Wonder Light (3 page)

After they'd cleared the table, Twig followed Casey to their bedroom. The far half of the wall, nearest the window, was bare, while the near side was plastered with crayon drawings and drippy watercolor paintings, mostly of horselike blobs. Casey's side of the room. Casey's comforter was hot pink. A baby doll's scratched plastic head and arms peeked out from under the taut bedding. The doll's head rested on a generous pink pillow, eyelids shut.

Twig's bed was draped in pale green, crowned with a plump, plain blue pillow. Her favorite colors. But the massive, dark gray suitcase stood upright at the foot of the bed like a tombstone. The heavy suitcase had even dug itself into the green comforter. She shoved the suitcase over, onto its side. There, that was better.

She was glad she didn't have time to unpack. They had to get to the stable. The ponies were waiting, Casey said. Twig did have to open the suitcase to get out the big shoe box, though, the one that held the boots Keely had bought at a western store, according to the Murleys' recommendation. They were plain black leather, with tapered toes.

Twig struggled to work her feet into them, then wobbled to a stand. “Just a little heel,” Keely had said, but a little bit was too much for feet that were used to the worn-through soles of cheap canvas slides.

“They make you look taller,” Casey said consolingly. “The heels and the pointy toes are for your stirrups.”

The soles were hard and slick and felt weird. Twig didn't like having her feet in shoes that weren't her shoes.

“They'll feel better once they're broken in.”

Mrs. Murley was waiting on the porch. All six girls skipped past her, down the steps, and into the yard.

“All set, Twig?”

Twig shifted her mini-backpack under her shell and nodded to Mrs. Murley. Though thin rays of sunlight filtered through the front windows and a soft breeze was dusting the last of the mist away, she zipped up her shell.

“You've missed the early morning chores, but the midmorning chores are the fun part.” Mrs. Murley winked at the other girls.

“We got up at six to feed them.” Casey tucked a lock of straight brown hair behind her ear. “Now it's time to clean out the stalls, then exercise them.”

At the stable, Twig could hear the ponies nickering their anticipation through the door. Taylor and Janessa thrust the stable doors open. They called out to their ponies as if they were old friends. The wide doors opened to a wider aisle. On either side, pony heads reached over stall doors, ears perked up. The ears pivoted toward Twig; the eyes followed her too. As she passed by, each pony made a noisy breath that seemed to be directed right at her. Twig made sure she stayed in the middle, where they couldn't reach her.

Sunlight shone through a row of skylights above the neatly swept aisle. The stall doors were painted grass green and a plaque hung on each one. Bright letters, some brushed on with wobbly hands, spelled out the name of each pony. Twig followed Mrs. Murley past the stalls of Sparkler, Chatterbox, Gadget, Celeste, and Bedtime Story—to another stall, like the others, but without a plaque.

Mrs. Murley smiled at Twig expectantly. From the stall came a loud sniffling in, then a snuffle out, right in Twig's face. Twig squinted against it. When she opened her eyes, she was looking right into the big, glaring, dark eye of a pony. His gray ears flicked toward her and away, toward her and away, then settled, cupped toward her. He lowered his head and his lip curled up. Twig shrank back, expecting a snarl, even a nip, but the pony just lipped the edge of his stall door.

“You'll make Rain Cloud's nameplate,” Mrs. Murley said, “once you're sure you want to be his rider—once you think he's sure about you too.”

This creature, pulling its head back to scrutinize her, was supposed to be her pony? Well, he was no dumb pony, Twig had to give him that. Unfortunately, that probably meant he was smart enough to dislike Twig.

“Hi there, Rain Cloud. I've got somebody new here for you to meet. Just hold your hand out now, Twig, like this.”

Twig held her hand out, palm down, fingers curled, like Mrs. Murley's, but she scrunched her eyes shut, certain that this animal was not going to want her bony hand intruding in its personal space.

“Now, you want to move slow and easy, like this, so you don't startle him. When you're calm, he's calm. Nice and easy. Don't worry, Twig, it's not you. He just senses that you're new to this, is all. The more comfortable you get, the more he'll trust you.”

Twig moved a hand tentatively toward the pony again, then jerked it back when Rain Cloud rotated his ears abruptly toward her and glared through the long, black strands of his mane.

“Try talking to him calmly just like I am.”

Twig shook her head. She couldn't talk to anyone like Mrs. Murley did. Especially not a pony who was laughing at her with his haughty eyes and his snorty breath. Especially not in front of the other girls.

So Mrs. Murley let Twig stand aside and watch as she and the girls turned out Mrs. Murley's tawny horse, Feather, along with the ponies into one of the pastures.

