Torn. Karen Turner

another large tree and down a slope and, sneaking a glance over my shoulder, I saw them – Patrick with Jemima in his arms, and Simon, darting from tree to tree. They had doubled-back and were following – good – they thought they’d fooled me.

       “Simon! Patrick!”

      I was nearing the river. It was full and fast and gave me an idea. Bunching my heavy velvet skirts I increased my pace.

       “Simon!”

      I skirted a large pine and, relying on the obscuring mists, ducked out of sight. Now I ran as quickly as I could down an embankment toward the river. I arrived on the lip of a four-foot drop into the swiftly-flowing water. A number of fallen logs rested on the bank and one, conveniently, was partly hidden by undergrowth right by the edge. It was this that I ducked behind, flattening myself and tucking my skirt around me so that nothing showed. Scanning my surroundings, my eyes lit on a broken branch – big enough to splash, small enough for me to toss. I pulled it towards me, threw several handfuls of snow to cover my tracks, and then waited.

       “Simon! Patrick!”

      They were closer, I could hear them. I held my breath …

      Suddenly the still air was shattered by the most piercing, the most frightened scream I could wrench from my lungs. I followed it by tossing the log and was rewarded with a satisfying splash as it hit the water.

      The sound of their approach halted momentarily, followed by Simon’s alarmed shout, “Alex!” They were running towards the river, making no attempt at stealth now. I pressed myself smaller behind the log in preparation.

      “Alex!” they shouted in unison and there was worry in their voices.

      Simon arrived first, I could hear his heavy breathing. I was tempted to spy on them but prudently kept my head down.

      “She couldn’t have fallen in, surely,” Patrick gasped, arriving seconds later.

      “She’s not here,” Simon’s voice had an edge of panic in it. “She must have fallen … I can’t see anything … this blasted fog.”

      “We’d see her down there if she’d fallen in,” Patrick reasoned, though there was doubt behind his words.

      “Zan can’t swim, she’s probably sank straight down or been carried away.”

      “But we’d be able to see her – what are you doing? You can’t go in – you’ll freeze!”

      “You don’t expect me to just stand here!”

      All the while they were discussing my disappearance, I was gathering two good-sized snowballs. Cautiously now, I peered over the edge of my log. They were standing with their backs to me. Patrick had released Jemima and was watching Simon peel off his coat and gloves and edge closer to the bank.

      “Alex!” Simon called again and I ducked behind my log.

      “She’s not there, Sime. I’d wager my allowance on it.”

      “Well, where is she then?” Simon rounded on him, and I had to act quickly before he plunged into the icy waters.

      “Right here!” I leapt from behind my log and released the snowballs, my aim true, striking them each on the back.

      As one, they whirled round. The relief on Simon’s face quickly turned to anger. “Zan, that’s not funny, we –”

      “You bloody cow!” Patrick raged, his face flushed with anger. He lunged towards me and I shrieked, just managing to side-step him. I lifted my skirt and took off as fast as I could – which wasn’t very fast for I’d only taken a few strides when Patrick caught the back of my coat and I stumbled. Simon fell into us and the three of us tumbled to the ground. Jemima danced about excitedly while I squirmed, flinging myself from side to side, attempting to break free, but Pat grasped my hands and held me firmly in place.

      “You like snow?” Simon asked, his eyes glinting. He was laughing now as his anger subsided. “Try this …”

      He shoved a handful in my mouth. I spluttered as it melted and gritted between my teeth. Kicking and fighting, the forest rang with my shrieks and Jem’s barking. Simon scooped another handful of snow.

      “Hold her steady!” He fumbled with the buttons at the neck of my coat.

      “No!” I screeched and increased my thrashing. “Don’t you dare Simon – Ahh!” A cold, wet, handful of snow was thrust unbecomingly down the front of my gown, followed quickly by another, and another.

      Its iciness melted rapidly against the warmth of my skin and I could feel the dampness seeping through my clothes.

      Finally, Pat released my hands. He threw his head back and laughed with such genuine pleasure that it stirred something within me. I’d not known he was capable of so joyous a sound. It echoed through the mist and infectiously tugged at the corners of my own mouth.

      I scrambled to my feet, breathless and wet, and tried to glare down at the pair of them but found myself grinning instead. To cover it, I irritably kicked out and caused a spray of snow to shower Simon, but he gripped a wad of sodden velvet and dragged me to the ground.

      At last we lay catching our breaths as the mist parted to reveal grey clouds scudding across the sky.

      “All we need now is for it to start raining,” said Simon.

      “Would it matter?” I responded. “I’m soaked anyway.”

      “You could be wetter,” Pat sniggered menacingly.

      “Don’t you dare. If I come down with my death it’ll be your fault.”

      Simon jumped to his feet. “Well, I for one am getting very cold now.” He grasped my hand and dragged me up. “C’mon, let’s get back. I think we all need to thaw out.”

      The weather took a turn for the better several days before my brothers’ scheduled departure and Simon suggested a ride to Wharferidge. My own horse, Juno, was being treated for a cut to his foreleg that forced Simon and me to ride pillion on Oliver.

      The melting snow turned the lane into an icy, brown slush and Equus was cautious, placing her feet carefully on the uneven surface. Oliver, a less gently-bred horse and more familiar with northern winters, clopped along casually and confidently. Though never sleek, he was scruffier than normal in his shaggy, winter coat. I straddled his broad back inelegantly and hugged Simon’s waist against the sway of Oliver’s round rump.

      The countryside rolled by; tufts of grass and ancient rocks emerging from the snow. Black-faced sheep congregating around bales of hay watched our progress with mild interest. The lane followed the river, and several ducks gathered on the bank fluffing their feathers in the brisk air.

      Simon began to sing Greensleeves and I attempted a light harmony half a step above his tenor. The effect was quite pretty, and Patrick listened in silence with his eyes half-closed.

      As an inn appeared ahead, he interrupted our chorus. “Mulled wine, anyone?”

      The thought of the wine, warmed and spiced, was instantly attractive and I nodded enthusiastically. I could almost smell the cloves and nutmeg, and suddenly my stomach growled hungrily.

      “Splendid idea,” Simon agreed happily as we drew even with the inn. Its damp stone walls glistened in the sun and a plume of wood-scented smoke curled unhurriedly from the chimney. Simon slid lazily from Oliver’s back then assisted me, and a pair of grubby boys ran forward to take the horses.

      Patrick gallantly swung open the door. The room was warm with the mingled smells of roasting meat and tobacco smoke. Patrons sat in groups of two or three, talking, eating, drinking and puffing on short-stemmed clay pipes, beneath the indifferent gaze of a serving-wench. Now she glanced up wearily, and I saw with no surprise a new interest