Storm and the Silver Bridle. Stacy Gregg

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      In her nightmare, Issie was back at the pony club, and it was the day of the accident. It was all happening again, in heart-wrenching slow motion. She saw Goldrush, Toby and Coco break loose, then panic and bolt for the pony-club gates. And then, before she could think it through, she was following on Mystic, galloping after them, trying to head them off before they reached the deadly main highway.

      As they struck the road she heard the clean chime of Mystic’s horseshoes on the tarmac. The ponies were ahead of them—at any moment they might be hit by a speeding car! She rode Mystic forward, circling the three horses and driving them back up the gravel driveway to the club grounds, getting them clear of the traffic and out of harm’s way. Then suddenly Toby, Goldrush and Coco were gone and it was just Issie and Mystic all alone on the road. Issie could hear the low rumble of the truck, smell the diesel and hear the squeal of tyres as the massive vehicle tried to brake. Mystic turned to face the truck, like a stallion squaring up to his opponent, ready to fight. As he did so, he threw Issie back and out of the saddle. Issie felt herself falling. She knew what would happen next because she had been there before. She would be thrown clear of the truck, but Mystic, poor, brave Mystic, would face it head on. And he would die!

      “Mystic, no! NO!” Issie screamed. She was still falling, but the ground seemed a long way away. Falling, falling and then—she woke up. Issie sat bolt upright in bed, her heart racing and her sheets soaked with sweat. She found herself gasping, trying to catch her breath, trying to fight back the tears, then giving up and crying again just like she had done that day when she’d woken up in the hospital bed and her mother told her that her pony was dead.

      Issie’s mum and everyone had tried to help her get over it, but how do you ever recover from losing your best friend? And so she’d sworn she would never ride again. The idea of loving another horse had just seemed impossible.

      Then Tom Avery had turned up with Blaze. He told Issie about how the International League for the Protection of Horses had found the mare half-starved and maltreated. Issie knew then that she had no choice but to take the mare on. She poured her heart into helping Blaze and, as the mare got better, Issie’s spirit recovered too.

      Still, Issie never let go of her love for Mystic. And it turned out that the grey pony never let go of her either.

      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. He returned whenever she really needed him. Not as a ghost, but a real horse.

      Mystic had a sixth sense for danger. He had saved Issie’s life so many times now she had lost count.

      She had dreamt about Mystic before. Her dreams were often a portent of what was to come. As she sat there in bed, Issie became aware of just what the dream meant. There was big danger afoot—she could feel it. A dream like that? It meant Mystic must be here.

      Issie jumped out of her bed and raced to press her face up against the window. She peered out into the inky night, trying to see down to the garden below her room. It was raining outside, and large rivulets of water snaked down the pane of glass, blurring her view. There! Something was moving down on the lawn. It was hard to make the shape out clearly in the dark, but it was something big—Issie could see the shadow moving back and forth. Was it Mystic?

      Pulling on a sweatshirt over her pyjamas, Issie raced down the stairs and out of the back door into the garden.

      The rain was getting heavier now and the grass was squelchy and sodden under her feet.

      “Mystic!” she hissed under her breath as she peered into the darkness. “Mystic!” It was so frustrating having to be quiet, but she didn’t want to wake her mum.

      Issie stood still for a moment, listening carefully. At first, all she could hear was her own heart beating. She began to doubt herself. Perhaps she had simply been having a nightmare. Maybe it didn’t mean anything after all? She held her breath now and listened again.

      There! She heard it. A soft nicker, the sound of a horse, coming from the far end of the garden. “Mystic!” Issie called again, her voice strained with emotion. This time she heard the whinny quite clearly, and then came the muffled sound of hoofbeats trotting towards her across the well-mown lawn. Out of the darkness, a dapple-grey horse stepped forward to meet her.

      “Mystic!”

      The bad dream had left Issie so shaken-up that the sight of her pony actually standing right there in front of her made her instantly burst into tears once more. She wiped her cheeks roughly with her sweatshirt sleeve. She had to pull herself together.

      “Hey boy,” she murmured. She put out her hand to touch her beloved pony and for a brief moment she wondered if Mystic would disappear again, nothing more than a misty shadow in the rain. Then she felt her fingers close around the coarse, ropey strands of Mystic’s long, silver mane, and her hands touched the soft warmth of his dappled coat.

      “Hey, Mystic, did you miss me?” Issie smiled. She was so desperately pleased to see her pony, yet his presence sent a chill through her heart. Issie realised immediately that if Mystic was here, then something was wrong. Very wrong.

      The grey gelding seemed tense and anxious. He turned away from the house and began to trot back down the lawn towards the far end of the garden. Issie had seen him do this before and she knew exactly what he wanted her to do. Pulling on her boots, she followed him in the darkness, heading for the gate at the end that led to the street. Issie swung the gate open, taking hold of the pony by his mane so that he stood parallel to it. Then she climbed the wooden gate to the third rung and, without a second thought about what she was doing, leapt on to the grey pony’s back.

      Issie took a moment to get her balance, then tapped the pony lightly with her heels. He responded instantly, moving off at a brisk trot. As soon as they reached the grass verge of the road, Issie urged Mystic on from a trot into a loping canter. She had no saddle and the canter was less bouncy and easier to ride bareback. Issie had no reins either, but it didn’t matter. She could have guided Mystic with her legs, but she knew better than to try and steer the pony. After all, Mystic had come to her with a warning and that meant he knew exactly where he was going. All Issie needed to do was wrap her hands into his long mane and hang on.

      She gripped his mane tightly and bent down low over his neck as the rain began to fall harder. She realised she had been stupid to race out in weather like this, without changing into her jodhpurs and raincoat. Already she was chilled to the bone as the wind whipped her icy skin and the rain soaked her pyjamas. It was too late to worry about that now, though. Beneath her, Mystic’s canter was almost hypnotic, rhythmic and steady, as his hooves pounded a tempo on the grass verge. There was no turning back.

      Issie still had no idea where they were going. It wasn’t until they had been riding for almost ten minutes when she saw tall rows of poplar trees rising up in front of them and realised they had reached the banks of the river. As Mystic turned along the esplanade she guessed they were heading towards Winterflood Farm. She felt a chill up her spine. Nightstorm was at Winterflood Farm. This couldn’t be a coincidence—the arrival of Francoise D’arth and now Mystic? No. It was clear that all of this had something to do with the bay colt.

      Beneath her, Mystic’s strides lengthened as he reached the wide grass strip that ran along the banks of the river. They had ridden this path once before in the dark and Issie had trusted Mystic then to get her there, just as she did now. Instead of trying to slow the grey pony down, she leant down low over Mystic’s neck and let him gallop. If Nightstorm really was in danger then they had to move СКАЧАТЬ