Season of Ponies (4 page)

Suddenly the pony turned sharply and plunged down the hillside. Now they were among high oaks and evergreens, and the pony picked its way around graceful green ferns and dense underbrush. The forest grew thicker and thicker until Pamela had to lie flat to keep from being lashed by the branches.

Her face was hidden in the pony’s mane when suddenly she heard a voice saying, “Good girl! Nimbus.”

She sat up with a start and found herself in a clearing surrounded by thick forest. And just in front of the pony’s nose stood the boy.

The boy walked around to the side of the pony and looked at Pamela deliberately. “I don’t suppose you brought anything to eat?” he asked.

Pamela remembered the cookies in her pocket. Wordlessly she held them out.

“Perfect!” said the boy. He sat down on the grass and began to eat. Pamela stared at him.

He’s all brown and gold, she thought. His hair needs cutting and his clothes look as if he made them himself. He hasn’t any shoes and ...and he must be awfully hungry.

The boy was stuffing the cookies into his mouth. He glanced up at Pamela. “Are you going to get off, or just sit there staring?” His dark eyes were laughing. They were strange eyes that slanted up at the edges; untamed eyes, cocky and full of mischief, like a yearling colt untrained to even a halter. “Down, Nimbus!” he said.

The gray-white pony knelt quickly, and Pamela slid off onto the grass. The pony moved away and began grazing.

The boy handed her a cookie. “Why were you crying the other day?” he asked.

Pamela fished for her lost voice and found a shaky uncertain part of it. “I—I don’t know. I was sad,” she stammered. In her confusion, it didn’t even occur to her to wonder how the boy knew she had been crying.

“What had They been doing to you?” he asked, frowning.

“They? Who?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said impatiently. “The ones you live with. That’s what I call most people, just They.”

“Oh, nothing really. It wasn’t really anybody’s fault. I was just lonely.”

“I thought so,” he nodded confidently. “That’s the way They always make you feel. Ponies are different. You can’t be lonely with ponies.” He motioned, and Pamela noticed for the first time that the clearing was full of ponies.

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” she cried. “May I pet them? What are their names?”

“Well, that gray mare that brought you is Nimbus. She’s the gentlest one. The tall blue one I ride is Cirro. He’s the leader of the herd.” The boy whistled between his fingers, and the biggest pony threw up his head and galloped to them. Right in front of Pamela, he reared, pawing the air. He pranced around her, occasionally stopping to stretch his long neck and sniff, and then jump away snorting and showing the whites of his great dark eyes. Tendons stood out sharply under the silken hide of his face, and his nostrils flared nervously. Like Nimbus, his body was purest white, but his tossing mane and tail were plumes of smoky blue. Around his muzzle and near his hooves, the white gradually shaded to the same beautiful color.

“He’s wonderful,” Pamela said a little shakily. She was thinking she much preferred the gentle Nimbus.

A soft nudge made Pamela jump. Standing beside her was a colt—pale gold and, even more than the others, so very like the horses of blown glass. He nuzzled her affectionately with his velvety nose and flicked his frizzy golden tassel of a tail.

“That’s Solsken,” the boy said. “He loves to be petted.” Pamela ran her hand down the soft gold fuzz of his mane. A tiny fuzzy forelock fell over his round baby forehead. His eyes were fawn’s eyes, soft and wondering. His black nose was warm and wiggling, and he pushed it into Pamela’s hand and ate the last of her cookies.

“Oh, he’s a darling.” Pamela threw her arms around the colt’s neck and hugged him. “I wish I could take him home with me.”

The boy laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a little hard to explain? Besides, we really couldn’t spare him. He’s the pet of the herd. The others all spoil him. That is, all except Aurora. But you can play with him when you’re here.”

Just then there was a quick rush of hooves and a shrill whinny, and a perfectly marvelous mare slid to a stop and nipped the colt on his smooth gold rump. Solsken kicked up his heels angrily and bucked away.

The boy laughed. “Aurora’s jealous. She thinks she’s queen of the herd just because she’s pink.” And sure enough, the mare, who was now strutting daintily around them, was really pink. At least her mane and tail were pink; the rest of her coat was of palest pearly gray with just the faintest rosy touch.

Pamela gasped. “She’s beautiful. She’s almost too pretty to be real.”

The boy frowned. “That’s a silly thing to say. I don’t like that word. Nothing’s real unless you want it to be, and anything can be real if you want it to enough; so real doesn’t really mean anything.” Then quickly he smiled again. “Do you want to meet the others?”

