could see no one. She was alone, and the smoke was getting thicker by the second. The heat was almost unbearable. The roar of the fire was deafening. It was getting harder to breathe and Bird could barely see. She might have very little time before the barn would fall in on itself.
Bunny and Guy stabled ten horses. She’d opened stalls for six, but none wanted to leave the barn. She kept going. She thought some stalls were empty, but the smoke was so heavy that it was hard to tell.
A dark shape huddled against the wall in the next stall. Bird peered through the smoke. It was a small bay Welsh pony cowering in the corner, barely visible until he moved his head.
Bird waved her arms to get him going. Get out! The barn’s on fire.
I can’t! I’m afraid!
Frustrated, Bird tried a new approach. What’s your name?
Bandito.
Good boy, Bandito. Bird tried to remain calm and unhurried.
I’m Bird. I live next door. It’s time to go outside now.
Hello, Bird. Outside now, is it? Okay.
To Bird’s amazement, Bandito trotted out of his stall, down the hall and into his field. That was easy. Bird wondered if it might work again.
Did you hear, horses? It’s time to go outside now. Outside.
One by one, the horses stumbled out of their stalls and staggered outside, heads to the ground and drooling. Bird was stunned. By calming herself down and simplifying the message, she’d made it possible for the animals to respond. Only two more to go and they’d all be safe.
But as Bird turned to the next stall, the stable swirled around her. Her knees weakened and began to buckle. She thought of the horses still trapped and fought hard against oblivion. Then it was dark.
Bird awoke to the sounds of sirens. She coughed. Then she coughed harder and harder, until she vomited. Rolling herself over onto her stomach, Bird retched into the grass. Now up on her knees, she trembled and shook and vomited again until there was nothing left in her stomach. When she finally lifted her head, she saw green through the slits of her puffed eyes. She was outside, hidden in a grassy little dip in the land, far from the barn. The last thing she remembered was being inside it.
With no strength left, Bird let her head flop back down, trying to avoid her own mess. Did she hear someone calling her name? She strained her neck. Her vision was blurry, but she began to count the horses through squinted eyes. They were lined up along the fence, staring at the burnt rubble that used to be their home. One, two, three, the pony, five, six, the grey, eight, nine, the bony old thoroughbred. All ten had gotten out. They’d all made it.
Bird welled up with tears of relief, and the salt stung her eyes sharply. Salt heals the human body better than anything else, Bird remembered, so she tried to ignore the pain. She sank back into the green grass and let her mind wander.
She’d once heard the story of a horse named Atticus, a strong young Dutch warmblood who’d fought his way out of a burning barn. The owner had arrived too late. He stood helplessly watching the fire eat up his barn. Tears rolled down his face as he thought of his eight beautiful horses dying inside. Then he felt a nudge on his shoulder, and when he turned to look he saw an amazing sight. Atticus, singed all over, with blood pouring down his face from a wound caused by a falling beam, stood there behind him. Alive. The only horse to survive. The man fell to his knees in thanks. Atticus became a legend that day. Nobody knows what kind of courage, ingenuity and strength he’d needed to get out of that burning barn. The owner claimed it was a miracle. There was even an article written about it in Horse Sport magazine.
Wait a minute, Bird thought, snapping back to the present. I did hear someone calling. She caught a glimpse of her body as she attempted to lift her head. Am I lying here in my underwear? Memories of hot metal and searing smoke came flooding back, but how had she gotten outside? Who’d closed the gate to the horses’ field? When had the fire trucks arrived? Who’d gotten the last horses out? Nothing made sense.
She peered at the barn — or what was left of it. Black smoke billowed up from an unrecognizable heap of charred timbers, broken windows and jagged steel posts. The firemen held hoses that gushed streams of water, and debris hissed and smoked as the water evaporated almost before it hit the heat. A shiver passed through Bird’s body. I might have died in that fire.
I wouldn’t let that happen, Bird girl.
Cody. Bird looked around. There, standing behind shrubs and a fence post, was the small coyote. He was singed from head to toe.
You saved me, Cody?
It is my duty.
Bird’s stinging tears reappeared. Thank you, Cody. For the rest of my life I’ll be grateful. But you’re burnt. Are you hurt?
No. It’s only fur. But the man is not good.
What man?
The one with little covering.
The wild man?
Yes.
He’s not a good man?
He is a good man, but troubled. He is not good now. He is in pain from the fire.
He was in the fire?
Yes. He helped get out the animals. Then he saw you. He could not get you away from the fire. He fell down.
He tried to save me?
Yes.
You dragged him away, too?
Yes.
Where is he now?
Gone back to his den.
Oh, Cody! He needs help with his burns.
He will not get help. He is like an animal. He’s as wary of humans as my fellows.
Can you show me where he lives?
Later. Now, humans approach. Suddenly, Cody was gone.
Bird’s head ached and her eyes stung. Who was this man? And where had Pierre been while all this was happening?
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