The Fault In Reality

Chapter Twenty-Two

The clock is the only sound to disturb the silence as we creep through the darkened house. According to the ticking in the hall it's about three AM. The sound of my father's car is already disappearing down the driveway.

Chase settles himself into a chair in the living room, flicking aimlessly through channels. I go to the kitchen and rummage through the cupboards until I find a packet of gingersnaps. The kitchen harbours a carton of milk in its hindquarters, which I swiftly yank out of hiding and pour into two glasses. A trail of milk dribblings marks my progress down the hall, all the way back into the living room. The television has a few glamourous women prancing across its screen. Chase is trying hard not to cry at it; it's a commercial for women's gym membership.

"Mum is never going to do any of that," Chase gulps. Tears are dangling off his nose. I don't know what to say, so I shove a gingersnap and mug of milk into his hands, then reach for the remote and change the channel.

It's a long night. My eyes are heavy, but every time I let them close Pat's face flickers into focus and I feel wide awake all over again. Chase and I sit quietly, listening to the aimless voices on television. It seems ridiculous that anyone should care about the newest air freshener or model of car, that actors on the family channel can act upset over not getting invited to a dance by their crush. Don't they know there's a woman, a good woman, dying? Of course they do. The hospital was full of people dying. Yet the concept never quite registers until it's right in front of you, snatching the light out of your loved one's eyes.

At some point the sun begins to rise, and I know we can't just sit around for the rest of the day. We're on a horse ranch, and there are things to do. I run over a mental list of morning chores, then cast a wary glance at Chase. He's staring at the television with a glazed look in his eyes. There'll be no relying on him for help.

My first order of business is to get something more substantial than cookies into our stomachs. I'm no chef extraordinaire, but I manage to wrestle two eggs out of their shells and onto an oiled pan. I even, after only a few minutes of peering suspiciously at the unwhitening omelette, remember to turn on the element.

There's some green onion, so I dice that up and throw it in. At the last moment my bleary mind does a neat trick and manages to function long enough to force my hands into rattling the salt and pepper shakers over our breakfast. I set the steaming lump onto two plates and hold one under Chase's nose.

His mouth and hands work automatically at the scent of what resembles food. I watch energy slowly seep into his sleep-deprived system as he eats. It's kind of entertaining, actually, especially when his eyes come into focus and his taste buds register what they're being subjected to. He manages to finish my cooking in a fit of freshly-acquired politeness. I scarf down the contents of my own plate, then haul him to his feet.

The morning air is tortuously cold against my throbbing head. It feels as though my brain has soaked in all the emotions of last night and swelled to twice its usual size, putting a kind of pressure on my eyeballs until I'm scared they might pop out.

Horses prick their ears at our approach. There's several dozen, and while some hired help have already done most of the feeding and watering, many horses are still in need of a turnout and their stalls, a good clean.

My limbs protest at the work. It would seem that someone has stuck my feet into blocks of concrete, rendering me clumsy and useless. Soiled straw goes everywhere except the wheelbarrow it's supposed to. When I finish the last stall I nearly cry in relief.

Chase, equally exhausted from schooling green horses to and from their paddocks, stumbles along beside me back to the house. I think we're both too tired to be properly surprised at the sight of my father.

He takes one look at us and sends us to bed. I'm only too happy to comply. Sleep enfolds me in its warm, fluffy depths, and for a while I'm lost in a confusing but pleasant dream about rabbits in waistcoats and talking clocks.

When my eyes next open the light has transitioned from morning brightness to an evening yellow. I feel refreshed and restless, and am on my feet within minutes.

Downstairs I find a note my father has written.

Chase and I have gone to see Pat. You were still asleep, so we thought we'd let you rest. Love, dad.

I frown and tear the note's corners in frustration. They should have woken me. In all this I realize I've neglected Devany. Last I saw of him he was trying to run me over in his corral, albeit at the incentive of the sirens, but I'm still less than flattered.

I'm itching to move and stretch my legs. When I reach the corral I know a lunge session won't do. Devany trots up to me cheerful as anything, utterly unabashed. I run a few brushes over him, satisfy myself that his antics have left him uninjured, and finally adjust a halter over his head.

We set off outside in the direction of the forest Devany bolted to during the storm. It's a lot less frightening without the thunder and lightning. Bird song cackles in the lush foliage overhead. I set us up on a thin trail and lean my cheek against Devany's shoulder as we walk. He's remarkably calm, and despite his ears swiveling to catch the sounds of the forest, his head is lowered and his lips are loose.

I hum tunelessly, relishing the serenity of Devany's presence. He looks like the remnants of a fairy tail, overgrown tail teased backwards in the breeze, intelligent eyes flicking to investigate the comings and goings of the woodland creatures with that chocolate-toned fluidity. I stoop to pluck some wild flowers and scatter them in his mane. He shakes them loose with a snort, in indignation of having his masculinity insulted, I fancy.

Then he goes quite suddenly rigid. The back of my neck prickles. I know, instinctively, that we're being watched.

Devany's gaze is trained on something behind me. I bring myself to turn, fighting through the ice that has suddenly flooded my veins, and look out between the trees. Everything is quiet. Too quiet. The birds have stopped singing.

Devany explodes from behind me. My fingers have tightened around the lead rope, so that in one dizzying plunge I'm streamlined behind him. I'm being yanked, bouncing, over the ground. Tree trunks snag around the ends of my limbs, slamming me into a mold around rough bark and igniting a sickly sequin of pain over my legs.

We careen out of the woods and across the far pasture. Devany's churning black form sputters to a halt, and gravity takes me back in its concrete grips with a dull thud.

I lie in the grass, chest heaving, fear and pain pumping adrenaline under my skin. Angry red marks have flushed on my palms. I bite back a cry and wipe away tears with trembling fingers.

"What was that?" I whisper.

Devany gives me no answer, just stands rigid. His features have suddenly blended into the composure of a creature being hunted. He is no longer Devany, but a horse driven by its instincts as prey.

Prey. The concept settles itself in the back of my mind. For one fleeting second, at the hands of some unknown predator, I was prey, too. It strikes me suddenly how vulnerable I, as a human, am. My species has dominated the earth, yet we're helpless in physical comparison to half the animals in our forests. No claws, dull teeth... I begin to shiver. I steel my thoughts onto more immediate matters. Rising to my feet, I begin to make a mental list of what needs to be done.

Calm Devany, turn him out, tend to my hands, check on Pat... and find out what was in those woods.