Stormy, Misty's Foal Read online

  “Tell you what,” Grandma said after a moment’s thought. “I promise to go out every hour and look in on Misty.”

  “You will?”

  “That I will.”

  “And will you telephone school in case she needs us?”

  “I’ll even promise you that. Cross my heart!”

  Somewhat appeased, Paul and Maureen washed and hurried into their school clothes. When they dashed out of the house, Grandpa was climbing into his truck. “Hop in,” he said. “I’ll give ye a lift.” He put the key in the ignition, but he didn’t start the car. A blast of surprise escaped him. “Great balls o’ fire! Look!”

  “What is it, Grandpa?”

  He pointed a finger at a big white goose up-ended in the watering tub. “Jes’ look at him waller! Now,” he said in awe, “I got a sure omen.”

  “Of what?” both children asked.

  Grandpa recited in a whisper:

  “A goose washin’ in the horse trough

  Means tomorrow we’ll be bad off.”

  “Who says so?” Paul wanted to know.

  “My Uncle Zadkiel was a weather predictor, and he said geese in the trough is a fore-doomer of storm.”

  Grandpa started the car, a troubled look on his face.

  The day at school seemed never-ending. Maureen answered questions like a robot. She heard her own voice say, “Christopher Columbus was one of the first men who believed the world was round. So he went east by sailing west.”

  “Very good, Maureen. You may sit down.”

  But Maureen remained standing, staring fixedly at the map over the blackboard. Her mind suddenly went racing across the world, and backward in time, to a tall-masted ship. Not the one that Columbus sailed, but the one that brought the ponies to Assateague. And she saw a great wind come up, and she watched it slap the ship onto a reef and crack it open like the shell of an egg, and she saw the ponies spewed into the sea, and she heard them thrashing and screaming in all that wreckage, and one looked just like Misty.

  “I said,” the teacher’s voice cut through the dream, “you may sit down, Maureen.”

  The class tittered as she quickly plopped into her seat.

  In Paul’s room an oral examination was about to take place. “We’ll begin alphabetically,” Miss Ogle announced. “Question number one,” she said in her crisp voice. “With all books closed, explain to the class which is older, the earth or the sea, and where the first forms of life appeared. We’ll begin with Teddy Appleyard.”

  Teddy stood up, pointing to a blood-splotched handkerchief he held to his nose. He was promptly excused.

  “Now then, Paul Beebe, you are next.”

  Dead silence.

  “We’ll begin,” the teacher raised her voice, “with Paul Be-ee-be-ee,” and she stretched out his name like a rubber band. But even then it didn’t reach him.

  He was not there in the little white schoolhouse at all. In his mind he was back at Pony Ranch and Misty had broken out of her stall and gone tearing down the marsh. And in his fantasy he saw the colt being born, and while it was all wet and new, it was sucked slowly, slowly down into the miry bog. There was no sound, no whimper at all. Just the wind squeaking through the grasses.

  Tap! Tap! Miss Ogle rapped her pencil sharply on the desk. “Boys and girls,” she said, “you have all heard of people suffering from nightmares. But I declare, Paul Beebe is having a daymare.”

  The class burst into noisy laughter, and only then did the mad dream break apart.

  • • •

  Back home in Misty’s shed all was warm contentment. There was plenty of hay in the manger, good hay with here and there some sweet bush clover, and a block of salt hollowed out from many lickings so that her tongue just fitted. She worked at it now in slow delight, her tongue-strokes stopping occasionally as she turned to watch a little brown hen rounding out a nest in a corner of the stall. Fearlessly the hen let Misty walk around her as if she liked company, and every now and again she made soft clucking sounds.

  Out on the marsh Billy Blaze and Watch Eyes, pretending to be stallions, fought and neighed over the little band of mares. Misty looked out at them for a long time, then went to her manger and slowly began munching her hay. The hen, now satisfied with her nest, fluffed out her feathers and settled herself to lay one tiny brown egg.

  Contentment closed them in like a soft coccoon.

