Page 4 of Wild Horses

Late afternoon sun filtered through the Venetian blinds, casting stripes across Christy’s face.

She lay curled on her childhood bed, staring at dust motes floating in beams of light.

The Brisbane humidity clung uncomfortably to her skin, amplifying her misery, but she was too listless to get up and switch on the ceiling fan.

How had it come to this? Less than a month ago she’d had a thriving career and classrooms full of eager students.

Now she was back at home with her parents, defeated and adrift.

Christy turned over to face the wall, pulled the sheet up to her chin and closed her eyes.

She hadn’t entirely given up on her dream, even though she’d sent out job application after application to no avail.

She still had to hear back from two more places.

One was Queensland Performing Arts High, a school she’d turned down in favour of St Luke’s College when she’d graduated two years earlier.

Christy bit the inside of her cheek, remembering.

Back then she’d had her pick. Graduating at the top of her class.

Juggling offers from half-a-dozen prestigious schools.

But now it seemed nobody would touch her.

The unfairness made her choke. She hadn’t been convicted of anything.

She hadn’t even been fired – she’d resigned.

Yet so far unfounded conjecture and gossip had been enough to slam doors.

She blamed Sandra Williams, who would have enjoyed broadcasting the scandal far and wide.

Now everyone saw Christy as damaged goods – a pariah in the world of education.

Teaching was her passion, her purpose, and theatre was her life.

What was she supposed to do now? She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and she missed her boyfriend dreadfully.

Half-a-dozen times she thought to call him but then changed her mind.

Andrew had doubted her – she’d seen it in his eyes, despite his half-hearted protest of support. She could never trust him again.

Still, all was not lost. There were the two schools that hadn’t responded to her applications.

Christy picked up a novel, but she couldn’t concentrate on the story.

She found herself re-reading pages over and over, trying to keep the plot straight in her mind.

In between reading she incessantly checked her laptop for emails. Nothing.

After what seemed like hours Christy put down her book and went to the window.

The sky over Brisbane was painted with broad strokes of amber and peach, the horizon a delicate canvas as dusk approached.

A kookaburra laughed. The ancient peppermint gum stood guard outside her window as it always had.

Its branches occasionally tapped against the pane like the hopeful knocking of an old friend who wanted to keep her company.

Christy ignored it, turning away, too miserable to appreciate the beauty of the scene.

She gazed around her bedroom – a haven of faded pink walls, the scent of lavender and memories.

Her parents’ muffled voices sounded through the door, along with the clinking of cutlery as they set the table for dinner.

For them, life continued with the simplicity and routine of suburban living.

For Christy, every message, every phone call was a potential escape from her current limbo.

She sat back on her bed and opened her laptop for what seemed like the millionth time.

Her heart beat faster when she spotted two unread emails in her inbox.

Taking a deep breath Christy clicked on the first one.

The lines of text blurred as she skimmed through it, but certain words stood out stark and unyielding: .

.. regret to inform you ... best of luck in your future endeavours .

A sharp stab of disappointment cut through her, but there was still one more.

Queensland Performing Arts High was her top pick anyway.

She hesitated before opening the second email, trying to push back the creeping shadow of despair. Perhaps this was it – the key to her salvation. But as her eyes raced over the words, that hope dwindled and died: ... not able to offer you ... other qualified candidates .

The weight of rejection, heavier than before, settled on her as tears threatened to spill.

She felt like a wounded animal, cut off from the pack, as her spirit ebbed slowly away.

Christy turned off the laptop, its darkened screen a reflection of her state of mind.

Burying her face in her hands, she allowed the dam of emotions to break.

Sobs racked her body, unbearably loud in the silent room.

The pain was more than just the sting of rejection; it was the gnawing uncertainty, the feeling of being trapped in a story she hadn’t written.

Outside, the world moved on. The kookaburra’s laughter seemed mocking and the wind’s whispers felt like jeers.

Somehow they knew that injustice and bitterness defined her now.

Two weeks passed, then three. Christy barely left her room.

She had no appetite, and although she stayed in bed most of the day, she hardly slept.

When she did, nightmares plagued her. She visited a doctor, who prescribed her sleeping pills, but the sleep they induced left her feeling fuzzy and unrested.

