White Horse Talisman by Andrea Spalding

Author:Andrea Spalding
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV000000
Publisher: Orca Book Publishers
Published: 2002-02-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

A DASTARDLY DEED

Holly, Owen, and Adam exchanged swift glances.

“It’s an odd story, sir,” Owen said.

“And we can’t tell you everything, because Chantel’s not here,” Holly added.

“Tell me what you can,” said Mr. Smythe. “We’ve been friends since you were little tykes. Shared a lot of secrets.”

“It began with Chantel,” Owen said slowly. “We went to see her in the hospital. She showed us the talisman.”

“Who gave it to her?” Mr. Smythe interjected.

Owen shrugged and spread his hands. “It was tucked in her hand when she came round from the anesthetic.”

“Like a lucky charm,” Holly added.

“But she woke up remembering a dream …” Owen con–tinued. He paused, searching for the right words.

Adam held his breath. Surely Owen wasn’t going to tell about the White Horse.

“… that the talisman should be taken to Wayland’s Smithy,” Owen finished.

“So we did,” Holly added.

Adam let out his breath. Owen and Holly were smart. They’d told nothing but the truth.

There was a long silence.

“Wayland’s Smithy, eh?” Mr. Smythe grunted.

The three children nodded.

“And a coin-like talisman?”

The children nodded again.

Mr. Smythe fixed them with another steely glance. “You kids mixed up with horse magic?”

To his horror Adam started to laugh. He couldn’t stop. It was all so ridiculous. The nervous laughter burst out of him and rang around the kitchen. “Horse magic … is everyone in England nuts?” he sputtered.

No one smiled.

Owen kicked his ankle. “Shut up,” he hissed.

Holly ignored them both.

Mr. Smythe stood up, walked over to the fridge and pulled out four cans of ginger beer. He offered one to Adam, then the others.

Adam grabbed it thankfully, opened the tab and took a long drink. He gave a small hiccup.

“Horse magic,” mused Mr. Smythe, pouring his soda into a glass. “It’s always been practiced in these parts.” He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Of course, no one calls it that. The English government pays the National Trust to look after White Horse Hill. Scholars study the carving and discuss how it was made and used. Archeologists verify its age by ‘optical dating.’ But the local people do what they’ve always done — the ancient tradition of ‘scouring’ or cleaning the horse every seventh year. Interesting, eh?”

He took a drink from his glass. “Horses flourish in these vales. Ever wonder why?”

“Because of good grazing?” Holly offered.

“There are other good grazing areas in England,” Mr.

Smythe pointed out. “But this place has always been known for its racehorses. For thousands of years vale people have bred horses that are fleet of foot.”

Mr. Smythe placed his ginger beer on the table and wan–dered over to a pile of books. He pulled one out, riffled through to the pages he wanted and passed the book to Adam.

Adam held it so Owen and Holly could see.

“St. George and the Dragon,” Mr. Smythe said. “An old story from the vale.”

“From Dragon Hill,” Holly agreed.

“What’s St. George riding?” Mr. Smythe asked Adam.

“A … a … white horse,” Adam stammered, looking at the picture with new eyes.

“Exactly.” Mr. Smythe jabbed the picture. “The horse, not St.

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