Promises
to Keep
By
Sabrina
(Set in series 2,
around the time Steve is going out with Wendy)
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and I have promises to keep.” The words of Robert Frost flitted through Steve’s mind as he patted Hercules’ neck. But this wasn’t a winter evening but a spring morning, and the glade ahead, shining bright in the middle of the woods, was covered in heartsease and alyssum – or as Steve simply thought of them, purple and white flowers – rather than snow.
Hercules was jumpy, which was unusual. The old barge horse was bombproof as a rule, and Steve enjoyed riding him when he wanted to let his mind wander. In this case, it was wandering alternately between pretty Wendy Bendigger, all bouncy blonde hair and big smile, and Dora, solemn, guarded, with that rare look in her eyes that probably meant love.
Around them the wood rustled, alive. Birds sang and flew, unnamable animals stalked through the undergrowth. So when the shot came, it took the entire wood by surprise, birds squawking and the undergrowth heaving in panic.
Hercules screamed and reared, and Steve was briefly aware of a searing pain in his shoulder before he hit the ground, and all went black.
He woke with a start, his heart thudding. That dream again. The woods, Hercules, the shot. It was so real; experimentally he flexed his right arm and found it all worked normally. Steve rolled onto his back and let a long breath out, almost a whistle. The familiar loft was blue grey in the rays of the moon. Dreams. Silly dreams. Dora worried about dreams; he had more realistic things to worry about, like Wendy, who was vivacious and attractive and who had made it clear she’d like a lot more than just riding lessons from him. Dora….Wendy….he felt torn in two sometimes, considering the impact that dating Wendy might have on what he had – whatever it was, friendship at the moment - with Dora.
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep.” How odd that he should quote a poem, any poem, in his dreams. This was one of the few poems he remembered and loved from his sporadic, cruel school years. The image of the man stopping his horse and looking at the warmth of the farmhouse, with miles to go before he could reach his own warm bed, summed up Steve perfectly as he searched for somewhere he could call home. Now he’d found it. But as for the promises to keep…Dora – or Wendy? He sighed again, ran his fingers through his hair and locked them behind his head. There’d be no more sleep for him this night. This was the fifth time he’d had the dream, and it safely warded off the comfort of sleep until the gentle light of dawn moved into the room.
Steve was barely able to keep his eyes open over breakfast. Not even Slugger’s industrial strength tea or crispy bacon woke him up.
“Dear, dear, dear,” grinned Ron as Steve stifled yet another yawn. “Out wiv Wendy last night, was you, Steve? Did she keep you up all night?” Ron cackled and poured himself more tea.
Dora wordlessly pushed her plate away and headed out the door, her face a mask of controlled thunder. The gentle click the latch gave behind her was more eloquent than the loudest slam.
“Now look what you done, Ron,” Slugger grumbled. “She ain’t eaten her breakfast, she’ll be cranky all morning.”
“What’s new?” said Steve tiredly, rubbing his face. He really didn’t need to deal with Dora in one of her moods this morning. “And no, Ron, I wasn’t with Wendy last night. I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep.” He pushed bacon around his plate, next to a congealing, too-hard egg.
“Wasn’t them mice in the feed again, rustlin’ around, what woke you up?” Slugger slurped his tea. “We need a cat.”
“No, it was…oh, I dunno.” Steve couldn’t possibly tell them about his dream, they’d laugh at him and tell him he was turning into Dora.
“Blighted lurve,” suggested Ron with a cackle.
“I’ll help Dora with the mucking out,” Steve decided, as Ron clearly wasn’t going to let up on him.
He found her in Copper’s stable, her face sulky.
“I wasn’t with Wendy, in case you’re wondering. I had a bad dream.”
“Right.” She brushed and brushed the chestnut’s shining neck. “None of my business, really, is it?”
