A Difficult Boy (15 page)

“He's not my brother,” Ethan said.

“Mmmm. So he said, didn't he?” Mr. Stocking's spectacled squint bobbed from Ethan to Daniel and back. “Nor quite your friend, either, eh?”

Ethan twisted a bit of his frock between his fingers. “I—I don't know. We're only bound to the same master.”

Mr. Stocking made a thoughtful noise in his throat as he studied the way Daniel held the mare still for Mr. Hemenway. Ivy pressed her forehead to Daniel's chest, her ears cupped beneath the boy's chin to catch the magic words that trickled from his lips.

Mr. Stocking's fingertips rasped against the stubble on his
chin. “Your friend's bound all right. Only not the way he thinks.”

The boys had passed well over an hour at the farrier's. While Daniel had held Ivy to be shod, Ethan held Mr. Stocking's mirror so the little man could shave over a milk pan that had long ago lost its shine. Then the peddler held Ethan's eyes and ears with the contents of his wagon. Besides the tinware, Mr. Stocking's goods included the common peddler's sundries: spices and ribbons, combs and patent medicines, handkerchiefs and essences. But Mr. Stocking somehow transformed the wares into exotic treasures, presenting each one with a magician's flourish and tales of mist-shrouded lands, pirates and explorers, kings and queens, quests and battles, betrayal and treachery, so that a common brown nutmeg seemed more precious than an emerald.

Although Ethan was sure Mr. Stocking's tales were exaggerations, if not outright lies, he couldn't help listening, openmouthed, spellbound as much by the way Mr. Stocking's oratory swung from
ain't
s to eloquence as by the wonder of his stories.

When the farrier finished with Ivy, he set to work refitting a loose shoe for Phizzy, and Mr. Stocking's talk turned to horses. He began by praising Ivy's finer points, followed by an assortment of tales about horses historic, horses legendary, and horses entirely imaginary. Somehow he even managed to coax Daniel out of his cynical squint and cajole him from curt retorts to actual conversation.

At last, the peddler broke up the party. “Come along, Phizzy,” he said. His horse nodded lazily and backed into place between the wagon's shafts with the bored ease of familiar routine.

“Why do you call him Phizzy?” Ethan asked.

“T'ain't really Phizzy. It's just an abridgment of Mephistopheles.” Mr. Stocking bent to tighten buckles and fasten traces. Little puffs of dust followed his hands as they brushed against Phizzy's body.

“Mephizzz—” Ethan couldn't quite get his mouth around the name.

“Mephistopheles?” Daniel raised a pale eyebrow. “Is that Scripture or Shakespeare?” He stepped forward to adjust the harness on his side of the horse.

“Neither.” Mr. Stocking came around to the horse's head. “I was maybe a few years older than you when I acquired him, and I wanted to give him the grandest name I'd ever heard.” One eyelid lowered slowly. “Only you see, I didn't know then that Mephistopheles was just a fancified name for the devil. Not altogether unappropriate, though, I must say.”

“He acts like the devil?” Daniel untied the reins from where they'd been bunched at Phizzy's withers and smoothed them across the horse's back and onto the wagon seat.

“No, but he runs like it. Wouldn't know to look at him, though, would you?”

Ethan could barely imagine the gelding mustering up a slow walk, never mind a run. “Where'd you get him?”

“I was working on this farm down Pennsylvania way. One of the mares busted out just as her season was coming on her. Found her four days later and fifty miles away. When Phizzy came out, we knew she'd been up to some fine tricks while she'd been gone. From the looks of him, I'd say his dam must've—” Mr. Stocking peered over his spectacles at Ethan and coughed delicately. “—hem—dallied—with anything remotely equine she met. And maybe a few things as wasn't.”

Ethan's jaw dropped. “But—but—a horse can't have more'n one pa—can he?”

One of Mr. Stocking's scraggly eyebrows twitched. “So they
say. All I know is when she came back, she was mighty tired. And I swear she was smiling. Anyway, when she foaled Phizzy, my master took one look at him and turned purple. It wasn't just the ugly he minded, see, but with them legs, he was sure Phizzy was bound to be a cripple. He had half a mind to shoot him, half a mind to drown him, and half a mind to give him to the first blind man who came down the road.” Mr. Stocking tilted his head at Mephistopheles, who watched him through sleepy eyes. “Well, I was young and softhearted, and I figured I'd do just as well as a blind man, so I said to him, I said, ‘Mr. Griswold, if you'll give me that colt, I swear in three years, he'll beat any critter you've got on this here farm.' ”

“And—and did he?” Ethan asked.

