mares through the rusted gate and hurried to open the Dutch doors.

A hinge had come loose from one of the top doors, and it hung askew. Abby pulled it open and reached over the bottom door to feel for a latch. The horses were restless, eager for shelter. “Quiet, you two, I’m trying my hardest.” Abby found a hook and released it. She pushed. The door was stuck.

Cody, who’d been patiently waiting at her side, leapt over the bottom door into the shed and began digging. Looking over, Abby saw that manure and old straw were blocking the door.

Abby went back and closed the paddock gate, then ran up Moonie’s stirrups and tucked her reins under a stirrup leather so she wouldn’t become tangled if she dropped her head to graze. She removed the dangling lead shank from Leggy’s halter and, satisfied that her horses were temporarily accident-proof, climbed over the half-door. “Don’t you move, ladies,” she ordered the nervous mares.

In the gloom she spotted an old pitchfork leaning against the far wall. It was rusty, but the handle was firmly attached and it had all its tines. She quickly went to work, aware that another bolt of lightning would set off Leggy. If she jumped the fence and made a run for it . . . Abby didn’t even want to speculate on the kinds of trouble the young mare could get herself into. She kept digging.

“Okay, girls, I think we’re in business,” Abby said to the mares, who had their heads over the door watching her work. She pulled at the door, scraping it open enough for a horse to enter. Moonie, followed closely by Leggy, burst into the dry shed and away from the storm. Leggy immediately shook herself off and lay down for a roll. She scratched her back happily on the bedding, then stood and shook again, sending old straw and dust everywhere. Abby chuckled, delighted to have everyone safely under cover.

She untacked Moonie, propping her saddle against a post and hanging the bridle over a nail on the wall. She draped the saddle pad over an old barrel to let it dry. The leather would be a mess to clean, she thought, and her riding hat was soaked. In fact, all her clothes were soaked, and she was feeling the chill. She took off her riding hat and hung it on another nail. She shook the rain off her windbreaker and hung it over the handle of the upright pitchfork. Hopping up and down and rubbing her arms didn’t help much. “What I need is a blanket,” Abby said to Cody, as if he’d understand. He stared at her earnestly, intent on deciphering her meaning.

Moonie lay down on her side and rubbed her coat in the dusty straw. She rolled back and forth until all the water had been absorbed. She stood and shook, just like her daughter. “You’re so smart, using dirt as a towel,” said Abby, shivering. “Do you think it would work for me?”

The horses were settled nicely, and the next great flash of lightning didn’t bother them at all. They felt protected and safe, and were drying off quickly, but they didn’t have food or water. Abby hoped that they wouldn’t have to wait long for the storm to pass.

“In case we’re here for a while, it wouldn’t hurt to see what I can find.” There had to be a bucket in the barn, and if there wasn’t running water, a moment under the eaves would fill it up. Also, she was cold. Maybe there were empty burlap grain sacks stored somewhere or, better yet, horse blankets. They’d be musty and filthy for sure, but they’d help retain her body heat. Abby patted Moonie and Leggy on their noses and set off to the barn with Cody.

The light was dim as they ran into the rain and dashed for the barn door. Wind whistled through an empty, broken window. The barn, standing starkly in front of them, seemed sinister. “This place is spooky,” Abby said, feeling only slightly reassured by Cody’s presence.

There were two huge doors that opened in the middle for tractors and haywagons. Cut into the one on the right was a smaller, human-size door with a latch. Abby took hold of the handle and pressed down firmly with her thumb. It opened.

Abby pushed the door wide and peered in. “Cody?” she called quietly. Immediately she felt him nuzzle her hand. “Stay with me, boy. I’m scared.” Cody had no intention of leaving her side. He knew when Abby needed him.

Abby took one tentative step inside. The door swung shut behind her with a great slam.

“Cody!” she whispered, urgently. Cody nudged her with his nose. “Holy. I can’t take this.” Her heart pounded. She didn’t dare move. She couldn’t see a thing, and she didn’t know where to step. Abby held Cody’s coarse ruff tightly in her left hand. “Let’s get back to the horses. I don’t need a blanket.”

Teeth chattering with cold and nerves, Abby backed up, feeling for the door behind her. Her left shoulder bumped the wall. Suddenly, yellow radiance replaced the gloom. Momentarily blinded, she covered her eyes with her hands. Glancing at the wall she realized that she’d accidentally backed into the light switch. When she looked around, she gasped in wonder at what she saw. Abby could not believe her eyes.

