Season of Ponies (6 page)

From her window seat Pamela would wait for the sound of Ponyboy’s flute or the shadowy form of Nimbus among the trees at the edge of the lawn. She kept her jacket ready with the pockets full of cookies. She never knew when to expect them, but if bedtime came without a sign, she knew they wouldn’t come that night.

On nights when she heard the secret sound of the silver flute or saw the gray mare, Pamela would slip out her window and down the trellis. There was always something wonderful to do. Sometimes they found a jack rabbit to chase and played fox hunting, galloping over hills and through valleys. Once a fox hunt led them up the boulder-strewn slopes of Sleeping Lady Mountain, and once again Pamela felt the senseless surge of fear as she looked down on the mysterious cloak of fog below. But there was so much to do, there was no time to worry about the swamp or anything else for long.

Sometimes they took the ponies to Shadow Glen to graze. They had a favorite spot on a ledge near a little waterfall where they liked to sit and talk while the ponies ate. Once, on a Saturday, they spent the whole day there. Pamela always remembered that Saturday picnic; partly because it was such a wonderful day and partly because it was the first time she really heard about the Pig Woman—although afterwards it seemed she had always known.

Every Saturday Mrs. Tibbets from down the valley came to Oak Farm to clean and scrub. Sometimes, in nice weather, old Mr. Tibbets came too, to take the aunts to town. It was a long ride to town, so they always spent the entire day shopping and visiting with old friends. It occurred to Pamela when she heard of a coming trip, that grumpy old Mrs. Tibbets would never notice or care if she was gone all day.

Ponyboy probably wouldn’t like her suggesting a certain time for him to come. She never knew when she would see him. But the prospect of a whole day’s adventure made her want to try.

The next time she saw Ponyboy, she told him about the approaching shopping trip. “And I could come in the morning and stay all day,” she said brightly. “It always seems like such a short time from after dinner till I have to go home.”

Ponyboy’s slanting eyebrows began to dip fiercely as she had feared they might. He didn’t like things to be so expected. But suddenly she had an inspiration. “I could pack a picnic lunch,” she added quickly.

Ponyboy’s eyebrows, on their way down, wavered. Then they started up again. “A picnic? What sort of picnic?”

“Oh, chicken sandwiches, and pickles, and olives, and lemonade, and cookies; maybe even doughnuts.”

The eyebrows were back to normal. “Well, I don’t know for sure,” he said. “I might be too busy, but if you
want
to pack a lunch Saturday and take a walk up the cowpath to the north pasture I might...,” he waved his hand vaguely, “be around.”

The lunch was easy. Aunt Elsie loved to cook, and the pantry was always full of good things to eat. Mrs. Tibbets was no problem either. She didn’t know enough about children to realize that a one-girl, all-day picnic wouldn’t be much fun. She seemed glad Pamela wasn’t going to be underfoot.

Pamela was excited as she started out along the north pasture cowpath early Saturday morning. It was so different to know, or almost know, that she was going to see Ponyboy and the ponies. But when she reached the gate at the end of the pasture, there was no sign of ponies or boy. She waited and was beginning to wonder if he had decided not to come, when a bird called sharply from a clump of trees on the hillside just beyond the gate. A bird, or was it?

Pamela quickly opened the gate and in a moment was among the trees. She looked around. Nothing stirred. Short, sun-dappled grass, tall pines and oaks, but nothing else. Perhaps it was only a bird.

Just then a giggle directly over her head made her jump. There, stretched out on a limb, was Ponyboy—his hands under his chin. He sat up and shoved himself off the branch, landing lightly beside Pamela.

“Hi,” he said. “I’ll carry the lunch. I left the ponies farther up the hill.”

Shadow Glen was beautiful that day. The sun was warm, but it was cool and dusky under the trees that edged the brook. While the ponies grazed, Pamela and Ponyboy made boats of tree bark, manned them with people made from hoarhound sprigs, and ran them over the rapids. While the daring hoarhound boatmen shot the waterfall, Pamela made up names and life histories for each limp green hero.

“This is Stanley Drudger,” she announced, shoving a boat out into the current. “He’s a street sweeper. His wife and eleven children are watching down there by the waterfall. He entered this race because he needs the prize money to buy shoes for his children.”

