Dreams of a Dancing Horse (3 page)

 

5

Horsing Around at a Hoedown

I can't say I have the slightest notion of what a hoedown is. But Lena is convinced that I shall love it. And I would go anywhere with her.

Lena brushes my dingy coat until it's quite shiny. “A horse needs a lick and a promise before going to a shindig like this,” she says. “A gal too.” She brushes her own hair and washes up in the barn as best she can.

At last, she turns to me. “Fred, I've got a hankering to cut a rug. How about you?”

I have no idea how we shall accomplish cutting a rug, or whose carpet Lena intends to cut. But doing anything with my friend will be a joy. I nod my head energetically.

Lena climbs to the top of the stall gate. “Mind if I catch a ride?”

I trot over and let my friend slide onto my back. She's so light that I barely feel her up there.

“Fred, you've got one great back!” Lena declares. “Why, I'll bet I could dance up here.”

We take off to the dirt road beyond the field. Lena shows me which turns and shortcuts to take.

We've gone about a country mile or two when I hear something. I stop and prick up my ears, rotating them to capture the sound.
Music!

“I'll bet you can hear it already, can't you?” Lena says. “Keep on now. Just yonder past that set of trees.”

I break into a trot, then a canter. The music is like nothing I've heard before, filled with twangs and tweets. It's pleasant, yet exciting at the same time.

Lena lets out a whoop. “Will you lookee there? There's so many folks in that barn, you could stir 'em with a stick!”

A big white barn comes into view. A mix of rusted automobiles and worn buggies are parked on both sides. About a dozen horses are tied out back. And not a one of them seems to care about the magnificent sounds all around them.

I whinny a cheery greeting to the horses. Only two bother to look up. No one offers an answering neigh. I dearly hope that Lena won't make me wait for her with the rest of the equine species.

Lena and I walk up to the barn and peer in through the window. I can see cowgirls and their cowboys, farmers and their wives, stomping their feet to the music. Couples whirl around the barn, the dusty floor transformed into a dance hall.

“So how do you like your first hoedown?” Lena asks. “Truth is, it's my first too. Mind you, I've snuck down here before to watch the action and listen to the music. But this will be my first time to dance.”

I kneel on my forelegs to make it easier for her to dismount. It would be such a treat if I could remain by the window so I can watch Lena dance with the other humans. Once she's firmly on the ground, I peer in through the window again, hoping she understands and doesn't take me back to the other horses.

“What do you think you're doing there, Fred?” she asks, her hands on her hips.

I nod. I'm sure she's right. I do belong with the horses, after all. I turn to head back with my own kind.

“Well, now where do you think you're headed?” she demands.

Humans can be quite confusing. I crane my head around to see her.

Lena crooks her finger at me. “How are you going to be my dance partner from way over yonder?”

I perk up. Lena wants to dance with
me
?

“You didn't really think I was going to dance without you?” she asks. “We can cut a rug here just as good as any spot inside, don't you reckon?” She holds out her arms.

I rear up on my hind legs and sway to the music. We've danced together a dozen times in our old barn.

They play a tune called “The Hokey Pokey,” and Lena and I do what the song says. We put our right legs in, then our right legs out. We stick our legs in again and shake them all about. We do the Hokey Pokey and we turn ourselves about. I believe I love this odd dance.

Lena sways and twirls to the next song, and I follow her lead. Soon we're sashaying and do-si-do-ing all around the outskirts of that barn. We square dance, just the two of us. It goes on for a couple of hours, the most fun I've ever had.

And then I have an idea. As much as I love dancing with my friend, I know in my heart of hearts that a wonderful dancer like Lena should be seen and enjoyed by other humans. If Lena could understand how amazing she is, maybe she could regain her confidence—and more importantly, her dream of becoming a dancer.

When the music starts up again,
I
take the lead. Faster and faster we spin. As usual, soon as Lena gets caught up in the music, she closes her eyes. This time, I'm ready. I gently nudge her through the open barn door.

Staying outside, I peek in and watch my Lena swirl and sway to the music. I'm sure she hasn't realized where she is. She's spinning too fast, twirling with the grace of a fawn.

Two by two, the other dancers drop back, their mouths gaping open at this young prima ballerina. Soon, no one is left dancing except Lena.

The music stops. Lena laughs and open her eyes to the thunderous applause breaking out all around her. “What? I—” she sputters, eyes wide at the cheering crowd.