“Well, Twig.” Mrs. Murley put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “I'll leave you to clean out the stalls. I've got some papers to correct in the house. Casey'll show you the ropes.”

Twig's stomach did a little flop. Did that mean what she thought it meant?

Mrs. Murley left, and Twig went back into the stable with the others. The girls began picking up funny-looking rakes, plucking piles of pony poo and soaking-wet wood shavings, and depositing them in buckets. And Mrs. Murley expected her to do it too. Today. Right now.

Come on, Twig,” Casey said. “We'll do it together. First, Story's stall and then Rain Cloud's.” She offered Twig a rake. Twig just stared at it, but Casey nudged it at her insistently, her dark, delicate brows furrowed.

Twig took it. Well, if Mrs. Murley was leaving, she couldn't leave little Casey to do double the work. And she supposed it was only right that she do something to earn that breakfast.

The stable doors were left open to let the fresh, cool air in. Still, it was hard, smelly work, and Twig had to stop to unzip her shell.

After they'd cleaned out both stalls, they dumped the buckets of soiled bedding into a wheelbarrow. Casey grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and jerked at it, trying in vain to tip it up onto its wheel.

“I guess we should've dumped one stall at a time,” Casey said breathlessly.

Casey struggled with the wheelbarrow. She was sturdy for her size, but she was getting nowhere. Twig examined her own skinny fingers. She wasn't made for this kind of thing. She glanced around the stable. Everyone else was outside. Twig had no desire to shovel that manure back out of the wheelbarrow in order to lighten it, and nobody else was going to push it.

“Oh, here,” Twig said. “Just give it to me. I'll do it.”

Casey relinquished the handles and blew her bangs out of her eyes with a breath of relief. “Thanks,” she said sheepishly.

Twig grimaced and put her whole body weight, little though there was, into it. The wheelbarrow teetered sideways, then, mercifully, onto its wheel. She ran with it before it had a chance to change its mind and tip back down. Who would've thought two little ponies could produce such a load in just one day? She couldn't wait to see the size of the muck heap.

She found the rut worn through the grass by repeated wheelbarrowing and struggled over the bumpy, wet earth toward the edge of the clearing. Had Twig known beforehand what a long a way it was to the muck heap, she might not have offered to push after all.

“So we don't smell the stink all the time!” Casey shouted over her shoulder as she ran ahead of Twig and the wheelbarrow, showing her the way.

But that meant, of course, that they had to smell it all the way there. Her arms shook, and she pushed harder with her legs. The last thing she wanted was to let the wheelbarrow back down and fight with it in front of Regina, who was sauntering back to the stable with an empty wheelbarrow.

After she finally got to dump it out, Twig gave the wheelbarrow a look of disgust and turned her back on it. Casey could bring it back now.

Mrs. Murley emerged from the stable. When she smiled at Twig and Casey, her dark eyes glittered. “Looks good in there, girls. A good student and a good teacher.”

Casey blushed and ducked to hide her smile. Twig zipped her shell back up.

***

After lunch some of the girls went back out to ride their ponies. They'd met all their behavior goals for the week, and Mrs. Murley was going to take them on a ride down to the beach, now that the sun was out and the mist was gone. The others pouted and then resigned themselves to sprawling in the living room with a game of Monopoly. There didn't seem to be any TV at Island Ranch. Well, Twig was used to no TV, from back when she was with Mom. They hadn't even had power in their house. Not that it was really their house, as the police had made plain when they came to clear the squatters out—and found the other stuff Mom was doing. And found Twig.

Mr. Murley suggested that now would be a good time for Casey to help Twig unpack, so Twig followed her back to their room and they both sat on the bed and stared at the suitcase.

Twig made no move to unpack, and Casey got more and more wiggly and uneasy, until she finally said, “Well, at least get out your pajamas, then, if you're just going to leave tomorrow.”

Twig took out some sweats to sleep in and shoved the suitcase onto the floor and crossed her arms. Casey bit her lip and left.

She couldn't go back to Keely. But how could she stay here and feel useless and stupid and have a pony just to remind her of that, day after day? Maybe she'd be better off sneaking into the forest and letting the island's ghosts destroy her first. What would saying something like that do for her behavior goals?

Twig opened up her backpack and took out several folded-up sheets of paper and flattened them on the bed. She'd printed out these stories she'd found online about Lonehorn Island. The abandoned island. The island that early pioneers had disappeared from, that others had fled, claiming ghostly horses and phantom riders had driven them out. In the 1990s, a family had tried to camp on the island. They'd come back with stories of ghost horses and riders, and strange, deadly, flashing blades.

