Dreams of a Dancing Horse (5 page)

 

11

Pony Boy

I run away from the range. Again, I race through the night. This time I try telling myself some of the cow jokes Bessie told. Only I'm not the comedian Bessie is. I simply cannot make myself laugh.

Along the way, I find ponds and pastures where I can graze. But I don't stop in any one place for long. The houses get farther and farther apart. Then the farms grow farther apart.

On and on I journey, wondering if I will ever find a place to rest. I miss Lena. I miss my cow companions.

I am bone weary and ready for sleep when I spot an old shed beside a tiny house. It is as if an Oklahoma tornado picked up this house and slammed it down here.

Yet on further inspection, the house looks clean and as well kept as possible.

I find a safe hiding place among the bushes behind the old shed. Instantly, I fall asleep.

When I open my eyes, other eyes, tiny and brown, are staring at me.

The little person, a girl perhaps half the size and age of Lena, clasps her hands together and exclaims, “Pony!”

I'm so startled I bound to my feet.

The little girl hugs my leg. “It's true! I got my wish—a pony! A real, live pony! A pony friend! And all I had to do was lose a tooth and put it under my pillow.” She releases my leg and shouts, “Thank you, Tooth Fairy! My granny said I could make any wish I wanted, and I did. And you answered! I love my pony.” Again, she clings to my leg.

I'm terrified that I might step on this tiny girl.

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!”

“Mary? Mary, where in tarnation are you, gal?”

“That's my granny,” the little girl, Mary, whispers.

“Mary, you better get in here right now and eat your breakfast! You hear me, gal?”

Mary crouches in the bushes with me. “Granny said I couldn't have a pony until I'm a big girl. I've asked her for one my whole life. Good thing the tooth fairy didn't ask her.”

“You've got two seconds to get in here, young'un, if you know what's good for you!”

“I better go, Pony,” Mary whispers. “Granny's no fun when she gets mad. You stay here and hide.”

I nod. It is my greatest wish to stay hidden.

The house is so close to my bushes that I can hear the breakfast conversation through the kitchen window.

“What were you up to so early this morning?” Granny asks.

“Nothing,” Mary answers.

A new voice asks, “Granny?” I'd guess the speaker is a young man. “Did one of the pigs get loose?”

“I reckon it better not have done!” Granny answers. “Now sit down and eat your eggs.”

“Why did you think a pig got out, Jeremy?” Mary asks.

“I thought I saw one in the bushes when I looked out the window upstairs. Something mighty big.”

The very idea! That rude boy is speaking of me! How dare he?

“You probably dreamed it,” Mary says. “I'll go look, though. I'm done with my breakfast.”

A screen door slams. I peek through the bushes, relieved to see Mary. She glances back at the house and then runs over to me.

But before Mary makes it, the screen slams again. A skinny young man in denim overalls steps outside. He bounces a rubber ball a couple of times. “Mary? There you are. Be careful. That pig could be dangerous.”

Why I never—!

“There's nothing in the bushes,” Mary says, strolling back to her brother.

“I know I saw a pig over there,” he insists. He tosses the ball into the bushes. It rolls directly in front of me. “I'll get it.” The boy starts toward my hiding place.

I can't let him find me. There's nothing left to do. I lean down and nudge the ball.

“What the—?” The ball rolls to his feet. “Did you see that, Mary?”

“See what?” she asks.

“That ball. It rolled right back at me.”

“You're crazy, Jeremy. It did not.”

“Did too!” he declares. “Watch this!” He rolls the ball at me again.

I have no other recourse. I kick the ball this time. It takes to the air in a wide arc.

The boy reaches up and catches it. “Don't try to tell me I imagined that,” he says. “Something's in that bush.”

“Rattlesnakes, more than likely,” Mary suggests.

That stops him. “Rattlers? You think so?”

“I know so,” Mary says.

“Well, I'm going to go count Granny's pigs. I'll get to the bottom of this here. You see if I don't.”

 

12

A Horse Named Priscilla

As soon as her brother is gone, Mary runs over to me. “We've got to move you, Pony. Follow me!” She clears a path to the shed.

I follow her. What else am I to do? The door to the shed is rather narrow. I barely fit.

“You'll be safe in here. I brought you some of my breakfast.” She unfolds the little apron that covers her checkered dress. Broken, cooked eggs fall out.

I may be sick.

“I'll bring you some water soon as I can. That brother of mine is nosy. We'll have to be careful because he's a tattletale.” She hugs my leg again. “Oh, Pony, I still can't believe you're mine, all mine. I've been dreaming about having a pony for so long! We'll be best friends forever!”