Pamela and Ponyboy leaned over the bank and watched the tiny craft bobbing precariously over the rapids. The boat plunged over the waterfall and disappeared under the swirling water.

“Oh, oh,” said Ponyboy. “There go the new shoes.”

“And daddy, too,” sighed Pamela. “It’s sad, isn’t it?”

Just then the boat popped up beyond the whirlpool, still carrying its hoarhound sailor.

“Hurrah!” shouted Pamela and Ponyboy. “Hurrah for Stanley Drudger!”

Pamela picked out an especially handsome hoarhound man, long and limply graceful.

“Next will be Sir James Diddle-Dumpling, from a noble British family. He’s shooting the rapids to impress his sweetheart Lady Gwendolyn. She says he’s a sissy.”

“I don’t blame her,” said Ponyboy. “He looks like one to me with that head.”

Well I think he’s handsome. He can’t help it if his head happens to be a daisy.”

Sir James was launched and soared grandly over the fall. The boat landed right side up in the whirlpool, spun round and round, and disappeared as if it went down the bathtub drain. After a long moment the capsized boat appeared—without Sir James.

Pamela and Ponyboy exchanged tragic glances. Ponyboy shook his head slowly. “He should have stayed a sissy,” he said solemnly. Pamela giggled.

After a while they ran out of boats and decided to hold a funeral for the race’s unlucky victims, Sir James and another unfortunate named Percival Poppyhead. They had a grand funeral procession which Solsken joined until they had to disqualify him for frisking. The heroes were buried near the site of their glorious deaths.

“Let’s eat lunch,” suggested Ponyboy. “Mourning makes me hungry.”

P
AMELA AND PONYBOY SPREAD
their picnic on the ledge and ate until they were stuffed. Solsken decided he much preferred cookies to grass and hung around getting in the way, almost stepping in the lemonade. Finally, they took what was left of the cookies up to where the fork of a huge old oak tree made a comfortable nest-like seat. Solsken wandered around below, looking up at them and stamping his tiny hooves.

“Why don’t your aunts take you with them when they go shopping?” Ponyboy asked suddenly. “Don’t they like you very much?”

Pamela was startled by the question. “No,” she stammered. “I mean—no, they do like me—and they would take me if I wanted to go. But they were used to not having children around for so long that it makes them sort of nervous; and it makes me nervous to be around people that I’m making nervous. So I’d rather stay home. Besides, they sit and talk to other ladies for hours. It’s not much fun.”

Ponyboy considered this for a moment. “How about your father?” he asked. “I guess he doesn’t want you along with him either?”

“He does, too,” Pamela said indignantly. “But he can’t take me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he travels all the time, and lives in dingy hotels, and has to eat at restaurants, and—”

Ponyboy’s shrug dismissed all those things as unimportant.

“Besides, there’s Aunt Sarah. You see Aunt Sarah is my father’s sister. She’s older than he is, and she took care of Aunt Elsie and my father after their parents died. I guess they just got used to doing what she said when they were little, and it’s hard for them to stop.”

Ponyboy shook his head disapprovingly. Pamela was beginning to feel unhappy in the midst of such a wonderful day. But Ponyboy suddenly changed the subject.

“Let’s tell some more stories,” he said.

Pamela knew by now that this meant she would tell stories and Ponyboy would comment on them, but she didn’t mind. Some of his comments were fascinating and very puzzling.

“That’s silly!” he’d say when she finished a story. “Goblins don’t do things like that. I’ve never known a goblin that acted that way.” Once, after a story about a troll, he said, “I met a troll once. He was ugly, but he really wasn’t very dangerous.”

Pamela was fascinated, but she never asked questions. She knew it wouldn’t do. Once she had said, “Is that really true?” and Ponyboy hadn’t spoken to her for an hour.

On this particular day Pamela couldn’t think of any stories that she hadn’t already told.

“I’ve told all the best ones,” she said. “There’re just some awfully common ones like
Hansel and Gretel
and
Goldilocks.”

“That one will do,” he said.

“Which one?”

“That one you said first—
Hansel and Griddle.”

For the first time Pamela really realized that no one had ever told him fairy tales before. Imagine growing up to be—whatever age he was—and not ever hearing
Hansel and Gretel.”

At the end of the story, Ponyboy had some comments to make as usual. “She was a pretty stupid witch to be tricked so easily. I’ll bet they couldn’t have fooled the Pig Woman like that.”