  Chapter 3

  A BODY WITH A PURPOSE

  RIGHT AFTER school Paul and Maureen rushed into Misty’s stall, almost in panic. Things should be happening, and they weren’t. Grandpa Beebe joined them. “You two hold her head,” he ordered. He put his stubbly cheek and his ear against Misty’s belly.

  “Feel anything? Hear anything?” Paul whispered.

  “Not jes’ now. Likely the little feller’s asleep.” He bent down and felt of Misty’s teats. Gently he tried to milk them. “Some mares is ticklish,” he explained, “and they kick at their colt when it tries to nurse. I aim to get her used to the idee.”

  “You getting any milk?” Maureen asked.

  Grandpa shook his head. “Reckon Misty ain’t quite ready to have her young’un. But no use to worry. Now then, I’d like for ye two to do me a favor.”

  “What is it, Grandpa?”

  “I want ye to climb aboard Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze, ’cause today noon it ’peared to me Billy was going gimpy. You children try him out and see which leg’s causin’ the trouble.”

  Paul and Maureen were glad of something to do. The way Grandpa talked made them feel like expert horsemen. Quickly they bridled the ponies, swung up bareback, and took off. Paul stayed a few lengths behind on Watch Eyes, calling commands to Maureen on Billy Blaze.

  “Walk him!”

  Ears swinging, head nodding, Billy stepped out big and bold. Almost bouncy.

  “Trot him!”

  Again he went sound, square on all four corners.

  “Whoa! Turn! Come this way”

  Maureen pulled up, laughing. “Except for his being so shaggy,” she said, “he could be a horse in a show, his gaits are so smooth. Grandpa knew it all the time.”

  “Of course. He just wanted us to stop fussing over Misty. I’ll race you, Maureen.”

  It was fun racing bareback across the marsh. The rising wind excited the horses, made them go faster, as if they wanted to be part of it. And it was fun to round up the mares and drive them down the spit of land, stopping just short of the sea. It was even fun arguing.

  “Maureen, you got to do the pumping tonight.”

  “I don’t either. I got to gather the eggs.”

  “All right, Miss Smarty, then you can just mend that chicken fence, too.”

  It ended by both of them repairing the fence and both taking turns pumping water. Afterward, they charged into the house, glowing and hungry.

  Grandma promised an early supper of oyster pie. “And then,” she said, “if you can trust me to keep watch on Misty, you can drive with yer Grandpa over to Deep Hole to the Reeds’ house. Mrs. Reed’s got a pattern I want to copy for our apron sale.”

  “I’ll take ye up on yer offer, Idy,” Grandpa agreed quickly. “It’ll give me a chance to see how my herd’s doin’ up there on winter pasture.”

  But about that time odd things began to happen. A lone marsh hen came bustling across the open field toward the house. Paul saw her first. He was at the table in the sitting room, painting a duck decoy.

  “Look! Come quick!” he shouted to the household. “A marsh hen’s coming to pay us a call!”

  Maureen hurried into the room to see. Grandpa and Grandma almost collided, trying to get through the door at the same time.

  “Jumpin’ mullets!” Grandpa whistled. “In all my born days I never see a marsh hen walkin’ on dry ground.”

  “Can’t say I have either,” Grandma agreed. “They’re timid folk, ain’t they?”

  “Yup, only feel safe in a marsh, like a rabbit in a briar patch.”

  “I saw one, one day,�
� Paul said, “walk right across the causeway.”

  “Pshaw!” Grandpa whittled him down to size. “Everyone’s seen ’em do that. They’re just makin’ a quick trip acrost, from one marsh to another. But this little hen has made a journey. For her it’s like travelin’ to the moon.”

  Grandma nodded. “To my notion, she’s a body with a purpose. She’s tryin’ to find a hidey-hole. Wonder what’s frighted her?”

  They all watched as the hen made her way to the high ground near the smokehouse and settled down on the doorstep as though she’d found a safe harbor.

  Everybody went back to work except Grandpa. He crossed the room to the window that faced the channel. “Great guns!” he exclaimed. “Look at how our lone pine tree is bent! Why, the wind’s switched clean around from sou’west to nor’east! And look at the sky—it’s black as the inside of a cow.” Suddenly he sucked in his breath. “The tide,” he gasped, “it’s almost up to our field!”