Best friends forever.
She's a sweet little girl. I can imagine being her best friend. I could watch her grow up. I could protect her. Perhaps I could teach her to dance.

But alas, I know I am not the pony she's been dreaming of. I fear she is in for a big disappointment.

Mary kisses my nose and skips out of the shed. The kiss stays behind with me.

After some time passes, my logic comes back to me. As cute as young Mary is, she is not the boss of this farm. Her grandmother doesn't want her to have a horse friend until she is older. If I had a brain left in my horse head, I would flee before Mary gets back.

But how can I run away from the sweet child? I cannot. So I wait for her return.

It grows hotter and hotter as the morning drags on.

True to her word, Mary manages to sneak water in for me. Unfortunately, she brings it in a glass made for humans. There is barely enough to wet my tongue.

Mary brings out her dolls and puts them on my back when I'm lying down. She ties a pink bow around my neck—too tight. “Maybe I can find a dress to fit you,” she offers.

In the afternoon, she brings me a sandwich. As hungry as I am, I can't imagine how humans eat this. And yet I do find one piece of leafy lettuce to nibble on.

The shed stinks. It reminds me of the tractor smell from that monstrosity at Quagmire Farms. During the long afternoon, I picture Lena, the way she twisted and turned, dancing on her toes. I remember the feel of her feet as she stood on my back and twirled in the moonlight. I hope she's well. And I pray she's finding a way to dance.

Darkness has fallen outside the shed. Not a trace of light seeps in. The shed door swings open, and there stands Mary, adorable in her little nightgown. In one hand, she holds a worn teddy bear. In the other, she has a cookie for me.

Mary rushes to my side. “I was afraid you runned away.” I'm lying down, and she snuggles in next to me. “All day I've been trying to come up with a name for you, Pony. And I have it. Priscilla Pony! Do you like it?”

I don't, of course, for obvious reasons. But I nod.

Mary lays her head on me and begins telling me stories. I love the soft and musical sound of her voice, though the tales are rather bizarre. One is about three bears and a young human girl. Another is about a wolf, a young girl, and a grandmother. Mary is in the middle of a new bedtime story when she stops.

I wait. When I peer into her face, I see that she's fallen fast asleep. Her hair smells like soap and cherries. She looks like an angel. I remember thinking the same thing about Lena when I first saw her dancing. If I can't have a home with my Lena, or with the cow herd, maybe I really can find a home here with Mary.

“Mary?” I shake her a little. “Mary, you need to go to bed.” Of course she doesn't understand. But one would think she would hear me.

The girl doesn't move. Her eyes don't open.

Suddenly, light streams in through the cracks of the shed. The house's screen door slams. I hear footsteps.

“I'm telling you, her bed hasn't been slept in, Granny!” Jeremy cries.

“Where on earth has that girl gone to? She's getting too big for her britches. Mary? Mary!” Granny shouts.

“She's been acting strange all day,” Jeremy whines.

Granny yells even louder, “Mary! Where you gone to, gal?”

“I saw her sneaking into that there shed this afternoon,” Jeremy tattles. “Maybe some bad man is holding her hostage in there right now!”

Again, I shake Mary and try to wake her.

“Hold your horses, Mary! We're coming to save you!” Granny hollers.

“Where are you going, Granny?” Jeremy asks.

“To get Old Betsy!”

I have not seen another old woman in the house and wonder what use this Betsy might be.

“Your rifle? Goody! I want a rifle, Granny!” Jeremy cries.

“Mary!” I whinny.

The girl doesn't stir. She is the soundest sleeper in the universe.

Soon the door to the shed flies open, and there stands Granny with Old Betsy … aimed right at me. “Mary?” She gasps. “Is that you, gal? Are you all right?”

Mary finally sits up. She rubs her eyes and yawns. “Granny?”

“Step aside, Mary!” Granny shouts. “I'll bag me this critter and give him a whoopin' that will send him into next Thursday!”

“What? What's wrong, Granny?” Mary sounds half asleep.

I feel like a coward for doing it, but I attempt to hide behind the little human.

“It's a monster!” Jeremy shouts.

“Where?” Mary asks.

“Behind you!” he cries.

Mary turns around. She grins. Then she laughs out loud. “That's no monster. That's Priscilla Pony.”

“What did you say?” Granny demands, still leveling her rifle at me.

“Granny, put your gun down,” Mary says. “This is my pony.”

“That ain't no pony, gal!”

“Sure it is. Remember? You told me to put my tooth under my pillow and make a wish? Well, I wished for a pony. And the tooth fairy sent me one!”

“You did tell her that,” her brother agrees.

“But, Mary, that ain't no pony.”

