Читать книгу Victory and the All-Stars Academy - Stacy Gregg - Страница 8

The grey pony was galloping fast, but Issie knew they would never make it in time. Up ahead of her the other horses had already reached the road. There was the sharp honk of a car horn as two cars sped past, one of them only narrowly missing Toby.

For a brief moment Issie thought about stopping, but instead she pressed her pony on, asking him to gallop faster. She had no choice. No one else would be able to reach the horses in time. She would have to ride out on to the road and herd them back towards the pony club, and out of harm’s way, or they would be killed.

“Come on, Mystic!” Issie heard the chime of the grey pony’s shoes beneath her as they hit the tarmac of the main road and she wheeled the grey pony around to confront Toby, blocking his path. She waved her arms at the big bay hack. “Go back!”

If she could convince Toby to turn around and go back towards the pony club then Goldrush and Coco would be bound to follow. But she had to be quick. Two cars had already nearly hit them. How long could their luck last?

Starting at the sight of Issie and Mystic, Toby turned abruptly, leading the other ponies back up the gravel driveway and out of harm’s way. Issie was about to follow when suddenly the deep, low boom of a truck horn sounded off behind her. She heard the sickening squeal of tyres and smelt burning rubber. As the truck rounded the corner, coming towards her, everything seemed to go into slow motion.

Mystic turned to face the truck, like a stallion set to fight. As he did so, the grey horse reared up in the air, unseating Issie. There was a sickening feeling as Issie felt herself thrown backwards out of the saddle and then she was falling, falling…

This time she didn’t hit the ground. You never hit the ground when you fall in your dreams. Instead Issie woke up with a jolt, her heart racing. She looked around her. Where was she? What was going on? She was in bed, but this wasn’t her bedroom. And then she realised. She was at Havenfields.

The house at Havenfields had been cloaked in darkness when they arrived. Exhausted by the flight and the long drive from the airport, the girls had gone straight to bed without even unpacking. Now Issie had woken up from her nightmare, alone and disoriented, in this strange new bedroom.

She gave a shiver and pulled the duvet up around her. The dream had spooked her. Even though Mystic’s accident had happened over two years ago, the wrench of waking up and realising that it was true, and that the grey pony really was gone, still upset Issie as if it were yesterday.

Mystic had been Issie’s first pony and she had loved him more than anything. It hurt so badly when she remembered the events of that horrific day at the pony club.

The last thing she recalled was falling from Mystic’s back as he reared, then the crack of her helmet on the tarmac and the taste of blood in her mouth. The next thing she knew she was waking up in a hospital bed with her mum beside her. Issie would never forget the awful look on her mum’s face when Issie asked, “What about Mystic, Mum? Is Mystic OK?”

Mystic had saved her that day. Issie was sure that he had thrown her clear of the truck and taken the blow to save her life. How could she forget what had happened and move on? It hurt so much when he died, she told herself she would never love another horse and that she would never ride again.

Then Tom Avery brought Blaze to her. Poor, broken, abused Blaze. Together, the girl and the horse had helped each other to heal and Issie had found the strength in her heart to love again and ride again.

Through it all though, she never let go of her love for Mystic. Issie had always known that her pony was special—but Mystic was much more special than anyone could have realised. He was like a guardian angel for Issie—and for Blaze. After the accident at the pony club, the grey gelding came back to Issie. The bond they shared couldn’t be broken and whenever she really needed him, Mystic would turn up. Not as a ghost, but real and ready to help. Mystic had a sixth sense for danger. He had saved Issie’s life so many times, she had lost count.

Now here she was, thousands of kilometres from home, in a strange bed, dreaming of him once again. Issie looked out the window. In the past, a dream like this was a portent, a signal that Mystic would be outside waiting for her, ready for an adventure. Was he waiting for her now? Would it really be so strange if he had followed her here to Australia? After all, he had turned up in Spain when Issie had needed his help to rescue Blaze’s foal, Storm.

There was no sign of Mystic when she peered outside though, and Issie somehow knew that her pony wouldn’t be coming this time. Things had been different lately. She had been dreaming about Mystic a lot—always the same dream—and yet the grey pony was never there when she woke up.

She pressed her face up to the glass and stared out once more. It was growing light outside. What time was it anyway? Issie checked her alarm clock: 6.03 a.m.

She couldn’t just lie around in her room for hours and wait until breakfast. She could make out the shadowy outline of the stable block in the distance. She wiggled restlessly underneath the duvet. She was dying to get to the stables. When they had arrived at Havenfields last night, the girls had been desperate to go and meet the horses, but Avery had told them it would be better to wait until morning when the other riders arrived.

Surely Tom wouldn’t mind though? If she walked down to the stables now, Issie could have a quick look and be back again before anyone missed her.

She got out of bed and pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt. The other bed next to hers hadn’t been slept in. Issie’s room-mate was due to arrive that morning. Avery had decided it would be a good idea to split the Chevalier Point girls up for once. When the other New Zealand girls got here, one of them would be sharing Issie’s room. But until then, she had the whole place to herself, so no one would notice that she was gone.

The buzz of cicadas filled the air as she walked down the driveway towards the stable complex. The dirt beneath her boots was so dry, little clouds of dust rose up with each step she took.

The stable complex was functional, not flashy, the buildings constructed from cedar weatherboards that had bleached silver-grey in the harsh Australian sun. Issie walked up to the sliding door, leaning hard against it to push it open, until the gap was large enough for her to step inside.

The first thing she noticed was the familiar warm smell of horses. She took a deep breath and held it, enjoying the sweet aroma. Then she looked around at the four open stalls and, beyond those, to the stalls that were bolted shut.