“Oh, yes,” Pamela said eagerly.

Two snow-white mares were grazing side by side not far away. They stopped as the boy and Pamela approached. They tossed their heads and snorted softly. Great blue eyes looked at Pamela warily between strands of milky-white forelocks. “This one is Neige, and that one is Nuage,” said the boy. “They’re always together.”

Pamela put out her hand gently and let the mares sniff it. Then she rubbed their soft foreheads. In a few minutes they were almost as friendly as Solsken.

The twin mares followed as they went on to another white mare with a long flowing mane and tail of pale gold. “This is Solsken’s dam,” said the boy. “Her name is Luna.”

Luna accepted Pamela’s greeting with calm majesty. She bowed her lovely head and pawed the earth delicately with one forefoot. Her mane rippled and shimmered. “She’s beautiful,” Pamela breathed. “Like a queen.”

They went on through the herd. There was Luvia, Brisa, Rosee, and other names Pamela couldn’t remember. There were blues, grays, whites, and golds.

Some were quiet and gentle. Others snorted and danced sideways as Pamela approached, rolling their eyes until the whites showed and pluming their beautiful tails. Pamela thought she could look at them forever. “They’re so gorgeous,” she said. “I’ve dreamed about horses all my life, but I’ve never even imagined any so beautiful.”

“I know,” the boy said.

Nimbus came up and rubbed her lovely dove-gray head on Pamela’s shoulder. Pamela patted the mare’s soft neck thoughtfully. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

“Never mind. Let’s do something. Would you like to ride some more?”

“Oh, yes. It was wonderful coming here. But first, I wish you’d explain everything to me. Who you are—and where you live, and where you got the ponies and—and—everything.” Pamela’s questions trailed off weakly because she noticed that the boy’s dark brows were tipping into a really violent frown. Suddenly he whirled and stomped off across the meadow.

Pamela looked after him in wonder. What could have made him so angry? The boy sat down on a log at the other side of the clearing with his back to her and leaned his chin on his hands.

Pamela stood in the midst of the ponies, not knowing quite what to do.

T
HE PONIES DRIFTED BACK
to their grazing until only Nimbus remained. Pamela ran her fingers through the silken mane. “I wish I knew what was the matter.” Nimbus’ gray eyes seemed sympathetic. “Do you think I ought to go ask him?” Nimbus tossed her head as though she were nodding. “I guess I will. I feel silly just standing here. Come with me, Nimbus.” Pamela tugged on the gray mane. When they reached the log, the boy’s dark slanting brows were still pulled down fiercely.

“I guess I made you mad,” she said. “But I didn’t mean to. I think you could at least tell me why you’re angry.”

For a moment longer the boy sat and frowned. Pamela felt very uncomfortable. Suddenly he jumped up and glared at Pamela. Then he said very slowly and distinctly, “I—don’t—like—questions!”

“Qu—questions?” Pamela stammered. For a moment she couldn’t remember what she’d asked. “Oh, that! Well, you should have told me so. I won’t ask any more.”

The boy looked at her suspiciously. “I’ll bet you do. You probably can’t help it. Girls are that way. I should never have brought you here.”

Pamela sighed. If only he’d stop being angry. Then, remembering something that often worked when she had displeased her father, she hung her head and looked very meek and humble. “I’ll try not to,” she said gently.

Glancing up under her lowered lashes, she saw it working. The boy’s frown changed to an uncertain look and then suddenly to a grin.

“Let’s go riding,” he said.

As he whistled for Cirro, Pamela breathed a sigh of relief. She watched with admiration as the boy vaulted onto the dancing horse, but she was glad that Nimbus knelt for her to mount. As they started out of the clearing, the other ponies stopped grazing and followed. They moved slowly through the forest, ducking branches and trailing vines. Pamela could hear the rest of the herd moving all about them.

After a while they came out of the forest onto a grassy hillside and picked their way up a zigzag trail toward the crest of the hill. The pony herd followed single file now, working their way back and forth across the face of the hill, their heads bobbing rhythmically as they climbed. Below them valleys and hills and forest stretched in all directions.

“That’s the way back to Oak Farm,” the boy said, pointing towards the east. “And that’s the forest we just left, down there. The valley on the other side is Shadow Glen. The ponies like to graze there.”