Then with a hearty laugh, she bows. “Much obliged.”

Lena races out of the barn and straight into me. “Fred! Why, if you didn't fall out of the sneaky tree and hit every branch on the way down!” I think it's an insult, but Lena is laughing, glowing. “Well, don't just stand there like a bump on a log. Bad as I hate to, you and me done got to get along home.”

Lena hugs my neck, then swings up onto my back.

I prance toward home.

I can still hear the hoedown music when I feel Lena pull herself up to a standing position on my back. She is light as a twirling feather in the wind. I tread carefully, and she stays on my back, where I feel her turning and spinning, twisting and dancing under a full moon and a sky full of stars.

 

6

The Moneymaking Scheme

A few weeks have passed since my first hoedown. The past nights dancing with Lena have been the best times of my life. We have found music everywhere. Some nights we gallop to the town diner and dance out back in the alley until, as Lena says, “they roll up the sidewalks.”

We've found barn dances and hoedowns in neighboring counties. We even ventured, without invitation, to a garden wedding, where a band played.

And when there was no music to be found, Lena and I made our own music in the old barn. I love it best when she climbs aboard my broad back and does her pirouettes and ballet moves as she hums her beautiful music.

On Sundays we attend four church services. We stand outside and listen to the music, swaying and doing our own dance to the lovely hymns inside. As soon as one service ends, we gallop off to the next.

It's the last church we love best. The humans sing and shout the music from their hearts and souls. They even dance in the aisles of that church. The first time we were there, Lena and I walked right in, and not a soul objected. We danced along with them.

At the end of the service, the preacher himself shook our hand and hoof and invited us back. The following Sunday, Lena and I were asked to perform a special number. “Looks to me like you two have done this dancing thing a time or two,” said the preacher. “Won't you share your gifts with us?”

“You're dern tootin',” Lena answered.

I felt then that she was indeed gaining the confidence she needs to become Crystalina the Ballerina.

The following Sunday, Lena gave my dingy coat “a lick and a promise,” and we did perform at that church. We danced to a tune called “Amazing Grace.” I was so nervous I stepped on poor Lena's foot. That made me feel so bad, I stopped dancing altogether.

But Lena just laughed and said, “Fred, who's plucking this chicken, you or me? I reckon I aim to do the leading from now on, if that's all right by you.”

That comment brought down the house. The crowd loved Lena.

Now every Sunday they ask for a special number.

I confess that days at Quagmire Farms are as hard to take as ever, with Round Rollo “leading” behind the plow. But Lena packs so much happiness into every night that I hardly mind the days.

One morning as Rollo struggles with the harness, Herbert Quagmire himself appears in the field. I have never seen his face this close up and in direct sunlight. It is a leathery face, not unlike the face of a rooster, with a nose that could slice cucumbers and tiny eyes that look as if they were shot into place by a small sidearm.

If I am not mistaken, his lips are attempting a smile. “Rollo, my boy,” Herbert Quagmire says, “wait till you see what your daddy done did. We are going to be filthy rich!”

Rollo drops the harness onto my hoof and stands up. “We are?”

“I've got me a surefire moneymaking scheme that can't miss!” Herbert announces. “Just you wait! This morning, you're gonna see for yourself.”

“And we'll be rich?” Rollo asks, his face reflecting his father's expression.

“Richer than rich!” affirms his father.

An hour later I hear a
chug chug, rattle rattle
coming our way.

When I turn toward the racket, I see something green crossing the field and coming toward us. Then I realize it's Herbert Quagmire riding a tractor.

He drives up waving like he's in the Easter Parade. Rollo runs to him and pets the green monstrosity as if it's a Thoroughbred or Lipizzan. The two of them ooh and ahh over the machine and, once again, discuss how filthy rich they intend to be.

Lena comes out to the field, looking lovely, though barefoot and in oversized overalls. “Hey, Fred!” she says, making sure to scratch my ears before seeing what the fuss is all about. “What you got here, Uncle Herbert?”

“A tractor. Ain't you never seen a tractor before, girl?” Herbert Quagmire elbows his son, and they both laugh, a most similar and ugly sound.

“Not in this here field,” Lena replies.

“Well, you have now,” Rollo says. “And my daddy and I are gonna be rich!”

“That right?” Lena says, obviously unimpressed. “So does this mean Fred here won't have to pull that nasty plow anymore?”

I hadn't yet thought of this possibility, and a glimmer of hope simmers in me.

