A Difficult Boy (17 page)

Mr. Stocking somehow managed to fold his roundness into Phizzy's withers and neck.

As Ethan counted to three, Daniel pushed him down until he was bent double over Ivy's withers.

“Go!” Ethan shouted.

Phizzy lurched forward, showering Ethan and Daniel with clods of earth. Ivy skipped and strained impatiently as Daniel held her in place. The agreed-upon three seconds seemed more like thirty as Phizzy's dappled rump bobbed farther and farther away.

Then Daniel's weight shifted, he let out a sharp cry, and Ivy leaped into the race.

Ethan felt like a dry leaf spun into a cyclone. Any second he and Daniel and Ivy might whirl apart and be flung to pieces. At first, he could sense nothing but Ivy's coarse mane slapping at his face and his own urgent clinging with hands, arms, legs, soul. His only thought was,
Don't fall off. Don't fall off
.

Sounds broke through the blur: drumming beneath them as Ivy's hooves met and left the earth so fast that Ethan couldn't separate one footfall from the next, Ivy's greedy inhaling and moist exhaling, Daniel's steady stream of Gaelic-laden magic words.

Then Ethan was aware of another set of drumbeats and breaths, another set of words.

Phizzy galloped ahead of them, his legs flying any old how in such a bizarre galumphing run that Ethan wondered if the gelding's knees and hocks were in their proper places or if, perhaps, he had a few more than his proper share. The shaggy tufts of hair at Phizzy's fetlocks fluttered like birds flapping around his heels. It was a ridiculous gait, and yet Daniel's body crushed Ethan lower against the mare, and he uttered a word that Ethan was sure was a curse. “Sweet Jesus! I can't catch the bloody beast!”

They crested the hill and turned along the high side of the meadow. Chestnut hair whipped Ethan's eyes. He blinked, and the horse in front loomed larger. The chanting over Ethan's head turned roughly musical.

Phizzy's hoofbeats pounded out a deeper, louder rumble. His rider's voice changed from a vague hint of words into something Ethan recognized as song.

The peddler hadn't lied about being a singing master. His sturdy baritone barely shuddered, even with the jostling of Phizzy's hooves. Ethan almost laughed when he identified the song as “Happy Land,” Ma's favorite hymn. Mr. Stocking was just reaching the part where
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death are felt and feared no more
. Only he'd changed the words to
Lameness and founder and moldy hay are felt and feared no more
. Canaan's fair and happy land apparently had room in it for horses, at least in the peddler's world.

As Ivy gained on Phizzy, Mr. Stocking's singing increased in volume and tempo. He'd changed to a fuguing tune, and Ethan was certain the peddler sang all four parts: “Fly swifter round, old horse of mine, and earn the welcome hay.”

They crossed the upper meadow that way, Ivy's nose close enough for Phizzy's tail to tickle her, but never getting any closer. Daniel's spell intensified. His words danced around each other and blended into one great continuous word. He squeezed himself together like a tightening spring, pressing Ethan nearly flat into Ivy's mane. Ethan turned his head, and suddenly he was looking Mr. Stocking in the eye.

The peddler sang tenor now: “Oh, may my horse in tune be found, even though he's big and round.”

Peddler and horse both shone with sweat. Mr. Stocking's spectacles flashed, and then there was nothing but swirls of green and brown in front of Ethan's face. His ears vibrated with Daniel's whoop ringing over his head. Ethan would have laughed, too, if he'd been able to breathe.

They pounded for the downhill slope that would lead them back to the start. The crush against Ethan's back eased, and he sucked in a long, laughing breath. Mr. Stocking's
singing fell far away from them. Ivy's gallop felt like a stone skipping across the surface of a pond, skimming over the meadow, then touching with a splash of torn dirt and grass, then skimming again. Ethan's excitement was tempered by the breathless fear that the whole adventure would end in a disastrous plunge. His hands throbbed from his grip on Ivy's mane, fingernails digging hard into palms. His back and shoulders groaned with the tension of his crouch. He had long ago lost the feeling in his legs. He'd never been so afraid or so sore in his life. The ride would surely kill him. He wished it would never end.

Then, in the heartbeat between one stride and another, Ethan sensed something different about the mare's pace, the tone of Daniel's voice, Daniel's posture.

There was a drumming just behind Ethan's left shoulder, a wheezing breath along Ivy's flank. The gray muzzle, nostrils flared and red-lined, crept up by Daniel's calf, then Ethan's, then by Ivy's withers.

