Free Cry of a Seagull by Monica Dickens Page A

sit so close to the screen.’ The image was gone. On the television, the prince burst triumphantly into the castle and leaned over the great bed where the princess lay in her tutu, and woke her with the immemorial embrace.
    Rose switched off the set – ‘Thank heavens for that,’ from her father – said goodnight and went to her room.
    So that was it! A donkey was in danger. Rose opened the window without turning on the light and stood staring out, chewing the skin round her nails.
    Somewhere, for some reason, a donkey was in the sea, swimming desperately for its life. Rose knew that because donkeys had originally been desert animals, all their descendants were terrified of water. How long could this one possibly survive? For the first time since this strange adventure had begun, Rose knew what her mission was. It wasn’t Georgie or her mother, or the man with the limp, or Joanne, or any person. It was a donkey, the animal chosen by Jesus to carry him into Jerusalem, but neglected by most of the world, a gentle beast of burden, sharing none of the care and worship given to horses.
    All the more reason why it mattered to Favour – and his messenger. But if she was going to save the donkey from the cruel sea, she must know where it was, and also
when
. Was it something that had happened in the past, or was it happening now, or was it something that had not happened yet, and she had to prevent it?
    She must find out more. She must go on another journey. Her spirit was working itself up to that tense, breathless feeling of expectation that ususally led to a summons from the horse. Leaning out of the window, she could feel him waiting somewhere. The moor seemed to draw her like a magnet, but there was no moon tonight. It was too dark to go to the valley. But if she had to wait until morning, how could she possibly sleep?
    When she saw her father’s light go out, she went downstairs, unbolted the back door quietly and went across the turf of the lawn and the longer grass beyond it towards the dark mass of the trees, and the narrow white gate that led into the wood.
    They always kept the gate shut, but now she saw that it was open. As she reached out to pull it shut, suddenly a yellow lantern swung from behind a tree, and the Lord of the Moor, cloaked and masked, stepped into the gateway.
    â€˜Don’t shut us out,’ he warned. ‘Don’t try, becauth you
can’t
.’
    Here? So close to her own home? What ghastly new game was this, to try to stop her?
    The Lord raised the lantern, and she saw the red glowing eyes of the weasel crouched inside his wide sleeve. Behind, Rose could see other flickering lights moving among the trees. The wood was full of soldiers. One of them, his armoured chest misshapen by a bulging cuirass, came closer, and under the unkempt hair on his brow, Rose saw the lidless, deadened eyes of the boy outside the pub, the gang leader at the marina.
    In a rising wind, the tops of the familiar trees whispered together in horror. The Lord spoke under his breath. ‘
We’re waiting
,’ she thought she heard him say. ‘
Now it ith near the time. Now we are waiting
.’
    â€˜He knows,’ the trees told each other.
    He must know that Rose was nearing her goal. Now that she knew what it was, the evil ones would try harder to stop her, the dragon breath would be on her cheek, the hatred stronger. They had never come so close before.
    But the horse came even closer. A luminous moon sailed out of the clouds. A fierce gust of wind blew shut the gate, and in a blaze of light the Lord and his demons were blotted out, and Favour pawed at the grass, not dapple grey now, but stark white like alabaster under the staring moon.

Chapter Seven
    The speed of the horse’s cosmic flight slowed to the more earthly speed of a roaring machine. Rose was deafened, partly by the noise, partly by a hard helmet that came down over her ears. She could not see anything