Ширли Мерфи - The Sand Ponies

It is not connected writing, just impressions. Words about the sea, the shore, small bright impressions that run through her head. She writes until she is too tired to think, and then she lays the pad beside her on the table, turns out the light, and snuggles down. She thinks of Kippy, but somehow, lately, she has begun to feel that he is all right, that he is as safe and warm as she. She closes her eyes and she is fast asleep.

CHAPTER 16

The grownups have left the table and are walking along the shore, Bo tagging behind and Abbey left to peer after them from the willow tree.

‘This,” says Mary McCamley, “has been the most unlikely day of my life.”

“How?” asks Jack Tillman, looking down at her.

Mary smiles. “Oh, the remodeled barn, and J.L.,” she says, “and, I don’t know, the kids in the village talking about Sand Ponies, the sheriff’s office, eating lilies under a willow tree. And Roland and Sarah Paddyfoot.” (These two are far behind, peering into tide pools.) “Having, suddenly, a room with a bed of hay and orange crates for a desk. I think I’m dreaming it all.”

“Straw,” he corrects her. “Straw, not hay. Well,” he continues, “the way I look at it, nothing’s nicer than a dream. Right kind of dream, that is. I imagine you’ll find more things that are unreal, if you stay here. It’s different, somehow. Sometimes you think you must have dreamed it. Or wished it.” He glances at her.

“Wished on the Sand Ponies, perhaps?” she says.

“Perhaps.”

“I would like to see them, and make my wish.”

“Perhaps you will, Mary McCamley. If you stay long enough, I will take you to see them.”

“When?”

“When you’re ready to wish, of course.”

Much later, when they have returned and Sarah Paddyfoot has made coffee, Mary McCamley thinks again of the ponies. “Haven’t they ever been tamed?” she asks.

“Not that I know of,” says Jack Tillman.

“There’s one in a corral, not far from here,” says Roland. “Don’t know if he’s broke, though. But fat, looked cared for.”

“Where is that?” asks Jack Tillman, and when Roland tells him, he looks thoughtful. “You came by the main road, then?” he asks.

“Yes, I did. Took my time—like to see the country. No sense in walking if you don’t enjoy what you’re looking at.”

“What else did you see?” asks Jack Tillman, leaning back and lighting his pipe.

“Passel of things,” says Roland. “Other wanderers. People. Saw some Sand Ponies once, loose ones. Passel of things.”

“Ever see anything that made you wonder’? That you didn’t understand?”

“Most things on this earth make a man wonder, make him want to know more than he does, more than he can understand, maybe.”

Jack Tillman is quiet. Mighty strange talker, for a tramp, he is thinking.

Sarah Paddyfoot is thinking the same thing. Mighty smooth answer, she thinks.

Ah, well, the night is growing cool, the moon is settling a bit, the sea laps peacefully, and the world is spinning so smoothly that a person cannot help hut yawn and feel a bit snug, a bit happy, as if everything in the universe is in its proper place.

When Mary McCamley crawls into bed, between her own blankets, Abbey comes to settle down beside her. They snuggle close, for the night has grown cold.

Hmm, thinks Mary McCamley. Magic ponies, too. I think I’ve dreamed it all, I think I’ve dreamed this day. But still, I seem to be awake, and the straw is a bit stickery. That wouldn’t be in a dream, now would it?

I wonder. Those Sand Ponies, I wonder if one could be tamed, could be broke. It has been a long time since I rode a horse. Why, I was younger than Karen. I want to see them. I want to see the wild little things, wish or not; there is something magic about anything wild, I guess. Something all of us yearn for.

She closes her eyes, and soon she is asleep, and through her dreams Sand Ponies run, rising from the dunes like fairy ghosts and streaking away before her.

The twins dream of Shakespeare, who has gotten strangely mixed with Roland into a symphony of screaming witches, white beards, pale dying ladies, bloody swords, and charging horses. Wonderful mysteries, here, to be unlocked. And with a real live teacher in the house, oh, what joys lie ahead!

CHAPTER 17

Dan Elber stretches his legs out and leans back in the sheriff’s most comfortable chair. “It’s them, all right, moving around up in the hills. Shouldn’t be hard to catch. Whole bunch, except the mare. Afraid I’ve lost her. Her time’s right due, may have holed up someplace, but it worries me. She was a nice little mare; gentle.”

“Got some news for you,” the sheriff says, getting his feet nicely settled on the desk. “Found your mare, too, Dan.” Dan sits forward, eager. The sheriff continues, “Holed up in a draw near Lindley’s Ranch; his boys found her. Got yourself a nice new filly, too. Born yesterday.”

Dan Elber is grinning. “She all right?”

“Both of them are. Boys took them in, said the mare was gentle as could be, glad to get some grain. Got ‘em up at the ranch. Want to go have a look?” “Sure do,” says Dan Elber, getting up.

“It’s her, all right,” Dan Elber says as he opens the stall door. “Hello, Tolly, girl.” The mare nickers softly. “Look pretty good, for going so far. Good keeper, you are, my girl. Well, can’t move you for a while, now. Didn’t like that snow much, did you, girl?” He is examining the colt. “Nice filly. Got us a nice new filly, sure,” he says, rubbing the little ears. “Next thing is to get your buddies back,” he tells the mare. “Fine bunch of no goods, taking you off like that. Suppose that buckskin pony had something to do with it. Smart aleck little thing. Well, won’t be hard to catch ‘em. Got room for a few strays someplace?” he asks the rancher.

“Sure, get my boys saddled up any time you say. Sheriff’ll come, too, I expect, give us a hand. Plenty of room, plenty of feed, till you can move ‘em. Wouldn’t mind buying that mare, though. Nice little thing. Nice filly, too.”

“Well,” says Dan Elber, “I don’t know about that. Thought for a long time about moving out of that high country. Gets pretty lonely, winters. But I don’t know, hadn’t thought about selling the mare. If she’s gonna run off every spring, though, maybe I ought. We’ll see. More inclined to find me a little place around here, nice winters, and raise a few colts. Retire, sort of. We’ll see.”

Saddled and mounted, the men start out from the ranch. It is a long way up the draw to the hills where the horses were last seen, and late morning by the time the men spread out to work the hills. Kippy watches them, and backs farther into the brush, nipping at the others and bunching them. No sense in running; stay here, good cover, be quiet, that’s the best thing.

In the hills not far away Charley jerks at the ropes of a sprung trap, swearing. Every trap is sprung, the grain gone. “Dirty little beggars, look here! Every last one!

Tip grins, turning away. He likes to see Charley foiled in anything. He is thinking, If Charley could ride, he’d go after them horseback. I wonder why he don’t. Never have seen him on a horse; only trapping them.

Setting new traps in new places, the men work over the hills, Tip and Ed sullen, but doing as directed, Charley growling at them when they are slow. By the time all the traps are set in scattered spots evening is coming on. They get back into the truck and start for the ranch, Charley gruff and bad-tempered. As they round a curve he slams on the brakes and leaps out of the truck, for directly ahead of them the Sand Ponies have started up, heading for the draw.