The layer of sweat on Phizzy's hide had turned his pale gray coat to white-flecked iron. His head bobbed raggedly, as if his neck had tired of holding it. Mr. Stocking's fun and frivolity had disappeared behind a mask of sweat. His mouth hung open, but there were no more songs coming from his lips. Then the moment passed, and Ethan found himself looking at the back of Mr. Stocking's head.

“No!” His hands jerked at Ivy's mane. “Come on, Ivy! You can beat him! You can do it!” He felt a brief surge of gratification as Ivy's ears flicked and she drew closer again, then he grunted with the thud of an elbow in his side.

“Quiet, you!” Daniel hissed over his head. “I'm the one riding this horse.”

But Ivy dropped farther behind on the downhill slope, her muzzle back against Phizzy's rump. Frustration clawed at
Ethan's belly. Couldn't Daniel see that Phizzy was tiring? Surely Ivy had enough left in her to surge ahead.

But the starting point flew past with Ivy still at the gelding's flank. She passed Phizzy only after the peddler had reined the huffing gelding to a stop. Ivy trickled to a canter, then a trot, then a walk, before Daniel stopped her well past her rival.

Fists balled, Ethan twisted to look up at Daniel. “How could you lose? Ivy should'a beat him! She should'a!” He wanted to pound Daniel's chest with his fists and curse him for his incompetent riding.

His face passive, Daniel slid to the ground. “Hush. You don't know nothing about horses, lad.” He reached up to help Ethan down.

Ethan snubbed the offer, even though his legs felt limp. He clutched Ivy's shoulder to keep from collapsing. Eyes stinging, he opened his mouth to fire a stream of accusations at Daniel.

Daniel cut him off with a cool look. “Fix your hat. We'll be walking her out a bit now.”

Ethan snatched the straw hat from his head and wrestled with the dents. “We could'a won,” he muttered. He tried to stalk away, but his legs wobbled, nearly dropping him onto his knees. Daniel took his arm and forced him to walk alongside the mare, away from Mr. Stocking and Phizzy.

Ivy's withers gleamed damply, but she held her head neatly poised, flared nostrils questing for a treat from Daniel's pockets, as if she had forgotten her recent humiliation. Could it have been her fault? Ethan wondered. Was she one of those horses who were all show and no go? No. Ethan was sure Ivy would have run herself to death for Daniel, but he had just stopped trying.

They walked the mare for a long time before Daniel
turned back toward the peddler and his gelding. Ethan's stomach clenched at the sight of Phizzy standing wilted and straddle-legged. His nose nearly touched the ground, ears flopping like dead leaves, sides heaving in and out. Mr. Stocking's hands moved over the horse, massaging legs, inspecting feet. He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped Phizzy's sweaty hide in soothing swirls and sweeps, working his way toward the horse's drooping head. His arms circled Phizzy's muzzle and propped the horse's nose against his belly so that Mr. Stocking could look into Phizzy's eyes. Murmuring soothing endearments, the little man stroked Phizzy's cheek. It was only when the boys drew right alongside that Ethan realized Mr. Stocking's hands were trembling.

“Sir?” Daniel held Ivy's lead rope out to Mr. Stocking.

Mr. Stocking stared blankly at the redheaded boy. The little man's face now had a grayish tinge to it. His shirt clung damply to his thick body, and his hair lay flat and wet against his scalp. A dullness had replaced the playful glow in his eyes. Even his spectacles no longer winked in the sun. Studying horse and rider, Ethan wasn't quite sure which supported the other.

Mr. Stocking drew himself up straight and cleared his throat. The hand holding the rag drifted shakily about his vest as if to tidy it. The two horsemen traded a long, level glance that seemed to hold a world of unspoken dialogue. “That was a long three seconds you gave us, son,” Mr. Stocking finally said.

“Have your ride. Ethan and I'll walk Phizzy out for you.” Daniel gently took the reins from Mr. Stocking's hand and turned them over to Ethan. “Shall I give you a leg up?” Daniel's voice was calm, without a hint of the sarcasm that Ethan would normally have expected.

The little man blinked. He looked first at his own horse, then at Ivy, before his eyes locked again on Daniel's. He
started to shake his head, but Daniel pressed Ivy's lead rope into the peddler's hand.

“We'll mind him fine for you.” Daniel touched the gelding's sodden hide as if it were silk. “You were right, sir,” he said. “That horse can run.”