Herbert Quagmire lets out one insincere guffaw. “Ha! Not on your life, girlie! I already thunk of that. It's part of my moneymaking scheme. My boy Rollo here will drive this here tractor. And you, little lady, can drive the plow behind the nag. Rollo says he taught you how to plow.”

“What about my other chores? And the housework and cooking and—?” Lena asks.

“You'll just have to work faster, girl,” Herbert answers.

“Yeah,” Rollo agrees. “Can I drive it now, Daddy? Can I? Huh? Can I?”

I want to protest. There's nothing I'd enjoy more than to have Lena as a driver instead of Round Rollo. But I am too worried about my friend to contemplate such a thing. Already, they're working her fingers to the bone. And now she has to do the plowing too?

“Well, you better get to it, gal,” Herbert Quagmire says. “You and that nag won't be as fast as my brand-new tractor.” He checks the newer, shiny plow, which is attached to the rear of the new tractor.

Lena starts to drive me, then stops. “Rollo, did you have your eyes shut when you harnessed poor Fred?”

Rollo doesn't even turn around. He's too busy climbing up on the tractor.

Lena adjusts the straps of the harness until they're perfect. We set out, and the plow is so much easier to pull now.

Meanwhile, Herbert shouts orders to his son, who can't seem to get the contraption started.

When we're out of earshot of the Quagmire males, Lena starts humming. It's a lovely tune, and my tail swishes in time with the music.

After a while, we're both swaying and sashaying. If it weren't for the fact that Lena will be overworked now, I would be truly happy knowing I am to spend days, as well as nights, with my friend.

All of a sudden, Lena screams. She reins me hard to the left.

I bolt. Just in time, I dodge the green monster as Round Rollo races within inches of us, spraying dirt onto Lena and me and whooping as he passes by.

“Yeehaw!” Rollo hollers, as if he's riding a bronco. He might as well be. The tractor bucks and jumps under him. He swerves across the field, his plow banging behind the tractor, destroying our neatly plowed rows.

Something tells me Herbert Quagmire's moneymaking scheme is destined to fail.

 

7

Tractor Tragedy

Over the next weeks, Lena and I dance in the field as we plow. But we rarely have time to dance at night. Often, Lena is still doing chores at midnight. I worry about her. If I could speak human, I would have a few choice words for Herbert Quagmire.

Then one evening after Lena and I have plowed our section, she returns me to the barn, bids me good-bye, and heads in for her domestic chores.

No sooner has Lena left than Rollo appears. “Out!” he shouts, yanking at my halter. “You've got work to do.”

He drags me back to the field and puts the harness back on. “Tonight you're pulling my plow
and
the tractor.”

At first, I think Rollo must be joking. But I should know better. And sure enough, he hitches me to the tractor that's hitched to the plow. Then he climbs onto the seat, puts his feet up, and opens his comic book.

Rollo cracks his whip. I lean into the harness. It slips up to my neck because it's too loose, and I'm already foamy with sweat from plowing all day. The straps around my stomach are too tight, so I can't get enough air into my lungs.

“Get a move on!” Rollo shouts. He smacks my rump with both reins. “It's hot as blazes out here. I don't have all day.”

I manage a step, then another. The tractor creeps forward, pulling the plow behind it. I cannot imagine why Rollo is making me pull his tractor. If the thing is broken, couldn't he simply force me to pull his plow to finish the field? Has the boy not thought of this? I have never heard of a horse pulling a tractor.

I take another step. And another. Never have I pulled anything even half the weight of this load. I feel strain and pain in muscles and tendons I didn't realize I had. My legs feel like trees stuck in quicksand.

I can't trust my vision. Waves of nausea pass through me, and my eyes blur. I think I see Lena far away, running toward us. But perhaps it is my imagination.

Suddenly, from somewhere behind me, I hear a crackling, screeching sound. It takes me a moment to realize that the sound is an attempt at singing. The human voice is the worst I've ever heard, more off-key than a billy goat, harsher than the oink of the foulest pig. This
singing
is coming from Round Rollo. Now I understand what Lena meant when she told me once that Rollo “can't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on.”

The sound is truly horrible … and yet … it is music. I latch on to that thought and listen, not to the sounds coming from the boy's mouth, but to the beat beneath those screeches.

Yes. I hear music. Fast and syncopated, a type of jostling jive.