Mr. Stocking tugged Phizzy's forelock and patted the gelding's forehead. “Well, they never caught us, did they?” The gelding's head bobbed lazily.

“So you stole him,” Daniel said.

“Mr. Griswold gave him to me, remember? Only being kind'a simple and trusting, I neglected to have him put it in writing.” Mr. Stocking waggled a stubby finger at the boys. “Let that be a lesson in business to you fellas. Anyways, when he saw how that colt was shaping up, he began to see the money bags. Imagine bringing a beast like that to a race, huh? Who'd ever think he could win? But he could, see, and that's how we made our living the first few years.” Mr. Stocking patted his stomach. The vest had ridden up a full three inches by now, the lower button straining hard. “But I got a little roundish, see, and had to come up with another line of work.” Mephistopheles nuzzled Mr. Stocking's belly and fluttered his lips over the peddler's buttons as if he'd pick them off for a snack. The peddler scratched the gelding's ears with one hand while his other searched his pocket. He pulled out a stale-looking biscuit and blew the lint from it.

“And that's why you're a peddler?” Ethan asked.

Phizzy took Mr. Stocking's offering with a slobbery wiggle of his rubbery lips. Mr. Stocking dried his palm first on the seat of his trousers, then on Phizzy's neck. “I've been about every sort of traveling something you can think of, except a toe dancer. I've been a circus rider, a juggler, a writing master, a singing master, a dancing master, and an actor.” Mr. Stocking drew himself up to his full height and placed a hand upon his chest. “I've been heroes and scoundrels and wizards and kings. And even a queen or two, when the company was short of the fairer gender.”

Ethan smothered a giggle at the idea of Mr. Stocking bewigged and begowned, reciting in a falsetto voice.

“Seems to me,” the peddler continued, “with all there is to see and do, it's a crime, a pure and unholy waste, to plant yourself down somewheres and never get up again.”

“Where'll you go next?” Ethan asked.

“I've been all the ways down to Florida, and all the ways up to Canada.” Mr. Stocking's index finger swooped down toward the ground, then up toward the sky as he spoke. “So I estimate there's only one way left for me, ain't there?”

“West,” Daniel said almost reverently, as if he were talking about the Promised Land.

“That's the place.” Mr. Stocking's hand disappeared into his pocket and extracted a crumpled piece of paper. Ethan caught a brief glimpse of bold letters and exclamation points as Mr. Stocking gave the handbill to Daniel. “Yes, indeed. You want adventure, son, you go there.”

A tremor of excitement and trepidation quivered inside Ethan. “Won't you be scared?”

Mr. Stocking wreathed one arm around Phizzy's nose and held the other in the air, finger pointing to the heavens. “ ‘We mocketh at fear, and are not affrighted.' ” A chuckling
whicker from Phizzy echoed Mr. Stocking's
Ha, ha!

“Mmm-hmm,” Daniel said, his head bowed over the paper. “Ain't old Phizzy a bit on for such a trip?”

“Appearances are deceiving, son, deceiving. Mephistopheles would no more be still than I would. You couldn't part us any more'n you could part Castor and Pollux, David and Jonathan, Lewis and Clark, Napoleon and Bonaparte. It's not every day you find a horse like this one.” Mr. Stocking gave Phizzy's shoulder a proud thump.

The dust from Phizzy's hide must have caught in Daniel's throat. He turned away, coughing into the handbill. Ethan thumped Daniel's back three times hard before he finally straightened, eyes glistening, cheeks red. “I daresay.” He wheezed between the words.

Mr. Stocking cocked an eyebrow. “It's more'n looks makes a horse, son.” His spectacles winked at Daniel. “With some horses, there's no training 'em for love nor money. Some—they'll mind you fine, but it's only their dinner they're looking out for. But every now and then, you'll come across a horse who'll give you his soul. Maybe he'll mind someone else if he has to, but for you he'll run or pull or jump until his heart bursts.” He ran a tender hand down Phizzy's neck. “When you get a horse like that, it don't matter whose name is on a piece of paper. That horse knows who he belongs to, and there ain't no telling him no different.”