In front of her was a theatre. A wooden stage with a small orchestra pit in front. Curving rows of seats covered with worn and faded burgundy velvet. A real theatre with a real proscenium arch over the stage and ragged burgundy velvet curtains hanging from it.

“Hold on,” muttered Abby aloud. “This is a barn. In the country. On a wrecked-up old farm. What’s a theatre doing here?”

Fiona Malone was worried about her daughter. Abby had been gone for hours, the storm was building, and the temperature was dropping. Spring storms were unpredictable, Fiona fussed as she nervously pushed back her grey-blond hair. She turned the radio to the weather station. “Exactly three years ago, a spring storm with less intensity than today’s became a funnel-ling tornado, causing damage in the hundred thousands of dollars and claiming the lives of . . .” Great, she thought. I really need to hear that. This could drive a person to drink. It was one thing for Abby to be out on Moonie, a sensible mare, but to have to cope with Leggy, too . . .

The phone rang, startling Fiona out of her bleak thoughts.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Malone?”

“Speaking.”

“Hi! This is Hilary James. May I speak with Abby?”

“Mousie James! Are you home?”

“Yes, for the weekend. I got in last night.”

“Your mother must be thrilled. How’s Montreal?”

“Great, thanks. I’m working hard on my thesis, and exams are going well. How are things with you?”

“Fine, but I’m a little concerned just at the moment. Abby’s out in the storm on Moonie, with Leggy on a lead.”

“Wow.” Hilary knew from first-hand experience how frightened a young horse might be in this weather, but she didn’t want to add to Fiona’s worries. “I’m sure they’re fine, Mrs. Malone. Abby’s smart. She’s probably somewhere dry, waiting it out.”

“I sure hope you’re right, Hilary.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Over two hours.”

There was a short pause. “Would you like me to look for them?”

“No! I don’t want you out in this storm, too. Abby’s father’ll be home soon, and he’ll go out if she’s not back. Thanks anyway, though.”

“Is Cody with her?”

“I assume so,” Fiona answered. “He always is.”

“If there was any reason to worry, he’d come find you.”

“You’re right. He would. Hilary, thank you. I feel better.”

“Well, tell her I called. I want to talk something over with her. But I know my way through all the trails so please call me if you want help. I’m serious.”

“I know you are. Thank you.”

As Hilary returned the receiver to the kitchen wall Christine waited for an explanation.

“What’s wrong, Mousie?” she asked.

“Abby’s out in the storm.”

“Are you worried?”

“Well, it’s wild out there, and she’s got the two-year-old with her.” Hilary walked to the window and peered outside. Pepper, a little brown and white Jack Russell terrier, stood beside her with her paws on the windowsill. The sky was dark and it was only three thirty in the afternoon. The rain poured down heavily and the wind sounded like a giant in pain.

Hilary absently rubbed the small dog’s head. “She’s tough, Mom, but this is crazy weather.”

“Don’t even think of going out there, Mousie. You wouldn’t know where to begin to look. You’ll just have to trust that she’s as smart as you were at her age.”

As the storm raged outside, Abby slowly walked down the aisle of the little theatre toward the stage. The air was dusty and smelled moldy, but her nose picked up a hint of something else. She couldn’t quite define it, but it was exciting, tantalizing. Was it the smell of greasepaint, she wondered, like in the song? Was it adrenalin, left over from a thousand first night panic attacks? Or maybe it was a combination of hairspray and makeup and sweat and old costumes and fear and delight. Whatever it was, Abby liked it. Her back straightened and her legs moved with more grace as she approached the stage. Then, head high, she stepped up the four risers to the left of the stage.

She strode to the centre and turned to face the seats. She imagined them full of people; smiling people, eagerly waiting for a performance that would touch them, move them, make them laugh. A performance that would allow them to forget about their troubles, their problems, their dreary jobs.

“Hello, out there,” she said aloud. Her voice sounded feeble and thin to her ears. She took a deep breath. “Hello, out there!” That was better. The sound resonated from the back wall. “I welcome you all to a very special show. For the first time on any stage, anywhere in the entire world, A-a-bby Malone!” She stepped briskly to the right and grandly swept up her right arm, placing her left foot behind her in her own version of a regal curtsy. Holding out a splendid, imaginary gown with her left hand, Abby bowed deeply to her adoring fans.