I shut my eyes and add my own music to that beat. And soon I feel it in my deadened legs. My tail swishes. My hooves lift. Back and forth I sway, until I am dancing. I pretend Lena and I are at the hoedown. I let myself go, jerking right, swinging left. I am light as Lena. I can almost feel her twirling on my back as I spin and spin.

“Help! Help!”

Rollo's cries break through the music in my head. I wonder why he would be shouting for help.

“Oh, Fred, stop!”

I recognize Lena's voice. So I stop.

Lena races up to me. She throws her arms around my neck, and I feel her little body shake. She is crying.

And then I see why. Herbert Quagmire's new green tractor is toppled onto its side. It lies in the dirt, half buried.

Rollo crawls out from underneath the tractor. Covered with dirt, he's cursing in a language I haven't heard since my final day at the Bar B Q Ranch. “You sorry excuse for a plow horse! Now you've really gone and done it!”

Had I? Did
I
turn over the tractor?

“What in tarnation were you thinking, Rollo?” Lena shouts. Hands on hips, she glares at her cousin, who manages to stumble to his feet. “Why on earth did you hitch poor Fred to the tractor?”

“I had to!” Rollo cries. “If I just hitched Fred to my plow, Daddy would take one look at the field and know I didn't use his tractor. I need them tractor tire tracks in the field in front of my plow. I got this all thought through, and all I wanted was—”

Lena's fists raise as if she intends to use them. “So why, for the love of Pete, didn't you just use your blamed tractor?”

Rollo has lost one boot, but he doesn't appear to notice. “Because the tractor is out of gas!”

“So go buy gas, you numskull!” Lena shouts.

Rollo rolls his eyes like Lena is the numskull for suggesting the obvious. “I couldn't buy gas! I'm out of cash.”

“Roll those eyes at me one more time, and I'll roll that head of yours!” Lena snaps. “Besides, I know for a fact your daddy gives you plenty of gas money.”

“Yeah? Well, I bought these here comic books with it. So I had the idea of getting Fred to pull the tractor and—”

Lena cuts her cousin off in midsentence. “
You
had an idea? If you ever had an idea, it would die of loneliness!”

“Oh yeah? Well, you're the one's gonna die of loneliness. Once my daddy sees what this crazy horse done did to his new tractor, he'll send ol' Fred to the glue factory!”

I gulp. I have heard of very old horses being sold for dog food and their hooves used to make glue. These were no idle rumors either.

“It isn't Fred's fault that tractor went cattywampus!” Lena cries. “It's
your
fault! And your daddy's going to be fit to be tied when he sees what you did.”

“The way I see it, Fred hitched himself up to the tractor and—”

Lena shakes her head. “That dog won't hunt, Rollo. Even Uncle Herbert's not going to believe Fred hitched himself up to that tractor. And everybody knows you couldn't drive any worse if you was drunk with one eye shut.”

Rollo gets his evil grin, showing yellow teeth. “Then I'll just tell Daddy that Fred went crazy for no reason and attacked his brand-new tractor.”

“You lie and your feet stink!” Lena shouts.

Rollo smirks again. “Who's my daddy gonna believe? Me or Fred?”

Lena looks like she's been hit in the stomach. I think we both know Rollo's right. His father will believe him, and I'll be turned into glue, way before my time.

“There he comes now.” Rollo waves as Herbert Quagmire steps out of his house and starts toward the field. “Daddy!” Rollo shouts, limping to meet his father.

Lena is crying hard now. “Oh, Fred.” She hugs me again. Then she springs into action. Still crying, she unbuckles my harness. “Rollo's right. Uncle Herbert will blame you. Not Rollo.” She looks at her uncle, then back at me. “I reckon there's only one thing left to do, Fred.”

I feel the weight of the harness drop from my aching limbs. I can't stand to see Lena cry. And I have no idea what the “only one thing left to do” could possibly be.

“You have to run away,” she whispers.

Run away? Away from Lena?

“Go!” she shouts. “Run! Run fast! Run far! Don't look back!”

I shake my head no. How can I leave the only friend I've ever had?

Tears stream down Lena's sweet face. “I love you, Fred. You're the best friend in the whole entire world. Now, don't just sit there like a frog on a log. Run! Go! Skedaddle!” She shoos me, waves her arms, and keeps shouting for me to run and never come back.

Finally, with one long look at the best friend anyone could ever hope for, I take off at a trot. Then a canter. Then a full-out gallop.

I run away.