Steve sighed and gave up. Fifteen horses in Follyfoot at the moment, Ron had spent half an hour mucking out one and singing pop tunes, Dora was in a fine sulk so that left Steve to do the bulk of them. Just wait till Ron finished breakfast, he’d give him what for!
Hercules blew peaceably down Steve’s neck as Steve shovelled dirty manure into the wheelbarrow. Steve clapped the horse fondly on the shoulder. “You need exercise, old fellow. I don’t know whether I should ride you or not after last night.” Hercules nuzzled him, as if to say no harm could ever come from riding him. He was bombproof, bulletproof, just try him and see. Steve grinned. Dreams were just – dreams, your subconscious acting out all the thoughts in your head. They weren’t a harbinger of what was to come. It was spring, everything was green and lush, the sky was an enticing blue.
“Dora!”
“What?” came her muffled voice from Copper’s stable.
“Let’s go for a ride after this. It’s a perfect day for it.” Steve shot the bolts on Hercules’ door and wandered down to Copper’s. “Just you and me.”
“There’s so much to do here,” mumbled Dora.
“Let Ron do it for a change. Come on, girl. Copper could do with it.”
“Who will you ride?” Now that Taminy’s gone to Wendy, Dora said to herself.
“Hercules. He’s pretty fit for an old boy.”
As if on cue, two larks danced overhead, calling to each other, before perching with a delicate flutter onto the Lightning Tree. Dora smiled in spite of herself. “Okay. I’ll do Firefly and the Weaver first, it won’t take long.”
Almost an hour later they rode out, hatless, jacketless, the sunshine warm on their arms. Dora forgot her sulks as she let Copper have his head and race along the top of the ridge, Hercules at a panting canter behind him. On days like this Copper could go forever, with the stamina of his Arabian heritage turning his chestnut frame into a lithe machine. Dora laughed and finally pulled him up to wait for Steve.
“Don’t take any prisoners, do you?” Steve grinned as Hercules, blowing heavily, eased to a grateful walk. “I bet that was the fastest this old boy’s gone in years.” He jumped off and loosened Hercules’ girth, letting the horse nuzzle the soft spring grass at his feet, then sat down on a tussock, letting the soft breeze blow his hair back from his face.
Dora sat beside him on the top of the hill, Copper’s reins
dangling in her hand. Below them
Steve thought of the life he could still be living in
“If only it could be like this forever,” Dora said wistfully. “So perfect.”
“Dora the dreamer.” But he smiled kindly as he said it, and lay back on a mound of heartsease, his head pillowed on the purple and yellow flowers, his eyes on Dora’s exquisite profile.
“Dreams do come true,” she insisted. “If you want them to badly enough.” She lay beside him. “Have a dream, Steve, and make it come true. Just try…try being a dreamer, for a little while. Please?”
Steve sighed. How could he resist those hazel eyes that were so gazing into his? “Okay, I’ll join the dreamer’s brigade and see what happens.”
Dora smiled. “Promise?”
“Promise.” Their eyes locked, and for a moment Steve could have sworn the world tipped ever so slightly on its axis. Or was it just that he didn’t usually see Dora horizontally?
“So what’s your dream then?” Dora broke off a long stalk of grass and idly – but oh, so carefully! – ran it down Steve’s arm.
Steve turned his head and squinted at the sky. “I think….belonging. Belonging somewhere.”
“But hasn’t that already come true?” Dora propped one arm under her head. “You belong at Follyfoot – don’t you?”
He was about to joke that living in a loft wasn’t actually the stuff of which dreams were made, then thought of the meals they shared in the farmhouse, the way he’d been accepted by everyone from the Colonel to Ron, and Dora bringing him a steaming mug of tea in the mornings. He smiled. “Oh yes, girl, I belong at Follyfoot.”
“Then choose another dream. One you’d like to come true.”
