The horse was finished. Finally. Dad had been working on it whenever he got the chance. When all the pieces were in the clearing, he’d assembled it, repainted it, and made all the adjustments he always made. Slowly inching the piece over the finish line, working until he was happy with every view from every angle. It was a Saturday morning when we all went to see it in its new home. This time when Dad pushed through the green iron gate and started weaving between the trees, he didn’t need a map or notes. He knew the route well; he could probably do it on a moonless night. And maybe me and Jon could have found the way too. There were clues now every few yards – footprints and broken twigs on the floor. Lines torn through the green mossy mounds where Dad had given up carrying a limb and decided he would have to drag it instead. A footpath had started to emerge between the trees.
We moved faster than last time and nobody needed to stop and rest. Dad checked a few times to see that we were keeping up OK, and we were, and it felt like we made it to the clearing in about half the time it took on the previous visit.
Me and Jon chatted as we walked, saying we were sure we recognised the strange-shaped tree that must have been shocked into position by lightning, or we didn’t remember that stream running away to the left. But as we got closer to the clearing, we fell quiet and I was aware of our feet cracking twigs and our legs swishing through ferns, the pulling of a zip and the clearing of a throat. Every noise amplified in the silence.
It was a frosty morning and Dad must have been pleased when he pulled back his curtains to see white on the ground and the winter sun filtering through. We were the first people out and about and even the grim streets of Duerdale sparkled brightly as we drove through the silent early-morning town. In the forest our feet crunched and broke into the crispy ground and our breath blew cold smoke into the leaves as we pushed our way through the trees. Just as we were about to arrive Dad stopped and made us change direction. He walked us round to the right and up a steep slope so when we stopped and turned we were walking downhill towards the carving. He said it looked better approaching from this angle. The trees were clustered tightly here and as we trod forward, carefully stepping over roots, I got my first glimpse: a patch of white, leaping through the branches. Just for a second. And then gone. A few seconds later Jon got his first sighting and he said loudly, ‘There! I saw it … just then …’ But it disappeared as quickly for him as it had done for me. For a minute or two we were tricked and teased by further glimpses. A glance of a flank. A snapshot of a leg. Then Dad pushed past the final row of trees and stood to one side and we stepped out right behind him.
We walked out to see the horse from the side. The first time we saw him in Brungerley Forest he was a silhouette. His front legs kicking high. White against green. It was early enough for patches of mist to be lingering on the floor of the clearing and Dad’s horse sparkled hard with frost. It looked better than any painting in any gallery I’d seen.
Dad had brought his old camera and took lots of pictures. Capturing it, he said, before it got weather-torn and tired. And then he made me and Jon stand in frame and took photos of us patting and stroking the horse. And then one of us just stood by it, looking back at him with stupid grins on our faces.