Blue Cloud

By Marion Day

Can a wild horse, a girl and a mad woman unite to make dreams come true?

Blue Cloud, a Kaimanawa horse, belongs to the wind and rain and to the earth and sky. She tells her own poignant life story in chapters cleverly interlaced with those of Grace, a girl who hopes Hinehopu's wishing tree will grant her wish of owning a horse. Will The Fruitcake, a woman townsfolk say is bonkers, be able to complete the triangle and bring them all together?

Blue Cloud: A book to make you laugh, cry and challenge your perceptions of both humans and animals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CreateBooks Publishing
• Release date: Aug 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9780995106253

Book preview

Blue Cloud

Chapter 1

The Wishing Tree

Grace woke up peeved. Shopping in Rotorua meant rising at sparrow’s fart and she hated getting up early unless it involved horse. Even the soft yellow sunrise couldn’t thaw her mood. And they were sure to waste time stopping at the wishing tree again. What was its name? Te Rakau tipua o Hinehopu. She pronounced it perfectly. Dad had this thing about New Zealand history and culture and expected his family to have a sense of pride for their country too.

Grace yanked the blanket over her head and relived the dream that came every night: She walked down the backyard, towards the end of her mother’s garden. The fence disappeared, and she wandered in a field where the grass grew long, up to her knees. The sky was a radiant blue, the air warm and fresh after recent rain. In the distance she saw the horse – her horse, the most beautiful silver-white. She ran to it as fast as she could. Her arms spread, she took off and flew. At the same time, the horse galloped towards her, growing wings and flying as well. They circled the sky, and as the white horse turned and reared high into the air, Grace gripped her mane and slipped onto her back. The wind rushed through Grace’s hair, separating each strand. She was happier than she had ever been in her waking life...

Her twin brothers burst into the room. Get up! Get out of bed!

You’re the most obnoxious creatures that roam the planet. Get off me!

We’re ready to go, one said, sliding off the bed. Wishing tree, wishing tree, the other harped. Grace’s heart softened. She did love these boisterous

seven-year-old rascals. If you leave, I’ll get dressed and be down in a second.

Grace grabbed a pair of jeans then, one by one, yanked out her tops from the second drawer. Rhea! she hollered. Where’s my T-shirt with the horse motif?

Rhea swaggered into the room.

You better not have worn it, Grace huffed.

As if. It’s too big, anyway. Rhea pointed to the floor. What’s that, blind-eyes?

Grace spotted the T-shirt caught beneath her bedspread. Sorry, she muttered.

As she dressed, the wishing tree popped into her mind. The idea was to throw a gift into the hollow trunk. In return, the tree granted you a wish. The first time – soon after she’d caught the horse bug – Grace had stared into the hole and shouted, Wow! Look at all those coins. How come they haven’t been stolen?

Because the tree is a sacred matai, Dad told them. Chances are something bad would happen to anyone who did that.

Grace had shivered, unsure if she even liked the tree.

Come, throw in jouw gifts, Mum encouraged in her strong Dutch accent.

The twins threw in fern fronds picked from the native bush metres away. Grace waited for Rhea to throw her coin, then threw her own. Please, tree. Please, mystic tree, send me a horse. It can be any horse, as long as it’s a horse. I’ll take anything – even an SPCA one.

She opened her eyes, then peered up into the dark-green leaves with their bluish undersides. What powers could a tree like this actually have? Had the chieftainess Hinehopu really hidden her baby in the hollow, while Ngapuhi chief Hone Heke and his war party marched by?

Four weeks later, Grace had confronted her mum, hands on her hips. That tree’s all bullshit!

Mum fumed. Have respect! Dat’s not a word for a twelve-year-old. Take jouwself to jouw room.

––––––––

An hour into their drive to Rotorua they stopped at the tree. Rhea and the twins jumped from the car, pepped up like the rabbits on their farm. Not her. I ain’t buying into this stuff again.

Mum knocked on the side window. Grace slunk deeper into her seat. Ja. Maybe this time...

Grace exhaled a groan. After all, she was the oldest and didn’t really want to be the family spoilsport. And how many times had she been reminded to set an example for Rhea and the twins? Too many.

She stood at the foot of the tree and stared into the darkness. The coin felt warm in her hand. If I put it in my purse, chances are I’d be better off.

Come on, Grace. Dad slid an arm around her.

Make a wish.

Grace threw the coin. With even more conviction than previous times, she wished for the exact same thing as she always did.

Half an hour later, the rotten-egg smell from the geysers and bubbling mud pools of Rotorua reminded them the shopping centre wasn’t far away. Grace didn’t mind the strong sulphur smell, she was more annoyed about the twins loudly accusing each other of farting.

Dad. Do something, she pleaded.

Settle, boys, he said. Or you’ll be dropped off on the roadside to walk home.

It was enough.

A trip to the city was a twice-yearly family outing, highlighted with a little shopping. The farm sucked up almost all their money, but Dad was adamant there be some small reward for their hard work.

When Grace walked past a gift shop in the central shopping area, she backtracked. Mum! Wow. Look at that gorgeous foal ornament. Can I have it for my bedroom dresser? Pleeease.

Depends on de price. We’ll ask.

Mum kept a double-tight watch on their money. At times, Grace thought her scrimpy, even penny-pinching, so the foal would have to be cheap if she had any chance of owning it.

Seventy-nine dollars, said the lady, who wore bright red lippy.

Grace’s face begged Mum.

Huh! Dat’s more dan we get for a bobby calf – and it’s alive! I’m afraid we can’t afford dat. She snatched Grace’s hand and marched from the shop.

