I let out a smothered scream since I’d thrown my hand over my mouth, like that would stop the terror inside me. I bolted up. My instinct said to run, to head for the door, and to thunder down the stairs in an avalanche of fear, but my feet were frozen. Trembling frozen, if that makes any sense.
My mouth was opened, yet I struggled for breath. I thought for a moment that this magic trick, or whatever it was, had emptied all the air from the room, but then I took in a feeble breath, a shallow one, but with enough air to reassure my parched lungs that I could still breathe. I hadn’t somehow been transported into the vacuum of outer space or . . .
My mouth opened wider, then closed. My hand had fallen, clutching air. I think I was trying to speak, but what could I say? A horse was standing in my bedroom, looking at me. A horse in an upstairs bedroom, right inside Timothy’s house. A black horse like the one I’d ridden in my dream.
I still thought there was some trick to this. I suspected it was like in a magic show when the magician has a box that allows his helper to slip away so he can ram his knife into the box. But there was no disappearing box. The closet was on the other side of the room. The huge picture window, equally far away, was open. I could see out, see past the room and across the grass. A golfer was nearby, striking at his little white ball.
“Timothy, how did you get a horse up here?” I asked, pretending to a calm that my racing heart was not feeling. The truth was that I was a mere breath away from screaming, a breath away from hysteria, a breath away from calling 911.
The stallion took a step closer, too close if you asked me. Horses had teeth that bit and hooves that stamped or kicked. Horses weighed a thousand pounds. They were unpredictable and dangerous. They . . . this horse had Timothy’s eyes, that strange color: gold, bronze, hazel.
Against all wisdom, I reached out and touched the beast. His coat was smooth and soft. I wouldn’t have thought a male horse would have soft fur, but then I’d never touched a horse before, except the one in my dream. But dreams didn’t count, did they?
My mother had said she was allergic to horses, so the only horse I’d ever gotten close to was on a carousel. Those shiny steeds had gentle expressions. They were bolted to a metal platform and sentenced to an existence melded to a large metal pole that lifted up and down. Carousel horses weren’t loose like this huge animal.
The stallion seemed to like my petting him. He nickered softly. Then he spoke. “I am the pooka from your dreams, Penelope. When it is night, I can carry you on my back if you like. Would you enjoy another ride?”
The horse’s lips weren’t moving, but his eyes were fastened on me. They were intelligent eyes, eyes as I’d said that matched the exact hue of Timothy’s.
“Are you tame?” I asked. I know that was a strange question with so many exclamations swimming about in my mind: What! How! It’s not possible! I’m imagining this! I’ve fallen asleep! This is a trick! Timothy!
The animal gave a quiet horse laugh for my spoken question, then said, I am not tame, except for you. A pooka cannot be tamed except by his fated mate, which is you, Penelope.
I shook my head and glared up at the ceiling. “Horses don’t talk. I’m going mad. The stress must have been too much for me,” I exclaimed.