Some said the riders were armed with these weapons; some said it was the horses. Some said the ghosts were Edward Murley, who bought the whole island for a steal in the 1890s, and his three sons, who'd died, along with their horses, in mysterious riding accidents, one after the other, before the family finally gave up on the island. They were the ones who'd named it, the ones who'd passed it down from generation to generation, to the current owner, Mr. David Murley.

Twig didn't come out until dinner, and no one tried to make her. Dinner was pot roast dripping with gravy, and potatoes and carrots that had simmered in the Crock-Pot all day. At Mom's, she'd gotten by on canned tuna and dry cornflakes and plain white bread. Keely fed her pasta drizzled with olive oil, accompanied by a few skimpy strips of grilled chicken.

When the beef was all gone, Twig resorted to sneaking finger-swipes of gravy from her plate. Mr. Murley winked at her, passed her the basket of dinner rolls, and showed her how to use them to sop the gravy up.

After dinner, it was back to the ponies. The mist had returned, a light fog that watered down the setting sun. Twig followed the girls to the pasture and stood there with her hands in her jacket pockets, watching their ponies come to them and nuzzle them.

In the woods behind the pasture shelter, Twig caught a glimpse of movement. She ran over to the fence and peered into the trees, just in time to see the back of someone disappear swiftly, quietly, into the brush. Ghost Boy! Twig held her breath. She stood still and she looked and looked, but he was gone. No horse this time as far as she could tell. Maybe he was trying to be more careful. But careful of what? What did a ghost have to be careful of?

Regina walked by with her pony's lead in hand and caught Twig frowning at the trees.

“I like it here,” Regina admitted with a shrug, “but those woods give me the creeps. Like there's something out there. I'd stick to the clearing if I were you.”

Twig nodded vaguely. She didn't think Regina had seen Ghost Boy. Maybe she was like Mr. Murley—just had a feeling something wasn't quite right.

“There's some nice paths where we ride.” Regina pointed across the pasture. “That way, there's a little meadow. Mr. Murley was planning on clearing more trails through the woods, but now, I don't know.”

Twig looked at her questioningly.

“He keeps finding some reason to put it off.” Regina ran her fingers absently through her pony's mane. “Your mom's coming tomorrow?”

“Stepmom.”

“Are you going back with her?”

Twig shrugged. Could she really do this every day? How long would it be before they expected her to do it all herself, like the other girls? How long would it be before Rain Cloud made his dislike for her painfully clear?

***

Mrs. Murley approached Twig. Casey had gone into the stable without her, without offering to help. She hadn't said a word to Twig since the suitcase.

“Why don't you try to catch him this time?”

Rain Cloud was the last pony left in the pasture. Twig shook her head, so Mrs. Murley called Rain Cloud. She rubbed his forehead and clipped on his lead rope. Then she handed it to Twig. Reluctantly, Twig pulled her hands out of her jacket pockets and took hold of the lead. She stepped toward the stable. Rain Cloud followed, keeping a scornful eye on Twig. Twig was certain the pony was dragging his feet just a little, but Mrs. Murley didn't seem to notice.

Twig got Rain Cloud settled with fresh water and feed, then slid past him, out of the stall. She shut the door with a sigh of relief. She'd survived her first stint at pony managing.

Casey was just finishing up with Story. Twig offered her a small, apologetic smile, and Casey plunked a brush back into Story's grooming kit and smiled back weakly.

Twig leaned her back against Rain Cloud's door and noticed something she hadn't seen before at the end of the row. There was the stall for Mrs. Murley's horse, Feather, much bigger than the ponies' stalls, and right next to it, another large stall with a plaque engraved by a grown-up hand that read “Caper.”

There was no head peeking over this stall, no nickering from the other side of the door. And while Feather had been a part of the chore routine just like the ponies, Twig had yet to see another horse or to hear any mention of the name
Caper
.

Across the walkway, Taylor gave her pony a last rub on the nose and latched her stall door. “That was Mr. Murley's horse,” she said, even more seriously than usual.

“Was?”

“He died. Something…got him. That's why Mr. Murley rebuilt the fence. That's why it's so high.”

Casey whispered in Twig's ear, “The wild horses ate him.”

Prickles ran down the back of Twig's neck. Something shifted behind her, grabbed her by the ear. She shrieked, pulled back, and banged her head against the stall wall. She turned around to face the ghost horse, the wild creature, whatever it was that was trying to eat her.

Twig found herself looking right into one of Rain Cloud's dark, skeptical eyes.

“It's just Rain Cloud,” Taylor said with the slightest hint of a smile.

Regina erupted in laughter.

“Trying to taste you.” Casey patted Twig's hand. “He just wants to get to know you.” Then, in the lowest of whispers, “He's a good pony. Not like those things in the woods.”