Ширли Мерфи - The Sand Ponies

Mary McCamley, still in pajamas, sets down her orange-juice glass and reads the letter again. What teacher would leave a lovely small town by the sea? Well, some teacher had, had gotten married, or retired. Or just moved away. Someone had. “And lucky for us, Abbey!” says Mary McCamley. “About time, I’d say! Summer’s wasting, here in the city!”

Later, jeep half loaded, apartment torn apart, Mary McCamley stands in the middle of the packing. “There really isn’t much, don’t have much to pack. Sure takes room though, little as it is! Wonder if we’ll get it all in, Abbey.” Abbey blinks. “You all packed, Abbey? Catnip mice and everything? Won’t take me long, you know, even with this mess! What’s that you say? Real mice there? I wouldn’t be surprised!

“Just think, Abbey, a one-room schoolhouse and all! Come on, Abbey, get a move on—summer’s wasting, sitting here!”

When the old tramp leaves the hill above the ranch, he has been back to the barn again, at night, and he carries away more than he brought. He makes his way along the hills, past the ranch, then down to the road where the walking is easier. He passes the farm where Tom and Karen hid, but it is not light yet, and the dog does not bark, for he is asleep in the house, his head on Jerry’s pillow. In the corral a sleek pony moves warily away, watching. The tramp stares at him. He has heard of Sand Ponies and thinks this is one of them. He looks healthy enough; maybe someone has made a pet of him.

He goes on his way, watching the sun rise just as Karen and Tom did. On a hill near the sea he sees dark shapes moving, and he watches them. Must be the Sand Ponies, he thinks. Mighty few of them though, half a dozen, maybe. By the time the sun is well up he is hungry, and he pauses by the road to eat and to drink from the stream; then he heads on toward the village, whose roofs he can see in the distance, tucked among the hills.

At the Black Turtle, morning customers are getting breakfast at the dark bar; special customers, wiping their breakfasts from their chins and tucking little packages in their pockets as they get into cars and drive away.

At the ranch the three men have worked all night, and the woman, too. She has gone off to the inn, and the men want their rest. “One more thing before you knock off,” Charley says. “Early yet—we’ll get out and get those traps set. Get that truck in here, Tip.”

“Aw, for–––-, Charley, not this morning. What the devil’s the matter with you?”

Charley grabs the man, pulling his collar and choking him. “I said now! Get out to that truck, Tip, get moving!”

“Kay wouldn’t like it,” says Ed.

“You tell her, and see what you get.”

“Okay, Charley, I’m coming.”

“Get those ropes out of the bin. Come on, get a move on!”

Soon they are in the truck and moving across a little back road between the hills.

Sarah Paddyfoot stands knee-deep in a patch of bright orange day lilies, gazing about her with a little sigh. She looks up, hoping that not even the crow will disturb her this morning.

The meadow is no bigger than a good-sized yard, surrounded by hillocks and trees, so that it is sheltered from passing eyes. The lilies are thick as garden flowers. Sarah leans down and begins to dig the bulbs, putting the long-stemmed blooms in a basket. Quickly she works, humming a little, finally sitting down among the lilies so that only the top of her head, like a great white moth, can be seen above the flowers. The day is still, and butterflies come to hover over her. The sea murmurs to itself, and the crickets hum. The crow does not appear, and all is peaceful. No one watches her.

No one. No one but the old tramp, standing silently at the edge of the woods, blending with the trees. He stands for a long time, smiling a little. Another lily-gatherer!

Sarah hums softly. Finally, looking up to brush away a gnat, she sees the tramp. She sits quite still, looking at him.

“Are they good to eat raw, or only cooked?” he asks her.

“Both,” she says. “How long have you been standing there spying on me?”

He laughs. “Not long. Was drinking at the stream. Heard a rustle, thought it was a bear.”

“Bear! Ha! Do I look like a bear? Bear in the lily bed!”

“Well, Sand Pony, maybe.”

“Ah. Could be that. But it’s not. It’s just me, old lady in rags.”

This is an exaggeration, but he lets it pass. “Well, how do you eat them raw? Salad? I’ve seen them cooked, but never tasted either.”

“Perhaps you’ll come to dinner and find out.”

“But you don’t know me. I might be a tramp.”

“Thought you were!” says Sarah. “Look like one!”

“So I do. Well. And so I am.”

“We eat ‘bout six o’clock. That’s on account of the twins get hungry so early.”

“Yours?”

“No, more’s the blessing. Family I work for.”

“Won’t they mind!”

“Mind? Be delighted.”

“The missus won’t care?”

“No missus. Just a father. Young man. Needs a wife. Kids no good without a mother. I can handle ‘em though, till something better comes along. Come now, let me show you where. Six o’clock sharp, you remember.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, stepping out of the grove and going with Sarah to where he can see the barn in the distance. “Six o’clock sharp.” He leaves her, thanking her again and melting away into the grove.

“Hmph,” says Sarah Paddyfoot. “Bears indeed! Never heard a tramp speak that well before; nice fellow. Feed him day lilies, I will.”

CHAPTER 14

On the cliff by the ocean Karen is leaning against a twisted tree, chewing a blade of grass and gazing at the breakers. She is halfway to the village with saw blades to be sharpened, and an order for baby chicks and for feed. There is a grocery list in the rope bag she carries, and measurements of windows for the glazier.

The day is foggy and cool. Bo rushes in and out of the waves, and the twins are far ahead, racing through grass as tall as they are. Above, the crow keeps pace, screaming. Karen smiles. Ahead is a small grove of pines, and beyond that she can see the roofs of the village, surrounded by low hills. As she nears the trees and begins to turn away from the sea she calls to Bo.

The twins run through the grass like hidden animals and tear into the pine grove, shouting. There is a loud crash ahead of them, and the little girls stop perfectly still, staring, big-eyed, as the Sand Ponies leap through the grove away from them and out into the meadow, running hard.

The twins are silent as they watch the last running ponies, hear the last sounds of crashing in the grove.

Karen, too, is still. She is making a wish.

Quickly, wishes made, the children hurry through the grove. The ponies are far away, crossing the hills, still running. No one says a word. They join hands and go on toward the village, slowly, gazing still at the hills.

The hardware store is dim and smells of strange, exotic things. The twins disappear like elves, to touch and smell in silent delight, as Karen hands over the saw blades in their little envelopes.

The proprietor is a grizzled, sour-looking old man, hut with a twinkle hidden somewhere underneath. “Spook’ll getcha hack there,” he says to the twins as they disappear into the storeroom, where most customers do not go.

“Not us!” shouts Lisa. “We’re magic! We’ve wished, this morning!”

There is a loud screaming of the grinder as the old man starts to sharpen the blades. “Saw the Sand Ponies, didja’?” he asks of Karen as he stops for a minute. “You make a wish, too?”

“Oh, yes!” She hopes he will not ask what. “It puzzles me, how they can run free where so many people live. Are they really magic?” she asks, smiling at him.