Love, thought Steve. I want to be
able to love and support you, Dora, myself, without the Colonel’s kind charity
running Follyfoot, or your posh parents’ allowance; I
want to make an
She stopped playing with the stalk of grass, broke it in two. Here, on a perfect spring morning, with romance almost a scent on the air, Steve’s answer wasn’t what she’d hoped for. For Dora, dreams weren’t about the material, they were about the intangible. They HAD money already, Dora thought crossly. The Colonel provided for Follyfoot, he loved doing it. She sat up, her back towards Steve.
“Not the words you wanted to hear, Dora?” Steve said softly. “I’m sorry, girl. That’s the best I can do right now.”
“We should probably head back. Slugger hates it when we’re late for lunch.”
“Don’t want Slugs to spoil lunch, do we?” Steve grinned and stood up. He held out one hand and pulled her to her feet. “Cheer up,” he said softly. “I promised I’d try being a dreamer, didn’t I?”
Dora nodded. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright.
Steve tugged on Hercules’ girth and mounted while Dora hopped with one foot in the stirrup after Copper, who was trying to move off eagerly.
Dora swung herself into the saddle finally, and set off at a brisk trot, heading down the hill towards the bridleway that ran past the woods and the Squire’s lands. They were a couple of miles or more from Follyfoot, and Steve tried not to remind himself that Wendy lived, as the crow flew, not far away to the left, down in the valley.
Hercules grunted as Steve booted him to keep up; Copper had moved into a slow canter. Above the grunting Steve heard the sound of several motorcycles. “Dora, slow down! I think Lewis Hammond’s about!”
Swiftly Dora pulled Copper to a walk. They listened. Like a tribe of angry wasps, the motorcycles buzzed; above the rasping exhausts they heard whoops of joy, and then a scream and a horse whinnying.
“They’re chasing someone. Come on!” Steve urged Hercules on
as fast as he could. The old horse’s eyes almost popped as Steve’s heels
tattooed his ribs. With Copper beside him Hercules thundered down the hill,
Steve yelling, “Stop!
Another scream, howls of hyena laughter from The Louse and his followers.
Then Steve and Dora were close enough to see – it was Wendy on Taminy, encircled by Lewis and his mates, who were revving their motorbikes in a circle around her, like Red Indians isolating an unfortunate cowboy.
“Go to Follyfoot,” Steve said urgently to Dora. “Fast as you can. Get Slugger to call the police. And the Colonel. And the squire. Anyone, everyone.”
“Steve, you can’t deal with them alone,” she hissed back.
“I can lead them away and let Wendy escape. GO, Dora! Just go! Quick!”
Dora later regretted the pang of anger that went through her just then. Most of all she hated the idea of leaving Steve to be the big hero, rescuing Wendy all by himself. What girl wouldn’t love a man to do that? She knew it was childish and spiteful, this surge of jealousy, but she felt it all the same. She hesitated for a second, maybe two, her furious eyes firstly on Steve, who was angry too, and then on Taminy, who was terrified and trembling, his tail swishing and nostrils wide. When Dora did wheel Copper and send him into a flat gallop in the direction of home, it was for Taminy’s frightened eyes, not the girl on Taminy’s back.
“Leave her alone, Lewis!” Steve called above the buzzing motorcycles.
“Ooh, look, it’s the Hero of Follyfoot,” jeered Lewis, stopping his bike. “Come to rescue the pretty girl, have you, Stevie?” Despite the warm day Lewis was wearing his trademark dirty sheepskin jacket. He twisted the throttle and gave his bike an experimental rev, making Taminy edge backwards nervously. Grinning, the boy on the bike behind Taminy obligingly revved his bike and tooted the horn.
It was too much for Taminy. Seeing a gap between the motorbikes, he took off for the woods. Wendy screamed and hung on to his mane. “Heeeellllp!” Taminy was as fast as any racehorse at the moment, bolting for safety, his ears glued flat to his head.
