Ширли Мерфи - The Sand Ponies

She is walking along a cliff above the sea. The path is grassy, and yellow mustard fields stretch away to hills which lie in shadow beneath dark clouds. Below the cliff the sea sucks and beats at a ribbon of sand.

The path wanders a little and hugs the cliff’s edge. Gulls cry. The air is heady with salt. A small brown lizard suns on a rock, and does not run when she strokes him. Buttercups grow by the lizard’s rock, and a snail sleeps.

The path drops steeply down the side of the cliff. She follows it. Grains of sand glint like diamonds at her feet.

Black sea caves in an outcropping of rock receive onslaughts of water, are filled by them, then stand empty, dripping, until the next crashing wave.

She stands with her back to the cliff, enchanted by the writhing of the sea; she is part of the sea. A gull sweeps overhead, silvered in the sunlight. Silent.

She climbs the wet rocks and watches the tide pools fill and empty. Transparent green swells explode and fall away, leaving jewels of wetness behind them, leaving clusters of bright shells bedded in green seaweed; leaving small red crabs scuttling.

The sea grows wilder, hurling spray in her face. A seagull screams. The tide has risen and the sand is covered. A knife-edged wind tugs at her hair. Water foams wildly among the rocks.

Fog begins to roll over the sea, crushing the sun. Karen turns back to the cliff, but it is a long way away.

Wind whips at her, waves break nearer. Clinging, clinging to the wet rock, slipping, she cannot get close to the cliff. Fog grows thick around her. She is slipping, climbing frantically.

Then the fog closes in around her, below her, hiding the sea. The crash of waves is muffled. The fog swirls up around the cliff’s edge. It writhes and dances, white and cold and eerie, like clammy hands, pushing closer, closer to her. She starts to run; but she is running on the great carpet of fog; running, running across it. She runs until she is surrounded by it and cannot see the land. She is lost and alone. She stops and turns, but as she does she begins to sink into the fog—deeper, deeper. She struggles.

Then the fog is gone. She is standing once more in the field of mustard. The day is warm and still. The sea below is blue and very calm. A cricket sings. A bird calls. A small green beetle watches her. She tastes a yellow mustard flower. She looks along the path, down at the empty beach.

But the beach is not empty. Something, someone, is there.

When she wakes she cannot remember. She cannot remember who was there on the beach, looking up at her.

The cellar is lighter now, as if the sun is well up, but Tom still sleeps. Karen gets up and feels her clothes, knowing they will still be wet. She gets her others from her pack and puts them on. There is no water for washing, or for drinking. She is very thirsty. She begins to look around. The cellar is not as small as she first thought. Steps lead down to a darker, larger part below. It is dim, but going carefully, Karen climbs down.

Bags of potatoes and carrots sit in one corner, and shelves of canned food line the walls. Karen reads the labels, written in a small, neat hand, and picks out a jar of peaches. By the time Tom wakes she has the lid off, and has eaten half of them. “We can leave money for it,” she says as he looks at her. She hands him the jar.

As Tom eats they begin to hear little scratching sounds overhead, then clucking; there is a woman’s voice, calling chickens, and a dog barks nearby.

Karen grins. “This one has livestock, all right. We’d better get down where it’s dark.” They move to the farthest corner of the cellar, behind some large barrels.

“We may have to stay here until nighttime,” Tom says. “Unless we decide to ask for a job!”

“Wouldn’t they think it strange if we came out of their cellar?”

“Yes, I guess they would.” He grins.

“Maybe we’ll hear them talking and find out what kind of people they are.”

“Yes, maybe.”

“Tom?”

“Hmmm?”

“What do you think happened to Kippy and Tolly and Ginger and Rex?”

“What made you think of that now?”

“I don’t know; a dream I had, I guess; or maybe it was the ponies last night. I hope they got away safely.”

“So do I.”

“But what do you think, Tom? Do you think our horses are safe, too?”

“No one would pay good money for them, then neglect them. Kippy probably has some little girl to put up with, and maybe Tolly has a boy. They’re all right, Karen. They’re not ownerless and homeless like those ponies.”

“I guess you’re right. But I wish I knew; I do wish I knew. I don’t know what it was about that dream, but it made me so restless; as if something, or someone, were waiting for me—as if something were going to happen. I do wish I knew where Kippy was, and if he’s taken care of.”

Tom squirms around to make himself more comfortable, then both children hush. Overhead, a young boy is shouting, there is the sound of trotting; then the cellar door creaks, and the boy, very close, cries, “Papa, Papa, I saw them!”

“Don’t shout. I’m right here, Jerry.” The voice is so close that the children stare at each other. Has the man been there all the time, perhaps sitting on the cellar door? Has he heard them talking? Tom shakes his head. He couldn’t have heard their whispers. The man continues, “Here, loosen the cinch if you’re going to let him stand. Is he hot?”

“No, Papa.” There is a pause. “Well, a little.”

“Then walk him around while you tell me. What did you see?”

The boy’s voice starts out loudly, but fades as he walks his horse, then comes clearer again, as if he is walking in a circle. “I saw the Sand Ponies, Papa! Down near the west pasture, down by the bog.” Karen and Tom look at each other. “Big as life,” the boy continues. “Big as life I saw them! We’ll have luck for sure, won’t we, Papa? But, Papa, they sure were skinny. They’ve always been so fat—it’s been a good year for feed, too. Why were they so thin?”

“Were they?” There is a pause. “How many, Jerry? Could you count them?”

“Oh, sure. Just five of them. That does seem funny, now you think of it—never seen but the whole band together before, like that time in the ravine—but they sure were Sand Ponies, Papa.”

“Sure?”

“Oh, sure! Four roans, one gray. Sand Ponies, sure. Little and short-coupled, ears back, all of ‘em, when they saw me.”

The man chuckles. “I’ll saddle up old Doc and we’ll go see. Seems mighty funny, just a few like that. And skinny. Could be they’re sick, Jerry. Come on.” The door creaks, and the children hear footsteps going away.

The next voice is a woman’s—the same one that called the chickens. “Breakfast’s ready, Joe, Jerry.”

“Put it on the back of the stove, Nell. We’re off after Sand Ponies,” the man shouts.

“Sand Ponies? My goodness, where?”

“West pasture. Jerry says they look queer. Might be sick.”

“Oh, dear. Best go right away. My! Poor, dear things. I’ll set the breakfast back.”

The children hear horses trotting off. “They must be the same ponies, Tom,” Karen whispers.

“Yes. What did the boy say about bringing luck?”

” ‘We’ll have luck, sure,’ or something like that.”

“I wonder what he meant. Do you suppose they think those ponies are bewitched or something?” Tom says.

“Could be. But those men last night didn’t think so.”

“They were too mean to believe in anything.” Tom is frowning.

“I wonder why they’re called Sand Ponies. Sounds almost like a fairy name.” Karen wriggles farther down behind the barrels. “I wonder where they came from.”

Tom is folding his nearly dry clothes. “Pretty strange, all right. This sure isn’t the kind of country where you’d expect to find wild horses.”