Ширли Мерфи - The Sand Ponies

“It seems strange,” Karen says, “that they could live like that with so many people around. Folks must catch a good many.”

“Pretty strong feeling around here,” Sarah says. “Keeps them safe. People say, you hurt those ponies, bother them, they’ll bring the worst kind of luck.

Wouldn’t want to try it. Hear some weird stories, that’s sure.”

“Then we know someone who will have bad luck, the more the better,” Tom says.

“Who’s that?” asks Jana, wide-eyed, imagining the suffering of some deserving soul.

As they settle down in the grass to rest, the clams covered with wet sacks to keep them cool, the children tell Sarah and J.L. about the strange ranch and the starving ponies, and about the man and woman from the Black Turtle. Sarah Paddyfoot looks thoughtful at this, but she says nothing and the children go on to tell about all that happened before that, and after, even about Karen’s dream of the path by the sea and the black rock, and something waiting there. “That was us, waiting,” says Lisa. “Us!”

“In a dream, imagine!” says Jana.

If you can come out of a dream, Karen thinks, why can’t Kippy, too? She looks out across the rolling dunes and the blowing grass at the swelling sea, and she imagines the little horse coming across the sand toward her, ears up, black mane flying. Why can’t Kippy, too?

When the horses lag Kippy drives them on. They all have bite marks on necks and withers and rumps. They don’t kick back or nip any more; he is wild to travel faster. They are becoming a disciplined little band; they drive well and graze only when Kippy lets them. Tolly is growing slower as the days pass and needs to graze more than the others, but even she is beginning to sniff the air and dream of home.

They have not only to go north, but to cross the mountains and move west to the sea. They travel first in that direction, moving at night and laying up in the daytime, hidden by trees or boulders. Where Kippy has gotten his knowledge no one can say. Perhaps his wiliness comes from his mountain ancestors, or perhaps from need. He does well on little grass, far better than the other horses, who are growing thinner.

The mountain rocks are hard to climb, the grass sparse and too new to have much strength. Some snow still clings in high places. There are mountain lion here, and bear. Twice they smell the dreadful bear smell and panic, even Kippy, scattering down the mountain, terrified. But some sense draws them together again, and Kippy will not go on until all are worked into a bunch once more.

They travel many weeks, and Tolly is having a harder time of it. She grows slow and irritable, and she starts to resist Kippy. She is now heavy with foal, and she is not getting enough to eat. But Kippy drives her on.

Then one morning as the sun rises they stand on the edge of a steep hill—they have been carefully descending for hours—and gaze at a stretch of flat country dotted with oak trees and pine and carpeted with grass.

They have crossed the coast range. Lean and tired, they look before them, then hurry down into the plain.

For many days they stay here. There is water, and the grass is tall and mature.

Soon they begin to grow fatter, and as they do they start to lift their heads once more and to gaze eagerly toward home.

Even Tolly becomes anxious to go on. She, too, is beginning to know the obsession that has driven Kippy; her colt will be born at home, where the grass is sweetest. Now it is she who starts first in the evening, it is she who is impatient. Between them, she and Kippy herd the little band, though not much herding is needed now, only directing. Kippy always seems to know which way is safest.

There are still foothills to cross, but the winter rain has made strong pasture, the grazing is easy, and the traveling is fast. Some days later they have left the foothills and are working their way between farm fences, down dirt roads—always at night—avoiding the barking dogs. Now Kippy walks out, head swinging. He can smell the sea.

CHAPTER 11

In front of the old barn, under the willow tree, the table is set for supper. There is clam chowder, biscuits, and berry pie. Karen is washed and so is Tom. Even the twins are clean, two scrubbed little girls.

“There will be a brick terrace,” says Mr. Tillman, “here under the tree, and glass doors where the barn doors are. Over there will be a low brick wall.” He is tall and tanned and solid-looking. His brown hair is cut close and his eyes are very blue. John has dark hair and eyes, like the twins. He is perhaps a year older than Tom, but no taller.

“It will be lovely,” Karen says, seeing the old barn as Mr. Tillman sees it.

It is a well-made barn. The ceiling towers high above the loft, the rafters sweep away under a good roof. As Mr. Tillman and John talk the old gray walls begin to sprout windows, the windows grow verandas, the stalls become rooms, and the center part of the barn turns itself into a living room with bookshelves and a fireplace at one end.

“It took some looking,” says Mr. Tillman, “to find the place we wanted.” He leans comfortably back in his chair and lights his pipe. Lisa blows out the match and Jana makes a rude noise at her. Mr. Tillman frowns and J.L. settle down once more.

“When Mama died,” Jana says, “we did not want to stay in the city. We came here. We sold our house and came here. Papa said we were too much for the city.”

“I am a carpenter,” Mr. Tillman continues. “I can make as good a living here, with the village close, as I can in the city, and have time to myself, too. The city’s no place for children. Not these children, anyway. Jana’s right, they overflow into trouble there.” He pauses and draws deeply, and Karen thinks how nice a pipe smells, mixed with the sea air. “And what about you two? Is the city not your kind of place either, then?”

“No, I guess it’s not,” Tom says. He doesn’t say any more, and Mr. Tillman doesn’t ask.

“I could use some strong help,” he says finally, looking at Tom, “if you were planning to stay in this part of the country for a while.”

“We did want to work,” Tom says. “We were going to get jobs somewhere. Could we really be useful? How can you be sure?”

“Suppose I give you a week to try,” Mr. Tillman says. “If you’re a good carpenter, you’ll get room and board. If not,” be knocks his pipe into an empty nail can, “you can go to work in the village and board with us, if you care to stay.”

But what will I do? Karen thinks. I want to work, too. I can drive a nail as well as Tom can.

Mr. Tillman is looking at her. “With two extra pairs of hands,” he says, “we should be pretty snug by fall.” He doesn’t mention school.

Later, as Tom is helping Karen make her straw bed in one of the stalls, Karen says, “We’ll have to tell Mr. Tillman we ran away. We can’t stay without telling him.”

“I know,” Tom says. “Then perhaps he won’t want us.”

“Do you think he’ll make us go away?”

“No,” Tom says, “I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” says Karen. “But what if we get him in trouble?”

“Well, he must be told, then decide for himself if he wants to take the chance,” Tom says. “If he wants us to leave, we will.”

“Yes,” Karen says. “Good night.”

“Good night,” says Tom, leaving her door ajar. They both know Tom is the one to tell Mr. Tillman— it doesn’t need discussing.

“Wait, Tom,” Karen calls after him. “What about the Black Turtle people? What shall we do about them?”

“Wait until I talk to Mr. Tillman, Karen. Maybe he will know something.”

“All right. Good night, Tom.”

“Good night.”

CHAPTER 12