When Abby raised her head, the people were gone. The seats were dusty and drab, dirty cobwebs drooped from the lights, and the whole place was in bad repair. But the magic still hung in the air. Abby smiled, understanding that nothing, not even time, could remove it.

A movement in the back seats caught her eye. A blur of bluish light spread up the right aisle and settled in a seat two rows from the back and two chairs in from the aisle. Abby stared, mesmerized.

Cody howled softly, breaking Abby’s trance. She looked at him, sitting obediently in the front row, paw raised and head tilted. He howled again, but not fearfully or with any sense of urgency. Abby looked at the back of the theatre again, but the blur was gone. Hmm, she thought. Strange. Maybe she’d imagined it.

Without warning, Cody dashed up onto the stage and stood protectively in front of Abby. He bared his teeth and growled fiercely.

“Cody, what’s wrong?” Abby asked. Something was threatening them, and it was out there in the theatre. She backed up slowly until she could feel the thick curtains against her back, then quickly ducked under the heavy fabric. Cody scooted under, too, and Abby dropped the curtain to the floor.

Heart pounding, Abby crouched motionless, straining her ears for any telltale noise. A minute went by. Cody stiffened and growled again.

Attracted by a spot of light showing through the curtain, Abby crept over and found a small hole a few feet off the ground. Peering through, she saw nothing but empty seats and bare walls. She kept her eye to the hole, and arranged herself to settle in and watch.

Abby had a troubling thought. Were her horses safe? Was she hiding here, afraid for herself, while the horses were in danger? She fidgeted, uncertain of what to do, when the latch on the door lifted with a sharp click.

The door slowly opened. Holding her breath, Abby waited to see who or what would come in.

It was the old farmer, Robert Wick. Relief spread through Abby’s body. She took a deep breath, realizing that she’d forgotten to breathe. Farmer Wick was a weathered man in his seventies, tall and lanky with a slightly spreading belly. His red and black checkered jacket was wet from the rain, and he wore green rubber boots and a soaked olive-green cap with ear flaps. He looked as frightened as Abby felt. Step by tentative step he sidled into the theatre, sliding his back along the wall, darting his eyes all over the large room. He carried a shotgun.

“Mr. Wick?” Abby called.

The old man jumped. “What?” he blurted. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Abby Malone. I’m behind the curtain, and I’m coming out. Cody is with me. Please don’t shoot. Can you hear me, Mr. Wick?” Abby was nervous. She knew that a person with a gun could make a mistake when frightened, even Mr. Wick.

Robert Wick lowered the shotgun. “Abby Malone.” He took a deep breath. “The gun’s not loaded. Show yourself. Where are you?”

“I’m here, behind the curtain,” she repeated. “Here.” To show Mr. Wick where she was, she poked the fabric with her hand and shook it.

“Okay, Abby, I see you. Come on out.”

Abby lifted the heavy velvet, then emerged cautiously with Cody, trusting that the gun was empty.

“Now, what the blazes are you doing in my barn, on my property, without permission, in the middle of a whopping big storm?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wick. I can explain everything . . .” Abby began.

“I can’t hear you. You’re mumbling. Speak up.”

“I can explain everything,” Abby projected loudly. “We, that is my two horses and Cody and me, got caught in the storm and we needed to get out of the wind and rain but especially the lightning, so we found shelter in your shed, but I was cold and I thought there might be an old horse blanket in the barn, but when I got here I realized it wasn’t a barn but a theatre, so I couldn’t help but look around, and I hope it’s all right.” Abby took a breath. She’d been speaking very quickly, and when she stopped the theatre resonated with the echoes of her voice. Wick took his time.

Finally he spoke. “I guess that’s fine.”

Abby was relieved. “Thank you so much. Well, I’ll go now. I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll never do it again.”

“I must say you scared the living daylights out of me,” Mr. Wick said, relaxing.

“And me, too. You scared the living daylights out of me.” Abby and Cody had come down the stairs and were walking toward the door.

“I come to check on the farm every few days,” said Mr. Wick, feeling more talkative. “It’s been empty for a long time, since my wife died and I moved into the bungalow, but until today nobody’s bothered with it, if you don’t count the ghost. That’s why, when I saw the lights on, I grabbed my shotgun. It’s not loaded, but it’s scary. I had no idea what I’d be facing. I apologize for that, Abby.”

Abby stopped dead. “A ghost?”