Elouise

Chapter 1


That morning, the sound of the cockerel awoke me. I groaned and rolled over in bed, my dark braids falling before my face, but the sound persisted. I mean, why would it stop? It’s the same sound every morning – every day, and it’s nature. I can’t prevent the sun from setting at dusk, so I can’t mute the cockerel at dawn. Still, I closed my eyes and pushed the blanket away, yearning to cool down.
There had been a summer storm the previous night, and the muggy air swarmed wherever you went, however much you tried to escape the heat. It even crept into the shadowed corner of the den Sid and I had made when I was five. Eight years it had lasted – squished between two bushes – the roof strung from the branches of a few ancient trees.
As usual, Sid was the first person I saw that morning after getting changed into my skirt and blouse. He was out working in the fields, bare chest and grubby hands only just visible as he examined the crops; his shorts stuck tightly to his brown legs, gleaming with sweat. And then I noticed him lift his head and wave. Waving back (our special wave – tucking my thumb into my palm and wiggling the other four fingers), I walked along the veranda and plodded barefoot over the parched grass of our yard and into the kitchen.
Mama was preparing French toast for breakfast, her favourite food from her home country, and I smiled, licking my lips when she spooned almost a ladle full of maple syrup onto the pile.
“Bonjour Elo!” she laughed as I sat down. Then, brandishing a plate on the table for each of us, she perched herself next to me and breathed in the hot, sickly-sweet odour rising from the food. Halfway through eating, my father strolled in, wiping his bald head with a handkerchief.
“Something smells good!” He scooped up my plate, pretending to gobble the rest of my toast.
“Father!” I moaned wholeheartedly, and he placed a kiss on my cheek.
“Where have you been then?” Mama asked and handed him a plate.
“Down the ranch with Jam Jam, preparing Hazel for the hunt.” Jam Jam’s real name was Jacy, but I had called him Jam Jam from the second I could talk, so the name had stuck. I rethought what Father had said about his horse and frowned in concern.
“I thought Hazel had a bad leg.”
“Not anymore. Lonato sorted that.”
“But she’s surely not fit to walk yet, right?” I insisted for it had only been a week after the horse had run into a ditch and twisted her ankle.
“Lonato said she’s fine, so she’s fine,” Father said.
“Take my horse!” I offered, still obstinately worried for Hazel, and the man sighed.
“I will if you really want,” he said, and Mama raised her eyebrows as if to say: “She’s right, you know!”
“How long ’till the hunt? I want to see you off.” Father looked at the clock hung on the wall.
“Half an hour. You’d better be quick – we’re starting at the river!” So, slurping down the remaining syrup on my plate, I thanked Mama and dropped it in the sink, rushing back to my bedroom.
I filled a flask with water, stuffing it into my leather satchel. Then, I picked a branch of red berries I hadn’t tried before off one of the bushes by my room and popped one into my mouth.
‘I’m sure they’re not toxic,’ I decided and stuffed the rest into my bag. Racing over to the field of crop, I called to Sid, and he glanced up.
“What is it?” he asked and slicked his jet-black locks out of his dark eyes.
“The hunt!” I gasped. “About twenty minutes!”
So, taking his spade to the house, Sid dumped it in the nearby tool shed and ran with me to the ranch.
“Where’s Leotie?” he questioned, wandering into the stables.
“Over there,” I replied – pointing to the gate where a bright-faced twelve-year-old girl sat, braiding her long hair with tender fingers. I noticed how Sid’s eyes lit up, and his feet moved double the speed as he approached her. I could have been jealous, but I wasn’t. Sid had always fancied Leotie, but I had never fancied Sid. I loved him as a friend or even a brother, maybe. Sometimes, because we lived on the same farm, ate the same food, played the same games, it felt like he was my sibling. However, we didn’t look the same. Sid was tall and gangly for his age when I was short – so short I had recently been mistaken for a ten-year-old; my friend had thin eyes and I had big round ones, so it was like the North Star and the moon – both shining, but totally different shapes.
“Hi, Lee,” Sid said, cautiously drumming his fingers on the fence. The girl said something, but I was too far away to hear.
Then, turning to me and raising her voice, she called: “Hey, El! I’ve saddled Hazel for you ’cause your father took your horse, Rumple, instead. He won’t mind if you have his!” So, following her through the gate into the courtyard, I skipped over to Hazel’s section of the barn and peeked in, having to stand on tiptoe. In the corner of the room was the horse – her brown body and chestnut mane hidden in the shadows. She was standing on a heap of hay and chewing contently. I smiled, for I could always relax around horses, especially familiar ones. They somehow calmed me amidst the hustle and bustle of North Carolina’s life.
Unlatching the door, Leotie soothed the horse and stroked her nose, gently guiding her into the courtyard.
“Come on,” Sid urged, placing his hand on Hazel’s back, just where Leotie was putting hers. I looked impatiently between them as they snatched their fingers away and averted their eyes.
“Can I have a leg up?” I questioned, and Sid let me step on his knee as I slung my leg over the horse’s back, grasping her mane tightly.
“So – her leg’s all right to walk on?”
“Yes,” Leotie answered. “As long as you take it steadily. She wouldn’t have been fit to do the hunt. You were right to warn your father. See you soon!” Then, as Sid hopped up behind me, the girl patted Hazel’s behind, and the horse started trotting along the path leading through the forest to the river. “How long do we have?” Sid questioned as we bumped up and down, up and down.
“Ten minutes ’till they leave – do you think we’ll make it?” I answered, biting my lip.
“We’ll have to hurry, but we should manage.”
And we rode on as the morning sun rose higher into the perfect blue sky.



