When Sigrid complained of the warmth of the sun, adjusting her brim to better shade her complexion, I suggested we take a different, quicker route home. Leading our small caravan, I devised my plan. AsHenry had boasted weeks before, I knew every part of our little township, each river and stream, the worst bits of the bog, the oversized beehives and hidden hollows and unkempt hedgerows. I knew, also, how challenging the steep, rocky trail I had selected could be.
My mare was sure-footed and I set a fast pace. Henry, whose gelding was solid and slow, fell behind. Sigrid’s horse was ignoring her directions, but, oblivious, she kept close behind me, prattling on about a variety of subjects—fine linen as sun protection, an incident where a cook had tried to pass off a cheat bread that was not made with white flour, a silver girandole her mother believed had been stolen—unaware of my rancor.
I was stewing, urging my horse to go faster than I should have, wishing I could at least observe some uncertainty in Sigrid, when I saw the ground-nesting wasps ahead. I didn’t slow—the quickest flash of a decision. The horse’s hooves made sharp noises on the stones. It was only when I was nearly upon them—Sigrid pondering aloud which spices would be best to chew for fresh breath—that I wondered if I was making a mistake. Doubt settled heavily into my chest. The option to call out and warn her presented itself, hanging in the air. I felt, suddenly, cold certainty, and a sense of wrongness. I directed my mare to the side, around the nest, and said nothing. When I passed, I turned back, to watch.
Unaware of the danger, Sigrid kept her horse in the middle of the path. Lawrence stepped into the nest, then abruptly lifted his hoof from the ground and stomped, swishing his tail. His ears pricked.
“Look out,” I said, half-heartedly. I had created the situation and was now powerless to stop it.
Sigrid, confused, gathered her reins tighter. The horse, agitated, still held his hoof—stung—limply above the ground, and started to dance, to one side then the other. I pulled off the path, backing my mare up, whispering calm breath into her ears.
Next to Sigrid, the insects began to emerge, growing in numbers. She let out a scream. “They’re on me, they’re on me—get them off!”
“Sigrid,” I called out, backing away, afraid my own horse would spook. “Keep your calm. You must keep your calm.”
She didn’t listen or couldn’t hear, and I continued, loudly: “Stop shrieking. Your horse. Sigrid! Yourhorse!” I was shouting myself now, for Lawrence was panicking, bucking up. The wasps attacked them both—Sigrid and the animal were covered in stings. The insects continued to dive, subjecting girl and horse alike, again and again, to their brutal assaults. I heard Henry shouting from behind us.
“Grab the reins,” I called. “Youmustcalm down!”
The horse reared once more and lost his footing. His frame toppled sideways, away from her, and I watched it happen, terrified, aware of each hoof and the weight of the animal’s body. She landed on top, but cried out in fear or pain. I dismounted, and Henry was rushing toward us, and as quickly as we could both manage, we were at Sigrid’s side, attempting to remove her from the ground and from the wasps, which were stinging indiscriminately.
“We need to get you up,” I said.
“Yes, you idiot!” she cried. “My hand is trapped!”
“Here,” Henry said, trying to maneuver her. We worked to free her as the horse writhed. I felt a wasp sting my forearm, and then another my neck. Sigrid and the horse were both heaving in pain. We managed to pull her off just a moment before Lawrence sprang up and dashed for the bushes.
It was then that we could see Sigrid’s hand and she started screaming anew. It was a different scream and one I recognized. Unmistakable, chilling: It was the cry of an animal that fears it will die.
Henry and I brought her back to the hunting lodge. She was too afraid to climb on his horse, and so he carried her, her hand dripping blood down his side. She was pale and gray, and her hand, when I could bear to look at it, was filled with wrong-angled fingers, pulverized in places, a mash of meat and tendons. Sigrid’s screams were metwith her mother’s. A doctor was called for. There were breathless long moments and a sense of urgency—a pulsing energy of injury that made me feel both a desire to be close and the need to get far, far away—until Henry and I were sent outside for our uselessness.
We were both badly shaken. I was shaking. Without discussion, we went to the mews, which were empty.
Henry paced back and forth, and finally—I had been waiting for him to speak first—said: “Horrible. Truly horrible.”
“Henry, I—”
“I should have been closer. I could have tried to grab the reins or—”
I held up a hand, insisting he quiet. “Henry, I could have stopped it. I should have.”
“You can’t stop a horse from spooking.”
“Well, then, neither could you. But you’re not understanding me. I picked the route. We were quarreling and—”
“You were quarreling?”
“It was an awful decision. If I’d known what would happen—”
“You were quarreling?” he repeated.
“The poor horse—will he be all right? Will he come home?” I deeply regretted what I had done to that horse.
“Ethel,” Henry said, severely. “What were you quarreling about?”
I paused my hand-wringing. “You,” I said, in surprise. We locked eyes. “Of course,” I added.
He strode over to me and took my face between two firm hands and kissed me, hard.
