The Hidden World

Chapter 4

Maeve stood motionless in shock.

The rider clutched at the reins of his plunging horse with one hand, holding his weapon aloft with the other. He was slender, with long dark hair that hung to his collar.

"Who are you? Who is there?" the rider demanded, stilling his mount at last. His voice sounded young, and he had a curious accent, not like the Newfoundland accents she had heard so far. Perhaps the outport people had their own special dialect?

"It's just me," she said hesitantly. "I'm visiting, and I got lost. Is"—her eye went to the shining thing in his hand—"is that a real sword?"

The young man looked at the blade and then back at her, lowering his arm. "No," he said in a quieter voice, nudging his horse towards Maeve. It approached, with widened eyes and nostrils, as though it was still uncertain of her. "It is only a stage sword that I use in plays. I was trying to understand a character I am going to be playing—a soldier in olden times. I am sorry if I frightened you." He sheathed the sword a trifle clumsily, holding the reins in one hand.

"Plays!" She looked up at the figure on the horse. He was, she now saw, wearing an archaic-looking costume: a doublet, or was it a jerkin? She couldn't recall the correct word. He looked no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. "You mean, people in this place do drama too? Like Shakespearean plays?"

He smiled, teeth flashing in the moonlight. "Shakespeare— yes, we do his plays. You know them too? That is good, very good." He swung himself down out of his saddle. "I am Thomas Ryan. And you, what is your name?"

"Maeve O'Connor."

"You say you are visiting here?" he inquired.

"With my aunt and uncle. At the big house on Bayshore Road."

"Is that far from here?"

She stared. "Far? No, it's just a stone's throw, really . . . down by the shore. Don't you live here?"

"I have lived here all my life." He looked at her closely.

She ventured a smile. "Look, could I drop by your home, if you can't give me directions? Maybe your parents could give me a lift, or—" She'd been about to say, "Or I could phone," and then remembered she didn't even know Uncle Roy's number.

"Of course, of course." Thomas glanced at the horse. "Would you like to ride? Gwyn will take two, if they are not heavy, and he is a good mount, very steady."

Maeve hesitated. She liked horses and thought them very beautiful, but she had never ridden or even come very close to one, having spent all her life in the suburbs. The horse lowered its head and snorted, absently stamping a hind hoof.

It wasn't as big as she had thought at first—a pony really, not a horse—but it was still a very large animal, and she didn't much want to clamber onto its back. "Umm, that's okay. I can walk," she said quickly. "If it's not too far."

"No, no, not far at all. I will walk too." Thomas pulled the pony's reins over its head and tugged on them, making it follow him, The mist was lifting. In the moonlight she could now see every detail of the road's rough surface, almost as though it were daylight. Trees crowded thickly to either side, but she could still hear and smell the sea.

Thomas said little; he seemed shy, not much of a conversationalist. For the most part she did the talking, babbling on to fill the huge silence of the night—for beyond the sea sounds, the countryside seemed almost unnaturally still. After a time she stopped talking about acting and Shakespeare and fell silent too.