“Who’d a thought ole Follyfoot horses could move that fast, Stevie? Wonders will never cease!” Lewis chuckled and tossed his fair hair back from his pink cheeks. “Well go on, hero, rescue the maiden. We’ll help you!” He grinned and revved his bike again.
Hercules, in all his years as a barge horse, had seen many sights and heard many sounds. Of all the sights and sounds, he hated motorbikes, particularly the way they smelt. He was already edgy and on his rather considerable toes. It didn’t take much urging from Steve to make him lunge past the bikes and after the grey horse.
Taminy had vanished into the woods. Steve cursed. If Wendy tried to deviate from the main path at that speed, she could seriously injure herself and the horse. Behind him the motorcycles started their angry wasp routine again, and this time he knew he was the target. If only he could get into the woods first… He knew all the little paths, the side ways, where was safe and where wasn’t…and where motorbikes couldn’t follow.
The dark trees closed over him, the bridle path narrowed and became bumpy, and the woods were around him. “Wendy!” he yelled, but couldn’t hear any reply above the sound of Hercules’ hooves and snorting breath. A whoop from behind him told him Lewis and his mates had followed. “Wendeeee!”
“Here!” screamed Wendy from somewhere ahead and to the left. Suddenly Steve knew where she was. There was a clearing, a little glade, off the main bridle path, a good place for a picnic if you ever had enough time away from Follyfoot to have one. You had to jump a small log onto the secondary path. He felt proud of her, if she’d managed to bring Taminy to order and get him down the path into the glade.
Aware of the bikes somewhere behind him, Steve slowed Hercules unwillingly to a canter. The path branched up ahead, with the main bridle path going straight. Steve took the left branch, hoping that he couldn’t be seen by Lewis. He checked Hercules, made him listen to his hands and feet, and set the old horse at the fallen log. Hercules cleared it like a showjumper. The trees were planted more closely together here; there was every chance he’d escaped Lewis, at least for now, as he went further into the dense woodland. He’d have time enough to get Wendy to safety.
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and I have promises to keep.” The words of Robert Frost flitted through Steve’s mind as patted Hercules’ neck. But this wasn’t a winter evening but a spring morning, and the glade ahead, shining bright in the middle of the woods, was covered in heartsease and alyssum – or as Steve simply thought of them, purple and white flowers – rather than snow.
Around them the wood rustled, alive. Birds sang and flew, unnamable animals stalked through the undergrowth. The motorbikes hadn’t followed; they buzzed angrily on the main bridle path. Wendy was up ahead in the glade, safe. And Dora…she must almost be back at Follyfoot by now, getting help. Wendy… Dora…Steve’s mind wandered for a moment. When the shot came, it took the entire wood by surprise, birds squawking and the undergrowth heaving in panic.
Hercules screamed and reared, and Steve was briefly aware of a searing pain in his shoulder before he hit the ground, and all went black.
* * *
Steve edged back to consciousness with a hand, a very feminine hand, stroking his hair. He muttered, almost incomprehensively, “Dora,” and opened his eyes slowly. For a moment the world was fuzzy and then Wendy’s face came into focus. He wasn’t in bed but lying in the woods. Then he remembered – the Louse, motorbikes, Taminy bolting and Dora going for help, and there was a shot, and his shoulder hurt. It still hurt.
“I got shot?” he asked disbelievingly. His voice sounded disembodied, as if it wasn’t his own.
“No, thank God.” Wendy knelt beside him, still brushing his hair back from his forehead. She was very concerned and disturbingly pretty. “Someone let a gun off. Hercules reared up, and a branch caught you in the back. I think you’re bleeding a bit, but it’s not too bad.”
There was something matter-of-fact about her voice. She wasn’t her usual flirty self, and he’d bet Wendy was the kind of girl who’d flirt with a guy even in these circumstances.
“What else is wrong? Is Taminy hurt? Is it Hercules?” He tried to sit up, but his head spun in lazy aching circles and a spear of pain shot through his shoulder. Groaning, he lay down again. Wendy had generously put her pullover under his head as a pillow.