Ethan gaped, mystified. Anyone could see that Phizzy was dead tired. Ivy was breathing hard, too, but she pricked her ears forward and pawed the ground as if she were ready to go another round and then some.

Mr. Stocking finally accepted Ivy's rope. The dullness behind his spectacles began to glow again. “Yes, I was right. And not just about the horse.” Something solemn and unspoken passed between the riders, over Ethan's head.

After Mr. Stocking had trotted Ivy away, Daniel's hands began to work over Phizzy. He murmured the magic words that Ethan thought belonged only to Ivy. Ethan's insides squirmed. Daniel hadn't even winced over relinquishing the mare, and now he was using Ivy's words on another horse. The betrayal was complete.

“You—you
let
him win!” Ethan spluttered.

Daniel didn't answer, but Ethan read confirmation in the other boy's eyes. Daniel shrugged apathetically, as if the race hadn't mattered to him after all.

“Why?” Ethan demanded.

Daniel led the gelding forward into a shuffling walk. Phizzy rested his nose heavily on the boy's shoulder, as if he needed help carrying his own head. Daniel's gray-green eyes narrowed at Ethan, the way the schoolmaster's did when Ethan lost the way of figuring a simple sum. “He said this horse'd die for him. I'm not needing to see it proved.”

Ethan barely tasted his dinner, even though Lizzie had made her best veal pie. It seemed as though four days' worth of
astounding events had happened in the four hours that they'd been gone: meeting Mr. Stocking and Phizzy at the farrier's; the riding lesson and the race; the way Daniel had shown no concern over his loss, and Mr. Stocking no joy in his victory; the way the peddler had pressed gifts on Daniel, even though the boy had lost the race; the way Mr. Stocking and Daniel had solemnly shaken hands at parting, like men of equal stature.

Perhaps this afternoon, Ethan mused, he could prod Daniel into explaining everything. Perhaps they could mull over the old handbills Mr. Stocking had dug out from under the wagon seat and given to the boys: yellowing and brittle advertisements emblazoned with horses or proclaiming the glories of western lands. Perhaps Daniel would show Ethan the fat little book that the peddler had given him, and they could puzzle out whether there really were any horses in Shakespeare.

Mr. Pease roused Ethan from his meditations. “Did you see that tin peddler poking around today?” he asked casually. “A soggy kind'a fella with a bony nag pulling his cart.”

Ethan's bread stuck in his throat. He took a sip of cider, but it only seeped into the doughy lump and made it swell. He saw Daniel's knife pause briefly on its way to his mouth, his scarred knuckles whitening on the handle. But he took in the mouthful calmly and chewed with deliberate care.

“He didn't dare show his face near the common,” Mr. Lyman said.

“Did he have any news?” Lizzie asked, leaning forward.

Mr. Pease rocked back in his chair. “News? Hmmmm, well, he'd just been through Springfield a few days since.” His eyes drifted toward Daniel, his mouth slanting mockingly. “He says the Irish are thick as fleas in Cabotville now.”

Everyone stared at Daniel for a moment. His head
remained bent over his plate, as if he couldn't feel the weight of their eyes upon him. A trace of pink crept up his neck.

“They're talking of building their own church,” Mr. Pease continued.

Mrs. Lyman wadded her napkin into a ball and threw it down next to her plate. “A Papist church? Well, I never!”

Mr. Pease paused to chew a bulging mouthful of pie. “Oh, and he admired your horse, sir.” He waved his knife in Mr. Lyman's direction.

Ethan shifted his weight to stand closer to Daniel. He met Daniel's warning glare and tilted his head in a tacit vow of silence.

“My horse?”

“Your horse and the boys riding her.”

For a moment everyone seemed frozen, glasses or knives poised halfway to their mouths. The air felt charged and heavy, the way it did when a thunderstorm was about to break. Then there was a clatter of crockery and a startled shriek near the head of the table.

“Ruth!” Silas said. “See what happens when you play at the table? Now look what you've done.”

A rusty brown puddle oozed from Silas's overturned mug, across the tablecloth, around Silas's plate, and into his lap. He lifted his arm to reveal a dark, dripping spot on his sleeve from his wrist to his elbow.

Ruth stood at Silas's knee. Her lower lip quivered as she stared down at the soggy brown rosette on the bosom of her yellow dress. She snuffled miserably. “But I—”