The crest of the hill was all covered with rocks and boulders. It rose slowly ahead of them as they followed the narrow path. Off to the west, below the hill, Pamela could see a huge stretch of flat land, partly hidden by a low heavy fog. Through the fog she could see glimpses of crooked mossy trees and dark water.

“We’re on Sleeping Lady Mountain now, and that’s the swamp.”

Pamela pulled sharply on Nimbus’ mane bringing her to a stop. As she stared down at the gloomy fog-shrouded scene, she felt a wave of excitement rush over her. But the wave became a backwash filled with a surge of shapeless fear. She sat motionless, unable to take her eyes from the lonely nothingness that stretched before her. It was as though she were trying desperately to look through the heavy fog for a glimpse of something—something frightening, known and yet unknown.

She glanced at the boy and saw that he, too, was staring, fascinated by the scene before them. But just then he caught her eye and laughed, a little uneasily.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Pamela was burning with curiosity, but she remembered in time about questions so they rode on silently.

The crest of the hill dropped, and the ponies wound their way down to a broad valley. Here the two rode slowly with the herd bunched behind them, except for Solsken who galloped on ahead, bouncing sideways on his gangly legs and flicking his tiny tail.

The boy took a small flute from a cord around his neck and began to play. The music was very much as Pamela had remembered it. A strange wild sound that was not quite a tune, as if all the sounds of the forest were shaped to the clear sweet tones of the flute.

The ponies seemed to like it, too, for they lifted their feet higher and arched their slender necks more sharply.

Pamela was having such a wonderful time she didn’t realize how late it had become until quite suddenly she noticed that the sun was very low. “Oh, I’ll be late for dinner!” she cried. “I’ll have to hurry home.”

“All right, we’ll hurry,” the boy said. He made a quick sound with his tongue, and the ponies sprang into a run. Up hill and down they swept, so fast they seemed to be sailing on the wings of the wind. Cirro and Nimbus raced side by side like pale shadows over the ground. Pamela and the boy lay close to the ponies’ necks, half-buried in the flowing manes. A little way behind them ran the rest of the pony herd, the thunder of their racing hooves filling Pamela’s head like the crescendo of a symphony.

When Pamela felt the ponies slowing down, she sat up and found herself in the familiar woods back of the old barn. They moved slowly now and very quietly. The excitement of the wild run down the valley had left Pamela feeling a little limp. She swayed softly with the pony’s gentle motion. Near the barn they stopped, and all the ponies crowded around as if to say good-by.

The sun was low in the west, and Pamela knew she must hurry. She patted each velvet nose quickly. She looked up at the boy who was still sitting on Cirro’s back.

“Good-by. I had a wonderful time—” She paused. “Why, I don’t even know your name.”

The boy frowned. “I don’t like names. I don’t have one, and I don’t want to know yours. I’ll call you Girl.”

Pamela laughed. “Then I’ll call you Ponyboy. I’ve called you that to myself since I first saw you.”

“All right,” he said. “I don’t mind that.”

“Good-by, Ponyboy.” She started away. Then she turned back. “But the ponies have names.”

“That’s different. Ponies’ names are just to call them by. They don’t try to carry them on or live up to them or worry about having a good one.”

Pamela looked thoughtful. “Oh,” she said. “Well, good-by.”

P
AMELA WAS QUITE LATE
for dinner that night. Aunt Sarah was very upset. “Where ever have you been?” she began icily as Pamela came into the dining room.

Pamela was frightened. What could she say. She couldn’t tell the truth, and yet Aunt Sarah always knew a lie.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Sarah,” she began. “I was reading in the barn—and—and—I’m not sure exactly what happened.”

Just in time Aunt Elsie came to her rescue. “She must have fallen asleep, Sarah. I’m sure she didn’t mean to be late.”

“Really, Elsie,” Aunt Sarah snapped. “You and I have been over this very topic enough times for you to know how I feel about excuses of that nature. ‘Not meaning to’ is no excuse for any sort of failure. I’m quite aware that you excuse your own weaknesses in that manner, but I do not mine—nor shall Pamela be encouraged to excuse hers.”

Aunt Elsie’s small face looked crumpled. Pamela was sorry for her, but she was relieved that Aunt Sarah had forgotten to question any further. When she turned back to Pamela she said, “Take your plate to the kitchen. You shall eat there alone for a week. And tomorrow you will write a five hundred word essay on the value of punctuality.”