“No, it’s just… you were talking while you were unconscious.”
“What did I say?” Steve said suspiciously.
“Something about Dora. And me,” she ended lightly. But there was an inquisitive tone in her voice.
“Can’t remember a thing,” Steve said, but he had a vague impression of feeling pulled in two by both of them.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Dora had made it safely to Follyfoot, then. Steve felt relief wash through him, leaving him even more drained. He could stop worrying, help was at hand. The Colonel would take the horses back to Follyfoot, someone would take him to a doctor… Steve closed his eyes and let consciousness drift away.
Again, the dream of riding through the woods to the glade on Hercules’ broad back, of promises to keep and miles to go before he could sleep. The shot, the pain, the blackness. When would he stop having the dream? Steve frowned and felt himself surfacing. There was a gentle hand on his forehead. He tried to mutter “Wendy,” but his mouth couldn’t quite form it and all it came out as was a groan.
This time, when he opened his eyes, the face looking at his own was Dora’s. A bit dirty, smeared with tears, but full of compassion and the love she usually managed to hide very successfully. “Steve?”
“Not shot,” he slurred. “Just a tree branch.”
“You were talking about promises to keep, and dreams.”
Spoken by Dora, it all made sense. So that’s what his dream meant… not only a harbinger of the future, but to remind him of the promise he kept to Dora about having a dream he wanted to come true. He sincerely wished he hadn’t had to have a branch hit his shoulder and knock his head on the ground as part of the deal.
Behind Dora, Wendy was holding onto both Taminy and Hercules and talking to the Colonel, the Squire, who was holding a shotgun, and a policeman. Their voices were low enough that he couldn’t hear what they were saying but he had the impression the Louse had gone too far this time. “Heard those blasted bikes and fired a warning shot,” the Squire boomed angrily before the policeman placated him and their voices fell again.
“Dreams do come true if you want them to,” Dora said softly.
“And sometimes, even if you don’t,” Steve whispered unthinkingly. He saw her flinch, and wished he had the energy to explain what he meant and how his recurring nightmare had become a reality. “Tell you what I mean later.’S’not all bad.”
But the damage had been done. Dora rocked back on her heels and looked speculatively at Steve and then Wendy. “I’ll take Hercules back to Follyfoot,” she said briskly. “The police have radioed for an ambulance.”
“Don’t go,” Steve pleaded. “Dora, promise me you’ll let me explain later.” He was feeling more aware and awake by the second; the throbbing in his head was diminishing.
She smiled a smile that was artificially bright. “Sure. But Hercules needs a rub down and a drink. You’ve got plenty of people to look after you right now, he’s got nobody.”
Steve groaned. If only she didn’t fly off the handle so easily! He watched her take Hercules from Wendy with the briefest of conversations and lead him out of the glade, watched her out of sight until the trees swallowed her. Beside his head a clump of heartsease bobbed in the sunshine, the cranky pansy faces mocking him.
Earlier in the day they’d been lying on top of the hill, discussing dreams, intimate until once again he’d shied away from the truth of how she felt. He’d had the chance to tell her of his real dream…that of a future for them together, but he’d blown it. Had this morning been real, or only a dream too? He had to tell her about his nightmare, had to tell her a lot of things, put things right as soon as he could. “I have promises to keep,” he murmured. “And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.” He closed his eyes and waited for the ambulance.
The end
© 2007 Sabrina Ferguson
This is the poem Steve
quoted from (and I hope I don’t get sued for reproducing
it!):
Stopping by woods on a Snowy
Evening by Robert Frost,
1923
Whose
woods these are I think I know.
His
house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To
watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it
queer
To
stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen
lake
The darkest evening of the
year.
He
gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some
mistake.
The
only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy
flake.
The
woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I
have promises to keep,
And
miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I
sleep.