Mary's lips tremble. “Are … are you saying the tooth fairy
didn't
grant my wish?”

“Now, girl,” Granny says. “I'm not saying that.”

“What are you saying, Granny?” Jeremy asks.

“I'm just saying that this old plow horse ain't the one sent by your tooth fairy. That's all.”

“You can't take my pony away!” Mary stomps her little bare foot.

“Aw, gal, I'll get you—I mean, that tooth fairy will get you—a
real
pony. Just your size. Besides, didn't you tell that tooth fairy you wanted a coal black pony? That's what you're always nagging me about.”

Mary cocks her head like she's thinking. “That's true. I did wish for a black pony.”

“Well, you see that?” Granny says. “This here isn't your wish. We'll go into town first thing and see about getting you the pony you're supposed to get.”

Mary runs to her granny and hugs her. “Really, Granny? I'm going to get a real pony? A black pony? All shiny and new?”

I feel like second fiddle. Used and thrown away.

“You got it, sugar!” Granny says in her kind granny voice. “The sweetest little pony in the world.”

I should be happy for Mary. But I am not. I believe I'm in more trouble than ever.

I follow Mary out of the shed, taking care to keep her between her grandmother and me.

“Bye, Pony!” she hollers. “I hope you and the tooth fairy find your real owner. Have a nice day, Big Pony!”

I take one look at Granny and Old Betsy. Something tells me I will not have a nice day.

 

13

To Market, to Market

Bang! Bang! Bang!
Old Betsy has no trouble firing at me as soon as little Mary is out of sight.

I gallop away from the old homestead at top speed while Granny shoots at me. Luckily for me, she's a bad shot.

I don't stop running until I cross the county line. Eventually, I happen onto a dirt road, so I follow it. For miles and miles, I don't see a single farmhouse.

After a few days, my surroundings change. The dirt has turned into paved roads. Farms come along closer and closer together. Soon I'm passing houses. Then more houses, and it becomes harder to find grass to eat. Each house is like an arrow piercing my heart, reminding me that I have no place to call home.

Finally, I know that I am close to an actual city, though I have no idea which city.

I'm so hungry that my nose follows the scent of food. I turn a corner and behold a real, live marketplace. On both sides of the streets, humans have set up stalls. But these stalls are not for horses. The tiny booths hold things that humans want.

On one side, a man stands in front of his cart filled with pots and pans. “Cooking pans for sale!” he shouts. “Shallow and deep! Costly and cheap! Come get your cooking wares here!” His words are singsong, nearly music.

Next to him a woman sways in front of a fancy stall. Her dress is long and yellow, silky and beautiful. I imagine Lena in a dress like this. On the woman's arms bangles and bracelets jangle—like Jingles's bell. Scarves hang from her neck. “Get the finest goods for your girlfriend or your wife right here!” she calls.

One stall sells dolls, and I imagine Mary playing with all of them.

There's an entire stall of leather belts, one for shoes, another for coats. And so on down the road as far as I can see.

On the other side, I see and smell food. It's mostly human food, but I am so starving, it still looks good to me. Fresh breads and jellies, pies and cookies. Bags of powdery things and boxes of mystery.

Halfway up the street I see a vegetable stall. My nostrils flare at the sight of carrots and turnips. An apple cart is being wheeled down the center of the road, where a man stands with a paintbrush and begs people to buy his pictures.

My legs move down the street and toward the apple cart. I am close enough that I can smell the red, juicy, delicious apples the apple man is shouting about. I remember the apples Lena used to bring me.

Closer and closer I get to the cart until my nose … and my mouth … are a horse's breath from a red juicy—

But no. I am not Fred the Thief. I am Federico the Dancing Horse. I am also Federico the Starving Horse. Still, I refuse to take something that doesn't belong to me.

“Stop him!” someone in one of the vegetable stands hollers. “That horse! That wild horse! He's stealing your apples, Manny!”

I turn to face my accuser. “I most certainly am not doing any such thing!” I protest. Then I remember that all this human will hear is “neigh, neigh.”

The apple man cries out and drops the wooden tongue of the cart he's pulling. Apples fly out and roll in the dirt. The front of the cart slips opens, and all the apples spill to the ground, bouncing this way and that. “Help!” he screams.

“I'll stop that wild horse!” shouts another man.

“Come on!” shouts a stocky woman in a white cap. “Let's get him!”

This is serious. People surround me. If they could speak horse, I could make my defense. But of course, they can't understand me. They could smell my breath and see there's not a whiff of apple there, but they do not appear to have this in mind. They're running at me with rakes and brooms.

Horrified, I break into a trot, weaving between these misguided humans. Fortunately, humans are a good deal slower than the slowest horse, and I am able to distance myself from their human pack.

