Fields of Home by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page A

inside were already dead. Frantically, Brendan began to open the stable doors and lead the other horses out.
    ‘Be careful!’ Michael shouted. He knew how dazed and scared the animals would be, and watched transfixed as the terrified horses thrashed and kicked out when their door was opened. Troy’s front legs and hooves caught the stable boy unawares. Brendan lay sprawled against the wall, blood gushing from his arm as Troy galloped way.
    Michael cursed to himself under his breath. Why hadn’t they left all of the horses outside? Why had they stabled any of them? He began to call to the horses, trying to make his voice sound normal, the way it was every morning when he came to see them, hoping they would recognise him.
    Pippin, Miss Felicia’s horse, whinnied. ‘Good girl!’ he told her gently. She was trembling with fear, her small fawn-coloured body quivering. He patted and stroked her neck, grabbing hold of her mane as he eased the door open, ready to push it shut if she started to rear. But Pippin was content to let him guide her across the yard to the company of the other horses in the paddock. The low, timber frame of her stall crackled and burst into flames behind her, hay and straw lighting up in seconds.
    Michael decided to throw open all the doors and let the horses run free, and hope they wouldn’t panic and injure themselves. He ran from one door to another, pulling back the heavy iron bolts and flinging open the doors.
    Glengarry was covered in sweat and thrashing at her door, trying to get out. In a far corner, Morning Boy rolled his eyes in terror. The mare had given herself a few knocks, and, confused with pain and fear, was making the situation worse for both herself and her foster foal. Michael realised that if she got out she would just gallop till she dropped or batter herself against anything that got in her way. But what would happen to the foal then?
    ‘Get me a halter, and the canvas one for the foal,’ Michael shouted, hoping that Brendan had recovered enough to help him. Seconds later the boy was back with them. Slipping off his shirt, Michael climbed over the door, balancing on top of it as he tried to avoid Glengarry’s hooves. With the halter over his shoulder, Michael reached up for the mare’s head, surprising her when he flung his shirt over her nose and across her eyes, blocking out the sight of the pandemonium around her. A second later Michael had slipped the halter on her.
    ‘Open the door, Brendan,’ he yelled.
    He held firmly onto the mare, who reared up andtried to kick away from him. Michael struggled to hold her as she bucked, but once he got her outside the stable she allowed him to lead her across the yard. Brendan ran over and opened the paddock gate to let her in, then closed it behind them. Glengarry was safe.
    The two boys ran back to the stable for the foal. Michael slipped the familiar canvas halter over the foal’s head and began to pull the terrified young horse outside. The colt jerked backwards, careering into the red-hot door. He started to jump and kick as he felt the burning wood scorch his side, singeing his skin, and Michael and Brendan barely managed to hold him. But out in the yard they finally calmed him down and were able to coax him into the paddock and reunite him with Glengarry.
    By the time Toss came to the burnt-out stables searching for them, Michael and Brendan had saved most of the horses – many of them had simply disappeared, galloped off to God knows where, and would have to be rounded up tomorrow. The two lads had doused the flames in the harness room and prevented it from being destroyed. But the haybarn was gone, and the carriage-house all but ruined.
    ‘Good God!’ shouted Toss, his eyes raking across the scene of destruction. ‘There’s no way the flames could have spread here from the house. This fire is a deliberate act, carried out by some blackguard,’ hesaid, narrowing his eyes.
    Michael and Brendan nodded miserably, the