A knock came at the door, but she couldn’t be bothered answering it. Another knock, and then her father’s voice.

‘Hey, kiddo,’ Alan said gently as he stepped inside.

Christy glanced up with tired eyes.

‘Listen, I wanted to run something by you.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and fiddled with the brochure in his hand.

‘I was talking to a mate of mine who works over on the Darling Downs. There’s a school there that runs horse therapy programs for kids – Currawong Creek.

It’s at Merriang, a little town in the foothills of the Bunya Mountains.

Remember camping in the Bunyas as a kid?

You and your brother loved that neck of the woods. ’

Christy’s weary mind searched for a memory.

A tent in a clearing in a brooding Enid Blyton forest. Huge bunya pines looming on the perimeter, towering forty metres into the sky – prehistoric trees dating back to the Jurassic.

Closing her eyes, she could feel their rough bark under her fingertips.

She could see their massive, spiky fruits, big as footballs, littering the ground.

They’d evolved as food for dinosaurs. She and Evan had loved breaking them open with rocks and roasting the nuts in the campfire coals.

At night they’d lie on their backs and watch the immense canopy of stars, feeling infinitely small, yet part of the vastness around them.

The memories held a potent magic, a reminder of simpler, happier times.

A wave of missing her brother crashed in, and she wished once again that he wasn’t living overseas.

Alan’s voice pulled her back to the present. ‘... looking for a new teacher.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘I said that Currawong Creek is looking for a new teacher.’

Christy hugged her knees to her chest. ‘Dad, I teach drama. I don’t know anything about horses.’

‘Sure you do, honey. You were horse crazy as a kid. Remember dragging me and your mum to the ag shows and spending all day watching the showjumping? And begging us for riding lessons? And what about the holidays you spent at Mrs Harris’s farm?

You and that cranky old black mare, Nugget?

You were the only one who could ride her.

It was like you both spoke the same language. ’

That made Christy smile. She had been horse mad. She’d even promised herself that one day she’d get back into riding, maybe even get her own horse. But studying and then teaching in Sydney hadn’t left time or space for that.

Alan nudged her playfully. ‘C’mon, what do you have to lose? It could be a fresh start.’

Christy frowned and picked at a fraying thread on her jeans.

He put the brochure on her pillow. ‘Just think about it, okay? Getting away from the city might help clear your head.’ He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before leaving.

Christy picked up the brochure. Her fingers traced the image of a girl astride a palomino pony, and the idea of being around horses again stirred a faint ember inside her.

She recalled the joy of cantering through green paddocks, the musky scent of hay and leather.

Maybe her dad was right. Maybe teaching at Currawong Creek could rekindle the sense of hope that she’d lost.

Christy found the brochure’s contact details and opened her laptop.

The director of the program was called Clare Lord.

Just applying couldn’t hurt, right? She typed out a hurried email, emphasising that she didn’t have experience with horses, except as a child, and explaining that her expertise was in teaching drama.

She finished with, I can connect well with teenagers, however, and love to help them express themselves and gain confidence.

Christy tried not to think about how badly that had turned out with Samuel.

She included some old references from schools where she’d had study placements, all too aware of the eighteen-month time gap.

Well, there was nothing she could do about that.

Then she attached her graduation results and pressed send.

Afterwards she lay in contemplation, her fingers curling into the soft bedsheet. She hadn’t left her room all day and it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, but Christy still felt exhausted. She laid her head on her pillow and slept.

Hardly an hour had passed before her phone buzzed to life. Christy reached for it, still groggy with sleep. ‘Hello?’

‘G’day, is this Christy?’ a cheerful voice asked. ‘I’m Clare Lord from Currawong Creek. I received your application and am really impressed with your educational philosophy and academic qualifications. We need a teacher right away and you seem like the perfect fit.’

Christy blinked and sat up.

‘We’d love you to start immediately – tomorrow if possible.

I’ll email through details of your duties and salary package.

Meals and accommodation are provided, and you can train on the job.

An ability to emotionally connect with kids is our main requirement.

Let me know your decision once you’ve looked over the information. ’

A surprising wave of urgency hit her. Christy nearly choked on her words as she rushed her reply. ‘I don’t need to know any more. The answer is yes.’