Page 15 of Kept 2
“Huh,” I snort, “you just finished saying you got your rocks off in a major way, but now you say you didn’t enjoy it? I don’t know, Lord Montague, this sounds fishy to me.”
I’m about to read on; it is actually starting to become quite interesting, especially the bit about how a Kept was made, when I hear something.
‘Trumpets?’
Standing and shoving the journal back into my pack, I look behind me expectantly hoping to see a truck, or van coming up the road that can give me a lift, but there is nothing. The sound of the horns seem to be getting closer, but it appears to be coming from the nearby fields.
Squinting against the sun, I unexpectedly see a range of shapes silhouetted on the top of a distant hill. Shielding my face with my hand I can make out horses and riders, but I only have a second to glimpse the cavalcade as it pelts down the side of the hill towards me. It is only as they gain ground that I see, ahead of the riders, run hundreds of barking dogs. And just ahead of them, one reddish, sleek shape, like a small streak of blood, flowing along the grass.
“Fox,” I whisper.
I can see the creature is heading directly towards me, running for its life to reach the road and the woods beyond, but I can also see it is not going to make it – the dogs are close on its heels, baying for blood.
From where I stand it looks as though the whole world is against this one poor creature, that its resolve alone is keeping it running when it could be oh so easy to just turn and accept its fate. Hadn’t I felt the same way, ever since I was a small girl? Hadn’t I always kept going, no matter what hand fate dealt me, losing my mother at nine, my father and home at 17? I could have so easy fallen down and allowed the grief, loss and fear to consume me – but I had not then, and not now. And neither had this fox.
I am rooted to the spot, unsure how to help. If I make myself seen the fox might swerve and miss its opportunity to survive, but if I don’t move, the dogs will tear it apart before it reaches the road.
Seeing a dog nip the fox’s tail, and hearing a yelp of excitement, I am galvanised into action.
“Hey, over here,” I shout, raising my arms above my head, hoping to draw the attention of the dogs – but they are hellbent on their prey and will not be distracted. The fox, however, looks directly at me. Even from the thirty or more metres away that it is, I see its fear and fatigue, and I feel as though the fox has recognised in me that same look. I hold my breath as it runs so close past me that I can see the determined line of its jaw, the glint of relief in its eyes, and I know, that it knows, I am on its side.
As it passes by, I launch myself with a wild screech at the dogs closest behind it, hurling my two precious cartons of milk, causing some to swerve drastically and others to come to a screeching halt. Chaos ensues as dogs try to avoid my outflung arms, projectiles and screams. Horses and their riders pull up hard, dirt and clod and curses fly through the air – and the fox disappears into the trees.
“What the belly hell do you think you are playing at?” an older man in what looks like jodhpurs and a red tuxedo jacket asks me.
“Saving the fox,” I smile unapologetically.
“Fucking Americans,” a woman in a similar outfit spits, whirling her thoroughbred around harshly and racing back in the direction she had come.
The others clearly agree as they all, as one, call for their hounds, blow their horns and gallop off, back across the lush green paddocks.
“Wait,” I shout to their retreating backs, “I don’t suppose any of you will give me a lift to Ereston?”
The bulk of the riders ignore my call and continue, but one man turns and walks his horse back to me.
I don’t know much about horses, but this one is sleek, chestnut, and its black tail and mane are knotted in intricate little braids and rolls, it’s really beautiful, and I reach out to stroke its proud neck as its owner smirks down at me. The horse seems to me far more majestic than its rider, a man of maybe late teens, early twenties with the type of face that would be easy to forget and hard to describe, and a happy-go-lucky smile.
“C’mon then,” he says, extending one white-gloved hand.
“Really?”
“Daniel Parker at your service, m’lady,” he chuckles.
“Thank you. Josephine Baily, fox rescuer,” I add ruefully, “at yours.”
He laughs and shakes his head.
“Don’t worry, I’m not annoyed with you that the fox escaped, I never wanted to kill the damned thing anyway, I just came along for the ride. I’ll take you as far as the village.”
I collect my make-shift projectiles, including the two empty milk cartons, stuffing them all inside my bag, and hoist it over my shoulder.
“How shall I get up?”
He walks his horse to a small, crumbling, rock wall nearby and as I stand on it and place one foot in the stirrup as commanded, as he hoists me up onto the horse’s rump, behind the saddle.
“Wrap your arms around me, or you will slide off,” he says quietly, giving his horse a nudge to get moving, “it’s not going to be the most comfortable ride for you, I’m afraid.”
“Honestly, anything is better than walking at this point,” I laugh, doing as instructed.