“Who’s the Pig Woman?” popped out before Pamela could stop it.

But Ponyboy seemed too startled by her question to notice it was one. “Don’t you know?” he asked in wonder. “You mean no one’s ever warned you? Well, isn’t that just like Them! That proves They don’t really care what happens to you.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me then?” Pamela asked. “Or don’t you care what happens to me either?”

Ponyboy looked impatient. “You sound just like a girl,” he said indignantly.

Well, I can’t help that, Pamela thought; but it didn’t seem wise to say it.

Finally Ponyboy stopped frowning. Slowly and reluctantly he said, “I wouldn’t want to see the Pig Woman get hold of anyone. I don’t much like to talk about her, but you really ought to know. Do you remember the swamp we rode by over below Sleeping Lady Mountain?”

Pamela could suddenly see the bleak gray swampland with its twisted, moss-hung trees and black, still water. She shuddered. “Yes, I remember.”

“That’s where the Pig Woman lives,” Ponyboy said. “Only sometimes she comes out into the forest.”

“Why is she called the Pig Woman?” asked Pamela. “And why is she so dangerous?” It seemed strange that Ponyboy, who seemed not at all afraid of anything else, should be almost afraid to talk about this mysterious person.

“Look, Girl,” he said. “Just remember if you see a woman with some thin black pigs—run as fast as you can! Or if you hear a woman’s voice singing anywhere in the forest, particularly near the swamp—run! That’s all you need to know. Just run!” And he wouldn’t say any more.

They had to leave Shadow Glen soon after that, to get Pamela home in time for dinner. On the way home she tried once or twice to bring up the subject again, but without success.

Then one night not long afterward, when she and Ponyboy were playing with the ponies in the forest clearing, a strange thing happened. They were trying to teach Solsken to jump over a rope when suddenly Cirro whinnied, high and shrill. Instantly all was quiet in the meadow as every pony stopped as still as a statue, listening. Pamela glanced at Ponyboy. With the rope still in his hand, he stood as if turned to stone while his dark eyes grew large and his golden skin paled.

Then Pamela heard a faraway voice singing. High and clear, beautiful and yet evil, the song drifted into the clearing.

As Pamela watched, Ponyboy began to move slowly toward the sound. His eyes were cold brown glass.

“Ponyboy!” Pamela screamed.

Suddenly his eyes were alive again. He clapped both hands over his ears and ran to Cirro. Leaping on the pony’s back, he gave the sharp whistle he used to call the other ponies. The frozen ponies sprang to life and together they dashed away into the forest. As Cirro rushed past, Pamela felt herself being lifted into the air. A moment later Nimbus was running beside them, and Ponyboy dropped her onto the gray mare’s back.

Lying low on the ponies’ necks, they fled through the whipping branches of the forest. Then out onto the open hillside they swept. Up to the top, and a sliding rush down the other side. But this was not like the wonderful moonlight rides they had had so many times before. This time fear rode beside them.

After a long while they stopped and rested in a little valley. Pamela tried to question Ponyboy, but he only shook his head.

Some time later they came, quietly, to the woods behind the old barn, and the ponies gathered around for Pamela’s good-by pat. Ponyboy had been very strange and quiet on the ride home, but now he grinned and touched his curly forelock in a mock salute.

“Thank you, Girl,” he said.

N
OTHING WAS CHANGED BY
the strange thing that happened that night except that the next few times Pamela met Ponyboy they did not go to the forest meadow. Pamela couldn’t get Ponyboy to talk about what had happened no matter how skillfully she questioned him, but it seemed to her that he was troubled at times. Sometimes he would stop whatever he was doing and listen intently. Then he would be himself again. But he came as often as ever, and they had good times at Shadow Glen and in the forest.

After awhile they began to go to the clearing again to play games. Pamela was surprised to find how many games, like tag and hide-and-go-seek, could be played on horseback. They played these regularly, until the day they discovered the game of Circus. It started when Pamela was telling Ponyboy about a circus she had been to with her father.

“The part I liked best,” she said, “was the equestrian act. There was a whole family in fancy costumes who did tricks on a troupe of beautiful, trained ponies.”

“Bet they weren’t as smart as my ponies,” he said. “What could they do?”