Chapter 2


The hunt. An old tradition that takes place every six months, where the men from each farm in the valley ride through the woods on horseback, killing game and competing for the largest animal. Last time, my father won the prize for the most kills but couldn’t bring down the ultimate beast – a wolf. In fact, no one for the past fifty years had managed it. They were too elusive and the horses often scared them away. So, if my father had wanted to hunt one down, he’d have to leave Rumple near the river with no one watching him. That would be a painful dilemma, so he’d never done it, and I didn’t expect he ever would. But, this time, when we reached the starting place and saw the group of farmers and farm hands, it took me a second to realise that Father had already dismounted and beckoned to me, pointing to my horse.
‘Of course!’ I thought. ‘Now that I’m here, he won’t have to worry about Rumple!’ In a second, pride filled my heart – he would try it! But then, a painful shadow of doubt loomed inside my head. The wolves didn’t often try to hunt their hunters, but it wasn’t unheard of.
“Father!” I called, half wanting him to triumph and the other half dreading him facing what lay ahead, but I was cut off by the famous deer’s antler horn sounding through the still forest. And, with that, the group had gone – spreading out at all angles and cantering away on their steeds… except for Father, who was racing through the trees with a rifle strapped to his shoulder, his boots clonking on the dark floor.

For five hours, we waited. We couldn’t go home because Rumple needed to be kept an eye on, and we couldn’t take him back with us because Father would need him if he returned early. Sid and I sat by the river, legs dangling in the cool water, sending welcome chills through our bodies. The afternoon sun showered through the canopy of the trees, and the dappled light danced on my arms and bare feet.
I shared my berries with Sid.
“Not poisonous?” he asked.
“No,” I said carefully. Then, when I saw that he’d swallowed one, I bent over and groaned, clutching my stomach mischievously.
“El?” I could see the worry in the creases of his forehead and hear the fear in the volume of his voice.
So, I persisted with the act, grumbling something like: “Help me!” before Sid dropped down beside me on the floor.
“Elouise!” he urged again, splashing cold water onto my face. Unfortunately for him, he grew confused with which drops were the river water and which were sweat. “Oh, you’re burning!” I heard him say, and the severity of his tone was almost enough to make me stop and laugh, but it was only when he began unbuttoning my blouse to cool me down that I hastily swatted his hand away and a shrill howl of humour left my throat. Laughing so hard I thought I might die, I rolled around and around on the floor and watched Sid as he huffed and folded his arms across his chest. I was still giggling when he stamped his foot on the ground and, waggling a furious finger at me, he choked: “That was NOT funny!”
“You’re right!” I gasped. “It was hilarious!” Still, my friend was not impressed.
“I thought you were going to die! I thought you were off to heaven – or hell if I could send you there! I thought I was gonna die! Honestly, we’d better work on your sense of humour so you can cope with life in London!” I stopped laughing immediately and sat up straight, searching for the truth in his eyes.
“What?!” My cry of confusion was interrupted by the end of the hunt, signified by another blow on the iconic horn. Over the next few minutes, the men began to return – dead rabbits, pheasants and one or two deer hung from their belts or attached to their sleeves. As the sound of whinnying horses reached my ears, I saw many farmers mounting their animals and nodding kindly in our direction as they began to show off their game to each other and then disperse.
To keep track, I counted the hunters as each arrived – twelve. I recounted and counted again.
“Sid, there’s only twelve,” I ushered, feebly tugging on his sleeve to get his attention.
“There should be thirteen. It’s been half an hour since the horn was blown.” My friend frowned and counted with me, nodding as he realised I was right.
“So? The last man probably didn’t hear the horn or ignored it to finish the final shot.”
“Do you really think any of the men would do that – ’cause I don’t,” I replied slowly. “They’re only allowed in the forest on this side of the river. It isn’t far in any direction. They would have heard, and no one would be stupid enough to go against the rules after—” But then I saw Rumple standing, drinking from the shallows, bare-backed.
I knew who was missing.
The thirteenth man was Father.
And he never ignores the horn.



