|
Wordsmith
Join Date: May 2005
Location: Belgium
Gender: Female
Posts: 6,220
|
The white horses of Porto Corvo
I'd appreciate your opinion on this story!
Lynda tried to duck away as Paul’s fist shot out. Once again she had said the wrong thing over breakfast. Her husband could not control his temper and needed to proves he was right by beating her up.
She was not so fortunate. He hit her full in the face and she lost her balance.
“Paul, please..” she begged.
He did not hear her – or did not want to. He was only satisfied when he had kicked her around some more and the begging finally stopped. Lynda had lost consciousness.
She woke up a couple of hours later, bruised and battered. Experience told her that no bones were broken and she need not go into the A&E room to hear awkward questions. At least she would be on her own for the rest of the day, as Paul only returned from work at 7 p.m. She tried to clean herself up to the best of her abilities and put a band-aid over the bruises.
She could not concentrate on her housework. At long last she sat down on the sofa and tried to figure out what she should do now. Her best friend, Sylvie, had told her over and over again that she should leave Paul and file for a divorce. Then perhaps she could be happy once more.
Lynda laughed bitterly. Happy! When had she ever felt happy?
She tried to recall a time when she had had no worries, when she had been free to enjoy the simple things that make life enjoyable – and suddenly, the memory popped up.
She had been seven years old and her family had been on holiday in Portugal. Her parents were constantly fighting, she remembered. One day it had become too much to bear any longer and she had taken off, into the foothills. She had run and run until she found herself in a lush green valley. There she has sunk down on a boulder and allowed the tears to run freely.
Suddenly, she heard a thundering noise. And there they were – the most beautiful white horses she had ever seen! One of them neared her and bowed its head to nudge her shoulder. It was as if it wanted to say: ‘Come and play with me!’. It allowed her to crawl onto its back and then they were off once more.
It was the most wonderful experience. Lynda felt like she was flying through the air, with no worry on her mind. That was happiness!
She made up her mind. That was what she wanted to do. Go to Portugal and find back the horses.
Now that she had reached a decision, she was quick to act upon it. She took out some suitcases and filled them up with her possessions. The last thing she did before closing the door behind her and her marriage to Paul was writing him a note. It read: “I’m leaving. Don’t try to find me. You’ll hear from my solicitor.”
Sylvie was glad to see her and took her in without questions. Of course Lynda confided in her and told her that she had finally left Paul.
“And I’ve been to the bank and withdrew the ten thousand pound in our savings account,” she concluded. “The clerk didn’t want to give it to me at first, but I said it was an emergency and got away with it, without Paul’s signature!”
“Clever girl,” Sylvie praised her. “What do you intend to do with it?”
“I don’t know yet,” she confessed. “But I do know that I want a holiday. I haven’t had one in years. There’s a place in Portugal that I remember…”
The following day the two women went into the town’s centre and found a travel agency to book Lynda’s trip.
“You can fly to Lisbon,” the clerk told her. “And rent a car there. Do you have a driver’s licence?”
“I have,” acknowledged Lynda. “When is the first available flight?”
“You can already leave at 5.10 p.m., “ the clerk said, after consulting her pc, “If you want to, I can make reservations in a Lisbon hotel for you as well. I suppose that will be more convenient. You can then head for the coast the following day, after a night’s rest.”
“That’s fine with me. Just make the reservations.”
The less time she had to think, the better. Sylvie agreed to that. Before they returned to Sylvie’s flat, they did some express shopping for Lynda’s trip.
The moment they entered the flat, they heard the phone ringing.
“That’ll be Paul!” Lynda said in panic.
“Don’t worry,” said Sylvie, “I won’t tell him where you are.”
She picked up the receiver.
“Sylvie Prescott speaking.”
(…)
“No, she isn’t. And I haven’t seen her in while, to be honest.”
(…)
“Sure, I’ll do that. But I must go now, I’m late as it is!”
She put the horn down and turned to Lynda.
“I’m afraid he doesn’t believe me,” she told her. “What should we do now?”
“He’ll be round to check things out. I think it’s best that you already take me to Heathrow. That way he’ll see you return on your own. You can even let him in, to make sure I’m not there.”
“It’ll be a long wait for you there.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll buy a pocket and do some reading. I love doing that, but I never seem to find the time for it!”
“You’re sure of it?”
“Of course!” Lynda gave Sylvie a quick hug. “Thanks for everything!”
They did not waste any more time. Sylvie got her car out and then they were off.
That evening, in Lisbon, Lynda already felt better. The temperature was lovely, compared to London. There it had been cold and wet, while here you could really feel spring in the air. It was only the beginning of April and not many tourists were around yet.
The young woman behind the reception desk of the hotel, Serafina, had been most helpful. She had promised Lynda she would call Avis and rent a car for her, and she also provided her with a detailed description of the road she should follow. She had even told her she had an uncle in Porto Corvo, who happened to have a bed-and-breakfast there and who would love to have her.
The following morning, after a delightful breakfast, she drove off. The trip to Porto Corvo took her along the most beautiful scenery. Every now and then she stopped at the side of the road just to take in the view.
She reached the village in the late afternoon. Serafina’s uncle welcomed her in the same friendly manner as his niece and showed her to her room. She unpacked and showered and then felt ready to explore the village and have dinner somewhere.
She still remembered some of the sights. There, in that big meadow behind the church, had been the camping they had stayed at. No tents or caravans now, she noticed. When she asked a passer-by, she was told that the camping had moved up into the hills.