Mr. Stocking's turtle-gaze loitered over Ivy, then pinned Daniel hard. “And there ain't no telling you, neither, is there, son?”

“D'you think it's true?” Ethan asked. “What he said about Mephis—Mephis—about Phizzy, and all—all the other things he told us?”

One of Daniel's shoulders rose and fell under his frock. “Maybe half. He's a peddler, after all.” The lead rope dangled loose between Daniel's fingers. Ivy trailed behind him like a dog walking to heel.

They turned south down the back road that led over Slocum's Brook. The quiet, narrow lane meandered between swampland and woodlots and parcels too rocky to till. It was the long way back to Mr. Lyman's, shadier and less traveled than the broad main road that ran between pastures and fields. They still had hours yet until dinnertime, and Daniel seemed intent on using every second.

“He was right about Ivy,” Ethan said after a long silence.

“Aye, she's grand, ain't she? ‘A most absolute and excellent horse,' ” Daniel quoted.

“Not that. I mean, it don't matter what anybody else thinks. Ivy thinks she belongs to you.”

Daniel frowned and rubbed his chin. “I don't s'pose nobody'll be wanting her opinion on it.”

If Mr. Stocking was right about Ivy, Ethan mused, then maybe he was right about Daniel being a prince. Ethan's head floated with visions of coaches and castles. He became so caught up in his fancy that he was startled when he realized
that Daniel had led the mare off the road into the woods.

“Where're you going? That's not—” Ethan stopped short when Daniel grabbed a handful of Ivy's mane and swung himself up onto her back. “But—but Silas said—” Ethan sputtered.

Daniel thumbed his cap back. “Silas said not to let him
hear
about me riding, didn't he? I'll not be telling him. Will you?” He reached down a hand. “Come on.”

“I—I—I can't,” Ethan said, though his heart danced at the idea. The specter of Mr. Lyman's discipline loomed too large.

Daniel straightened and shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.” His legs tightened on Ivy's sides, and the mare stepped forward. “I'll meet you by Stearns's orchard,” he said over his shoulder.

A tiny empty space opened up inside Ethan and grew as Daniel and the mare receded into the woods. He lurched into a run, his shoes hissing through the leaf mold underfoot. “Daniel, wait! Wait for me!”

Ivy stopped and gave Ethan an inquisitive glance. She nodded, seeming to second Daniel's invitation.

“All right, lad. No need to shout.” Daniel slid closer to the mare's rump. “Here—you sit in front. That way I can keep you from sliding off.”

Ethan held out his arm for Daniel to grab and jumped when he felt Daniel pull. He ended up sprawled on his belly across the mare's back. He blinked at Daniel's grimy naked toes dangling below his face.

“Ah, well. It's a start, I s'pose.” After a bit of twisting and tugging on Ethan's braces and trousers, Daniel righted Ethan and turned him so he faced forward.

Ethan grabbed a double handful of Ivy's mane. “All right. I'm ready.”

“No, you ain't. You got to hold on with your legs.”

Ethan clamped his knees tight around Ivy's sides. He felt her
warmth through his trousers, felt the rhythm of her breathing. If he stayed very still, he was sure he'd feel her heart.

Daniel clucked to Ivy and shifted his body in some mysterious way.

“Oh!” Ethan said, tipping from side to side. He clung harder with his knees, but it was like trying to ride a barrel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ivy's tail slap at Daniel's calves with barely contained fury. When he looked forward, he saw Ivy's ears bent flat against her head.

“She doesn't like me,” he said.

“It's 'cause you sit like a sack of grain. No, like a kettle. A sack of grain'd at least have some give to it, wouldn't it, now?”

“I'm going to fall off.” Ethan shifted his rump as he slid first one way, then the other. The bony ridge of Ivy's spine jarred against his backside.

“Aye, if you keep sitting like that. You got to . . . you got to . . .”

Ethan twisted to watch Daniel's face. Daniel frowned, tipped his cap off, and scratched his head hard. “Hmmm. I never had to talk it before.” His body shifted. He seemed to be analyzing what each muscle and joint was doing when. “Let's start with your legs, eh? And then we'll move up.”

Daniel's legs seemed to dangle loose from his hips. Ethan's own clamped viselike at the knees, so tight that his thigh muscles trembled.

“You got to make your legs long, see? You got to feel like they was a couple big long ribbons that you'd like to wind 'round her sides and tie under her belly.”