Grace felt embarrassed. But that was Mum. Always direct, to the point. And although she’d wanted the attractive keepsake, when it was put into perspective, Grace agreed it was too pricey. Not for well-off, rich families – but for them.

On the way home, Grace’s spirits lifted. Hells Gate. Spa time. They all loved the hot springs laden with minerals, combined with the silky smooth geothermal mud.

Dad cracked her up each time they soaked in the baths. Let the sulphurous waters of the Princess Hurutini pool wash away the cares of the world, he always recited.

And Grace did just that. At peace, wallowing and dreaming about – what else – horses...

––––––––

She was ten when she first became obsessed – and all because of the fruitcake next door who’d gone bonkers after a nervous breakdown. Well, that’s what everyone said. Like, Don’t go there. Mad as a meat axe. Off her rocker.

At that stage Grace hadn’t caught the bug anyway

so wasn’t even tempted to visit the little Welsh pony that had popped up in the paddock next to the farm boundary, although it was drop-dead gorgeous – a palomino with a long white mane and full tail that fell to the ground.

But one day, when shifting the cows from their well- eaten boundary paddock to the adjoining one, she noted trouble. Serious trouble.

She screamed. Barbed wire had wrapped itself around the pony’s front legs, its golden limbs now blood red. She panicked. She must abandon the cows to help the poor creature. However that meant going to the Fruitcake’s place.

Paralysed legs glued her to the spot.

The pony struggled, whinnying in pain, further ripping its flesh.

Grace loved all animals so she had no choice. Pull! Go! She slid between the second and third fence wires and raced across the paddock, through the trees and up the drive until she reached the house. Catching her breath, she gasped.

What a mess!

Rusted machinery littered overgrown gardens. Ivy had invaded parts of the house, and rotting boards lay stripped of their paint. The roof iron was completely rusty and had been patched with squares of other corroded bits and pieces. Clusters of threaded shells rattled, and tarnished metal pipes sang ghostly notes. Time-scarred, she thought, and certainly not a garden where you could imagine children climbing trees, laughing and playing.

Grace pounded the door. Dread crept up from the pit of her stomach at the thought of meeting the Fruitcake. She crossed her legs to stop herself from peeing.

When the door opened, Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. The Fruitcake looked as messy as her garden, in a faded black dress and a sweatshirt full of holes. And she certainly wasn’t easy to look at – white, scarecrow hair reached for the sky, her mouth was nothing more than a slit beneath her nose, and her chin far too pointy. But when Grace stared into her oversized blue eyes – ones that she fully expected to weird her out – they were soft and jewel-like. It made her wonder if this forty-plus woman could once have been beautiful.

Grace’s fingers reached for the woman’s shoulders. You’ve got to come. Quick. Your pony is hurt.

The Fruitcake stiffened. At the same time, a weepy- eyed rat ran across the threadbare carpet behind her. You have to come. Grace held back vomit. Now!

The woman lifted her shoulders, shook off Grace’s hands and pushed back her unruly hair.

Grace couldn’t breathe. Her heart galloped. Is she coming to help her pony or not?

I’ll get Henna’s rope. Wait here, girl. A command, not a request.

She’d better hurry.

Grace heard a rattly trail bike pull up behind her. Jump on.

I doubt it. I’ll sprint if it’s alright with you.

The Fruitcake slowly approached her pony, rope and a first-aid kit in her hand. Henna. Easy, girl. Easy...

The palomino nickered despite its pain, but stood stock-still as if it knew its owner was about to help..

The Fruitcake attached the rope to the halter, all the while speaking in a soothing voice. She certainly didn’t sound like a madwoman. Come here, girl, she barked. Now she definitely did! Hold the lead.

Gently, the Fruitcake unwound the barbed wire from the pony’s legs. Sometimes it lifted one leg and held it stationary as if to help her. Other times the poor little thing’s ears lay flat on its head, obviously in pain. But it seemed to have full trust in its owner, never moving or shying away. Once the pony’s wounds were clean, some coffee-coloured ointment applied and the legs bandaged, it swung its head at Grace... and bit her.

Ouch! She flew back, rubbing the red welt on her arm.

A tiny smile crossed the Fruitcake’s face. Well, girl, despite all this blood, it looks like Henna’s back to her normal self. She unclipped the halter rope, picked up her stuff, then rode off, leaving Grace in the paddock, feeling like a half-sucked jube...

Grace splashed the warm waters of the spa around her. Yes, she whispered. Yes. That dreadful encounter had first placed the bug in her ear.

They arrived back in town at 4.45 pm.

Dad parked up at the sports shop. Wait in the car,

he ordered, then scooted inside.

He returned pushing a bright blue bike with a bell and a shiny silver deer on the front mudguard. Come on, Grace, he called. This is for you.

What the...? Grace’s heart dropped. Her bottom lip quivered. This thing had two wheels, not four legs.

Where’s mine? Rhea yelled. You’re next on the list.

And ours, added the twins. Second on the list.

Grace lifted her head, forcing back tears.

You can cycle home! Dad said, like he’d just given her prize of the year. Even his eyes shone like polished shells.

Grace half-heartedly took the handlebars. How could that magic tree get it so wrong? Slowly she mounted the bike and pedalled towards home, the family following until she was safe out of town traffic. At the bridge that led into the countryside, they passed her. The horn tooted.

Race you home! Mum yelled through the wound- down window.

Grace looked straight ahead. Angry at the wishing tree. Angry at life. This stupid blue bike with a flash bell and a shiny deer was the last friggin’ thing she wanted.

Chapter 2

Faraway Dream

––––––––

Grace went to bed still fuming. It was hot and humid. Her thick, brown curls stuck to her head, so she kicked off the blanket. Tree frogs whistled through the open window, and crickets sang their screeching