“Regulations!” the woman muttered.
Lynda smiled. “Si, I understand. It’s the same where I live.”
“You’re Inglés, right?
“Can’t hide that,” she returned.
“Have you ever been here before?”
“A long time ago,” she confessed. “As a kid, with my parents.”
“Not a lot has changed, you’ll see.”
Indeed, beside the camping having moved, everything was pretty much the same as she remembered. She dined in the same restaurant her father had taken them to on their evening and found that the cook was still the same person. He did not recognise her, of course.
The tasty meal and the excellent bur strong red wine made her sleepy and she turned in early. She was asleep not five seconds later.
The next morning, she bought some bread and cheese to put into her rucksack and filled a bottle with the mineral water from the fountain on the market place. The she took off for the hills.
That first day, she did not succeed in finding back the green valley with the horses. Sure, she walked into some valleys but none of them resembled the one in her memories. She had to return to the village in the later afternoon.
She tried again the following day. Now she took another path, and vaguely remembered some of the landmarks. The stone cross on the lone hill, yes, she has seen it before. And that nearly invisible footpath – had she not come down on that one, all these years ago?
All of a sudden, there it was, the green valley! Completely as she had thought it would be. She sat down on probably the same boulder she had rested on so long ago, and ate her lunch. She waited for a long time but she did not see the horses.
The next day she returned, now armed with one of the pocket books she had bought at Heathrow. Still no horses.
The third time she sat there, she was disturbed in her musings. Not by horses, but by a man. He was tall – over six foot – and handsome, with his blond hair and lanky way of moving.
“Hi, I’m Mike.”
His speech immediately qualified him as American. He did not wait for her invitation but sank down on the ground next to her.
“Astonishing view, isn’t it?” he offered, not bothered by her stillness. “Are you here on vacation?”
She could no longer neglect him. Besides, she longed for some conversation.
“Not quite, “ she told him. “I needed to be away for a while, to sort things out. I remembered this place from my youth. We once spent a fortnight here.”
He nodded as if he understood the hidden meaning of her words. There was something about him that gave confidence, she sensed. Quite the opposite of Paul…
“I also come here from time to time,” he told her. “I have a very busy job in marketing and sometimes I need to unwind. What about you? You’re a working girl too?”
“Just a housewife,” Lynda smiled. “I guess I need to find a job when I return to London. By the way, my name’s Lynda.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance then, Lynda.”
They continued to talk for a while and during their conversation Lynda’s encounter with the horses came up. This seemed to astound Mike.
“You’re sure you saw them?” he wanted to know.
“As sure as I can be. I even rode on one of them. Why?”
“Because they are not real!”
“Not real? Let me assure you, mister, that it was a life horse I rode upon!”
“Don’t be angry, Lynda,” he begged. “It’s just so bloody amazing! Don’t you know about the legend?”
“What legend?”
“About those white horses. Apparently, they only are sighted by those who have suffered a great deal. The horses bring happiness to that person.”
“Which is true,” said Lynda. “When I saw them, I was very distressed. I had run away from my parents, who were having one of their many quarrels!”
“And now you’ve returned to find back that same happiness?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Can’t you tell? My face still bears the marks of the beating my husband gave me. But it was the last time. I’ve left him.”
“Good for you.”
Needless to say that Lynda and Mike got on well. They spent a lot of time together and each time there was this mutual feeling of understanding. They explored the coastline and the land behind it; had dinner together. They shared their first kiss on the evening of their second meeting and it was a most wonderful moment for both of them.
The day came that Mike had to return to the States. He had stretched his holiday a while for Lynda’s sake, but he could not postpone his return any longer. There was a new account to be considered, and Mike’s expertise could swing the decision.
Their last walk brought them – inevitably – to the green valley.
“I’ll miss you,” whispered Lynda, after having made love in the lush grass.
“I love you, honey,” he said. “I wish we could spend more time together.”
“So do I – but it’s difficult.”
He sighed.
“I know. It’s really up to you, you know.”
She laid back and looked at the blue sky.
“I loved Paul too – perhaps still do. Even though I have left him there in London, I’m not quite sure as how to go on…”
“I won’t press you,” he said, trying not to betray his true feelings. “You make your own decisions, sweetheart, and then let me know.”
“Yes, I’ll do that,” she promised.
When Mike had left – she had accompanied him to the airport – Lynda returned to Porto Corvo. She wanted to spend one more week there. She had called Sylvie the other day and had wanted to hear what Paul was up to. Apparently, he looked very forlorn and had tried to persuade her friend to give him her address, so that he could let her know how much he was sorry.
She was not sure how to go on. Her mind told her that she should file for a divorce but her heart still remembered the passion they had once shared. And what about these new feelings for Mike?
She returned to the green valley to think about her dilemma. She was so lost in thought, that at first she did not hear the sound of the approaching hooves. All of a sudden, almost out of the blue, they were around her; these lovely horses she had seen a long time ago.
Her face broke open into a smile and she hugged the stallion that approached her. It looked bigger than she remembered, but perhaps that was because she had been a child the first time she saw it.
“Can I ride on you?” she asked, and the horse whinnied.
She stepped up on the boulder, and from there onto the horse’s back. And then they were off, around the valley and the surrounding ones.
All her worries disappeared, and by the time they returned into the valley and she got off, she knew her future.
She would make the right decision and she would be happy, for the rest of her life. She would never return to Porto Corvo – but cherish the memory of the white horses.
|