She felt like a kid about to open a chocolate box and find out what flavours lay inside. In front of her were eight stalls, each with a horse inside. One of those horses would be hers for the next two weeks, to groom and care for, and to train and compete on. But which box held her horse?

Issie stepped forward to slide the bolt back on the first door. She got a bit of a shock as the top half of the door was shoved open from the inside and a bay horse with a white stripe down his face thrust his muzzle over the partition to greet her.

“Well, hello there! You’re keen, aren’t you?” Issie giggled at the bay’s enthusiasm and his trick of opening the door by himself.

The bay nickered a friendly hello and Issie stepped closer to his stall so that she could look inside. At a quick glance, she could see that the horse was a gelding, heavily built, with perhaps a bit of Clydesdale in his bloodlines. Yes, definitely Clydesdale, she decided on closer inspection. The gelding’s feathers, the long hair on his fetlocks, and his solid cannon bones were a dead giveaway.

Clydesdale blood could be a good thing, Issie thought. Clydesdales were draught horses, but if you mixed their bloodlines with Thoroughbred they made a good sport horse. They had strong bones and although they were bred to pull wagons, they were also surprisingly bold jumpers.

In fact, in many ways the bay horse would have been perfect for her to ride for the next two weeks. However, she quickly discovered that there was a problem. How could Issie possibly choose him when every horse in every stall at Havenfields seemed equally perfect?

As Issie worked her way down the row, opening the doors one by one, each horse had something special and seemed better than the last. In the second stall there was a gorgeous chocolate dun. He was only about fourteen-three hands, but he was sturdy, a solid hunter-type with a dark chocolate coat, and a pretty blond mane and tail.

The next horse was a leggy grey gelding, almost sixteen hands. He was pale grey with a mane and tail that were so dark they seemed black, contrasted against his pearly coat.

The horse in the next box was a grey as well, dappled with a silvery mane and broad aquiline nose. Next to him was a Skewbald, a bright bay colour, covered with big white patches.

All the horses so far had been geldings, but when Issie reached the sixth stall, the horse inside was a mare. She was a glossy chestnut, about fifteen hands high, with a bright white star on her forehead and a perfectly pulled mane. “Aren’t you beautiful,” Issie murmured admiringly. The mare seemed pleased with this assessment, and thrust her head over the partition so that Issie could admire her some more.

Issie had almost reached the end of the loose boxes and in the seventh one, next to the chestnut mare, Issie found a horse that was the most spectacular so far. At first glance you might have thought that he was a grey. His coat was pale and milky, but it was too creamy to be called grey. Also he had the most haunting blue eyes. Issie knew exactly what he was. She had seen a horse like this once before at a gymkhana and Avery had told her it was a cremello. He had explained that cremellos were like albinos, with the same pink skin and white hair, but instead of pink eyes, the cremello’s were a startling sky-blue.

This cremello was big—probably sixteen hands high at a guess. Issie noted that he was built like a warmblood, with well-muscled shoulders and haunches that were tailor-made for jumping. As the horse stepped forward and put his head over the door, Issie stroked his nose and noticed he had the remnants of some sticky white goo on his muzzle.

Sunblock, she thought. The cremello probably wore it to protect him from sunburn when he was grazing outdoors.

“I think you’re my favourite so far,” Issie whispered to him. Then she moved on to the last box. Her heart was racing as she slid back the bolt and opened the stall.

The horse inside the last stall was brown. Just brown and nothing more. No white markings, stars or stripes—just plain brown with a mealy muzzle. Compared to the exotic cremello, the pretty dun and all the others, the bland, brown coat of this horse couldn’t have been more boring. And yet Issie instantly liked him. Experience had taught her to look beyond colour and sense the quality that lay beneath.

The gelding was a Thoroughbred, built for speed with a fine-boned, well-muscled body. He stood at around fifteen-three hands and had an elegant head, well-set on his neck and, Issie noted, the most thoughtful, intelligent eyes she had ever seen. You could tell so much from a horse’s eyes, and the eyes of this gelding made an immediate connection with Issie. There was something special about this horse.

“Hello, boy,” Issie murmured. “You’re lovely, aren’t you?” She reached out a hand to stroke the horse. “What’s your name, eh?” she cooed.

She was startled when a voice responded.

“You’re early.”

Issie spun around. There was a woman standing right behind her!

“Ohmygod!” Issie giggled. “You gave me a fright!”

The woman didn’t smile back. She stood there stiffly with her arms folded and her brow furrowed into a frown. Despite her gruff expression, Issie could see that she was quite beautiful with glossy, walnut-brown hair, delicate, tiny freckles over her cheekbones and bright green eyes.

“You must be one of Avery’s riders,” the woman said this as if it were a statement, not a question. “I thought you weren’t due at the stables until after breakfast.”

“I’m not…I mean, we aren’t…” Issie faltered. There was something about this woman that made her nervous. She was sure she had seen her somewhere before. “I’m here from Chevalier Point Pony Club. My name’s Issie…Isadora Brown.”

“So which one is it?” the woman asked coolly. “Issie or Isadora?”

“My friends call me Issie.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well then, I’ll call you Isadora.” She paused and then added, “My students at the Blainford Academy call me Voldemort. I don’t know why. Apparently, it’s got something to do with Harry Potter…Anyway, they think it’s hilarious.” The woman looked at Issie with cold eyes. “Do you think it’s funny?”

“Ummm, yes…I mean…no…ummm, I don’t know,” Issie stammered nervously.

“It’s because I’m the toughest teacher at the college,” the woman said, clearly unperturbed by her gruesome reputation. “I expect that once you’ve been through one of my cross-country lessons you’ll agree with them. Although,” she continued, “I’d prefer it if you called me Tara.” She stuck out her hand for Issie to shake.

“Tara Kelly.”