Chapter 3


“Father!” I shrieked, fearing more than the worst now. “Father!” I called again, as many of the men looked up from the others and stared in bewilderment at me.
“Elouise?” one young farmhand from the neighbouring estate called. He approached us and turned to look at my horse, happily munching on the luscious green grass on the riverbank. He explained, putting two and two together: “Dyami’s still out there.”
“Father never ignores the horn!” I cried, feeling tears running down my cheeks. The men, who were left huddled in a tighter group, discussed their options. Sid and I were painfully excluded, and I gritted my teeth. Children are not as useless as everyone wants to think. I couldn’t bear standing there and doing nothing. So, before any other thought crossed my mind, I raced towards Rumple and leapt onto his back; while Sid and the men watched, aghast, my horse began cantering down the path Father had taken.
“El!” Sid burst out, but he couldn’t follow me as Hazel could only trot. And I knew this. I didn’t want anyone to follow me – they would have inevitably said: “Come back, Elouise. Your father will return,” or “It’s too dangerous for a young girl.” But I didn’t feel young. I felt responsible. If I hadn’t come to see the hunt off, Father would have had to ride on horseback and push the idea of hunting the wolves out of his mind. It wouldn’t have even been a possibility. Father would have been riding home safely if I had not come, his stomach gurgling with the urge for dinner. Instead, I was galloping into the woods – a little lost – and calling Father’s name until my voice went hoarse.
“Father! Dyami! Father!” Glancing upwards, as I told Rumple to slow, I watched the sun sparkle through the tall, twisted trees and noticed patches of bright blue sky way up in the heavens. Though, when I heard the sounds of more hooves pounding the earth and the shouts of the other men, I tapped Rumple’s white-speckled, grey skin and he raced off again, deeper into the woods. Once I was sure the sound of the other horses had died down, I slid off Rumple’s back because the branches in this part of the woods grew too low, and I caught my hair on one. Yanking it free, I noticed a peculiar, but yet so familiar, strand of white and red thread attached to the branch.
‘Father was wearing his hunting neckerchief today,’ I remembered and pictured him adjusting the red and white stripes as I made my way out of the kitchen this morning. “He was here,” I said aloud, and my horse neighed. “You agree, Rumple?” He neighed again, twice.
He was probably just scared or excited about something—
I widened my eyes and followed Rumple’s line of sight until a patch of black fur caught my attention. My pulse hastened; palms began to sweat. It was the paw of a wolf: mammoth and clawed, the darkest black and sharpest tip. The paw protruded from a holly bush, where the rest of the creature was surely lurking. But the paw didn’t look like it was lurking – more like laying? To clarify, I peered closer and realised that the foot of the beast was sat in a pool of deep red blood and a small, circular wound could be seen on the underside of the paw’s fur. As I crept closer and lifted the thick limb up, gagging as I did so, I glimpsed a bullet lodged beneath the skin.
‘So, Father had managed to kill one?’ I wondered. After all, the evidence was right in front of me. Curious, I tugged on the large, blood-coated paw and heaved the body and head of the beast into sight. My breath snagged on the back of my throat.
I had only seen a wolf once before – when Mama and a four-year-old me had been riding in our cart back home one evening. The animal had slunk across the road and made the horse pulling the cart rear up in fright. I’d only managed a glimpse of a dark tail and hind legs before the wolf had disappeared into the shrubbery but, nine years later, I was faced with the whole thing. The whole damn thing. Its head slumped on the floor was as large as two of mine and its jet-black nose was still shining wet. The length of the animal was easily at least two metres and my insides curdled when I noticed that its mouth was hanging open, revealing two rows of dagger-like teeth and a blood-splattered tongue. If that wolf had been alive, I could have signed my death warrant by merely moving in its presence.
I glanced back at Rumple and noticed that he was panicking – skittishly stomping his feet on the dusty ground. Suddenly, he reared up in fright and I took a startled step backwards to avoid being stamped on.
“It’s okay, Rumple – the wolf’s dead. What is it?” As I moved forwards to soothe him and became aware of the source of his fear, I felt my heart stop for what seemed like an age and then flutter at a painful speed in my chest. The dead wolf lying in a heap on the floor was harmless. Unlike its pack that was creeping out of the shrubbery.