I glance over my rump to make sure it's a clean getaway.

Crash!
I slam into one of the stands. Hats fly in the air—straw hats, ladies' bonnets, hats with feathers. A cowboy hat lands on my head, blinding me. And …

Crash!
I bang into what must be a jewelry stall. Gold and silver trinkets roll to the ground. I have to jump to avoid stepping on them.

People are screaming at me. I find myself to be wearing several necklaces. So I shake my head and lower my neck to let the chains slip off. When …

Crash!
My head rams a food stall. Long, strong-smelling, cylinder-shaped meats wiggle overhead before attacking me. The nasty smell is enough to make my belly ache.

One glance behind me is enough to warn me that what looks like half the town is chasing me.

I make a sharp turn, skidding right, pulling left. I turn again, spot an alleyway, and duck inside. I barely fit between the brick walls of this dark passageway. Quaking from fright, I inch through the passage and wait. It occurs to me that if I'm discovered, I am, as they say, a sitting duck.

I hold my breath and hear the thunder of footsteps behind me. Angry voices draw closer. Then the footsteps and the voices grow faint.

Pshew.
Grateful for the safety of this alley, and unsure where to go from here, I ease to the other end of the passageway and peek out. Little by little, the tradespeople return to their booths and stalls and carts. Even the apples are recovered, washed, and set out for sale once again.

More and more customers visit the market as the day passes. They're shopping and buying, and having a lovely time of it. I watch them and wish I could stroll the street, safely of course, with Lena and Mary and Bessie and little Moony.

Directly across from my alley is the painter I saw earlier. His back is to me as he stands before his easel and fills a canvas with reds, blues, greens, and every other color of the rainbow. It's like watching magic to see the plain white canvas transformed into a beautiful painting that looks exactly like this very market.

When the man finishes, he puts his painting up in the tiniest booth, next to a dozen paintings that look a great deal like this one. Then he walks back out to the street.

“You there!” he calls to an old woman in a black hat and a flowered dress. “Would you let me paint you? Or I could sketch your face, if you prefer. You have an amazing face, madame.”

She frowns at him. “Go away, young man. What would I want with a picture of this face?”

“I'd do it for you for cost,” he offers.

“Ha!” says the woman. “Cost, is it now? Then what would my grandchildren be eating for dinner, I ask you? Go on about your business.” She waves him off.

I feel sorry for the man. He has a nice face, long like a horse's face, brown hair longer than most men. He's skinny as an old mare, though. And his jacket looks like it's seen better days … on somebody else.

“Hey there, Jonathan!” hollers a young woman from one of the vegetable stands. She's not as pretty as Lena, but she's nice looking for a human girl. Her hair is straight and black, and I like the dress she's wearing, a gingham, I think they call it. It would look fine on Lena.

“How do you do, Molly?” The man, Jonathan, tips his hat.

“By the looks of it, I think I'm doing a might better than you. I don't know what's wrong with folks around here. They should be standing in line to have a sketch of themselves. You're that good, you are.”

“I'm glad you think so, Molly,” he says. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“None of that, Jonathan Bean!” Molly says. “You're a true artist, and don't you be forgetting it. You'll get to New York City one day soon.”

Jonathan smiles at her. He mutters in a whisper I can hear, but I doubt his young friend can, “And I'll be hoping you'll go with me, my Molly.”

I watch Jonathan the rest of the day. I'm reasonably sure he doesn't sell a single painting. And no one comes to have him sketch a portrait.

By the time the clothing merchants start packing up their wares, I am truly starving. That's when I spy a half-eaten apple lying in the dirt, where someone must have tossed it. Without thought, I step from the alley and head for the apple.

“There he is!” cries a little boy. “There's the wild horse!”

Fast as I can, I back up to the alley and retake my hiding place.

But I'm too late. Jonathan the Painter turns and looks right at me, watching me wriggle back into the alley.

In seconds, several of the men race toward the boy.

“Where's the horse, Matthew?” a man asks.

The little boy waves his finger in my general direction.

The painter turns toward me. He knows I'm here.

“Jonathan!” the biggest man shouts. “Did you see where that wild horse went?”

Jonathan clears his throat. “Horse, you say? A wild horse? Well, we mustn't have a wild horse around here. I certainly would have hollered if I'd seen one of those. Did you check over by the courthouse?”

“Let's go there!” somebody shouts.

“This way!” cries another.

They race off like a pack of angry humans.

And I was so sure that painter saw me hiding here.

Once everyone else is gone, Jonathan the Painter turns and grins at me. “You there!” he calls. “I don't suppose you've seen a wild horse around here, have you?”