Hoofbeats

The night was uncommonly serene and quiet. Even the tide washing up on the shore seemed to be whispering and I imagined the path of moonlight stretching across the passage was so still it might've been solid enough to walk across. There wasn't even a hint of a breeze and I couldn't hear a single nightbird or cricket. It felt like being under a spell and I was afraid to move for fear I'd disturb something so I just lay motionless in my bed, content to smell the salt air that drifted in through the open window, content to listen and think about how much I loved the ocean and how lucky I was to have it so close. I was on the verge of falling back to sleep when I heard the hoofbeats. They were very near and ringing out like metal on metal, clear and sharp and so cleanly defined they made me think of tap dancing. I threw off the bedclothes in a rush and ran to the window. I could see the ocean, the lights of Westport, the ribbon of moonlight, the dark factory and the fishing shacks. I could see all the way to the Old Road on the left, all the way to the last breakwater on the right and everything in between. There was not the first sign of a horse and no sound of hoofbeats.

“A horse?” Nana asked at breakfast the next morning, “In the middle of the night, you say?”

“Yes'm “ I told her, “Heard it clear as day.”

She smiled and delivered a gentle cuff to the back of my head, “More'n likely you was dreamin', child,” she said gruffly, “Ain't no horses runnin' round at night here or anywheres else on this island.”

“But....”

“Eat your breakfast, child,” she said firmly, “And give that imagination of your'n a rest.”

“A horse?” Uncle Shad and Uncle Willie said in unison. They exchanged a skeptical glance then each gave me a pat on the head and the kind of smile that adults reserve for children with runaway imaginations.

“Ain't no horses on The Point,” Uncle Willie said reasonably.

“Ain't nobody missin' one up island neither, else we'd of heard tell,” Uncle Shad added, “I 'spect you was dreamin'.”

“Ayuh,” Uncle Willie nodded, “Somethin' you et, mebbe.”

“There was a horse!” I said stubbornly, “And it weren't no dream!”

Sparrow gave me a long, thoughtful look, his leathery face still and serious as he filled his pipe and lit it with a kitchen match, fillling the air with sulphur.

“I reckon I've heard crazier things,” he said slowly, “Reckon we all have.”

Being believed is a powerful thing for a child. I stopped holding my breath, let my shoulders drop with relief and he grinned at me and blew a whole series of perfect smoke rings.

I spent a lot of sleepless nights waiting to hear the hoofbeats again, so many that I almost began to believe I had been dreaming. And then, just about a month later on a night so like the first time, I heard them again, bright edged, unmistakable and moving fast. I was already at the window, propped up in one of Nana's old armchairs on the sunporch with a perfectly clear view of the road. The moon was full and the tide was coming in as the horse rounded the turn and thundered past the house, mane and tail flying, head held high and breathing hard but gliding and graceful as a dancer. I could see every detail and coordinated movement, could hear each lathering breath. And then like smoke, he was gone, swallowed up at the end of the road and out of sight. The hoofbeats faded and the night went back to being still and ordinary and I climbed the stairs and went to bed, understanding that no one would believe me except maybe Sparrow and that it didn't matter. I also knew without a shadow of a doubt that real or not, I would never see the horse again.