Page 113 of Bonetide

In my kitchen.

“Iris!” Maddie shrieks through the car speakers. It’s enough to knock some sense into me.

“Sorry, I almost hit a horse but I’m okay. I better concentrate on driving before I get in an accident, talk to you tomorrow.”

I quickly end the call and sit in the car with my hands on my lap, wondering what to do, my thoughts running wild.

I told him no last night. I told him no with the salt. He honored the salt. He went home. And he’s here now in this form because he wants me to see him, because he wants me to know the thing I refused.

He has come in horse form to be looked at.

At least, I hope that’s all he’s come here for.

We hold like this for what feels like a long time, though it could just be a few seconds, the engine still running, my foot still jammed against the brake.

The horse takes a single step toward me. The weight of it shifting onto the foreleg, the body coming a foot closer, the head still turned to the driver’s side. I can see its breath now in the air, as if the temperature outside suddenly dropped.

I put my hands on the wheel, my grip tightening.

The horse takes another step.

Its gaze has not left my face.

I don’t know what I am supposed to do, if I am supposed to get out and talk to him. I mean, what does he want with me in this form? Should I drive around the horse? Reverse? None of the books explained this particular situation.

All I know is there’s no way in hell I’m laying a hand on that thing.

I put my hand on the gear shift, thinking, trying not to panic.

Then, I put my hand on the window button and roll it down.

Stick my head out.

“You honored the salt,” I say to the horse.

The horse’s ear flicks, the movement so natural that for a moment I wonder if I’ve seriously lost it and this horse really is just a motherfucking equine, and I’m talking to it like it’s my boyfriend.

But despite that fear that I should be committed, I continue. “I asked you not to come. And you didn’t come. I heard you outside, I know it was you, Alasdair, but you didn’t come inside.”

The horse takes another step. My pulse quickens.

“I appreciated that, I really did, and I’m totally grateful you kept your word and would appreciate it if you did it again. So, I’m just going to, you know, scooch on past you now. I’m going home where I’m going to lock the door and I’m going to put more salt down. You can stand here all day if you want, do whatever horsey stuff you do, eat some grass, canter through a meadow, I don’t know, but I’m going home.”

The horse looks at me.

I put up the window and ease my foot off the brake.

I don’t dare look at the horse as I edge the car forward. I look at the road instead, as a good, non-distracted driver should. I move at a walking pace. The horse does not move out of the road, so I have to go on the verge around it. I drive past its head with maybe four feet between the side mirror and its nose, the wet flank of it slides past the passenger window and the smell of it comes in through the vent—cold water, deep loch, an animal smell underneath, something faintly sweet and rotten that I don’t let myself think about—and the eye in the side of its head tracks me as I pass.

I don’t dare to look at the eye. Instead, I drive down my lane, slowly but surely.

I park at the cottage in my usual spot, and refrain from looking in the rearview mirrors. I get out as quickly and calmly as I can and lock the car, thinking this horse might behave like the bears do in Colorado, and I’ll find it in the backseat eating garbage if I don’t.

I move swiftly over to the door, my stride quickening as I approach, relieved to see the salt is still intact where I left it. I unlock the door with shaking hands and step over the salt line into the house, closing the door behind me and locking it.

I lean against it, heart racing against my ribs.

My phone is still in my hand. To Maddie’s credit, she hasn’t called me back. She doesn’t want to interfere with my driving.