  “Only nacherel,” Grandma called from the kitchen. “We’re in the time of the new moon, and a new moon allus means a fuller tide.”

  But Grandpa wasn’t listening. He began pacing from one room to the other. “Any storm warnings on the radio today, Idy?” he asked.

  “No,” Grandma said thoughtfully, “except the Coast Guard gave out small-craft warnings this morning. But three outen five days in March, they hoist that red flag.”

  “Even so,” Grandpa said, “me and Paul better light out and put the ponies in the hay house for safety.”

  Paul dropped his paintbrush and started for the door.

  “Bring in more wood for the stove,” Grandma called after them.

  Darkness was coming on quickly and the wind had sharpened, bringing with it a fine whipping rain. The old man and the boy whistled the ponies in from the marsh. They came at a gallop, eager to get out of the weather. It wasn’t often they were given all the hay they could eat, and warm shelter too.

  Paul grabbed a bundle of hay and ran to Misty’s stall. He found her stomping uneasily and biting at herself, but he blamed the little colt inside her, not the weather. The wind fluttered the cobwebs over the window at the back of her stall. He nailed a gunny sack to the frame to keep the cold out. Then, feeling satisfied, he gave Misty a gentle pat on the rump. As he went out, he bolted both the top and the bottom of her door.

  He joined Grandpa, who was gathering up four fluffy black mallards, too young to fly, and putting them in a high cage in the hay house. The peacocks and banties were already roosting in the pine trees. Wherever Paul and Grandpa went, Skipper ran ahead, enjoying the wind and the feeling of danger and excitement. At the kitchen door he left them, jumping into his bed in the truck. Habit was stronger than the wind.

  Inside the house, all was warmth and comfort—the fire crackling in the stove, the oyster pie sending forth rich fragrances, and from the radio in the sitting room a cowboy’s voice was throbbing:

  “Oh, give me a home

  Where the buffalo roam,

  And the deer and the antelope . . . ”

  The word “play” never came. The music stopped as if someone had turned it off. At the same instant the kitchen went black as a foxhole.

  A strange, cold terror entered the house. For a long moment everyone stood frozen. Then Grandma spoke in her gayest voice, which somehow didn’t sound gay at all. “We’ll just eat our supper by candlelight. It’ll be like a party.”

  She found the flashlight on the shelf over the sink, and pointed its beam inside a catch-all drawer. “I got some candles in here somewheres,” she said, poking in among old party favors and odds and ends of Christmas wrappings.

  Grandpa struck a match and held it ready. “Yer Grandma looks like Skipper diggin’ up an old bone. Dag-bite-it!” he exclaimed. “I’m burnin’ my fingers.” The match sputtered and died of itself.

  “I’m ‘shamed to say,” Grandma finally admitted, “but I recomember now, I gave my old candles to the family that moved in on Gravel Basket Road. They hadn’t any electric in the house. What’s more, I loaned ‘em our lantern.”

  Grandpa’s voice was quick and stern. “Paul! You drive my pickup over to Barrett’s Store and get us a gallon of coal oil. Maureen, you crunch up some newspaper to—”

  “Clarence!” Grandma was shocked. “Paul’s not old enough to drive, and hark to that wind.”

  “Idy, this here’s an emergency. I’m the onliest one knows jes’ where in the attic to put my hand on the old ship’s lantern off’n the Alberta. Besides, Barrett’s is jes’ up Rattlesnake Ridge, as fer as a hen can spit.”

  Paul was out the door in a flash and Grandpa was pulling down the ladder in the hall to the crawlspace in the attic. As he climbed up he muttered loud enough for Grandma to hear, “Wimmenfolk and worry, cups and saucers, wimmenfolk and worry!”

  When he came back with the lantern, he handed it to Maureen. “Like I said, honey, you crunch up some newspaper and give this chimney a good cleaning, and then pick the black stuff off’n the wick. Here, ye can use my flashbeam to work by.”

  Seconds passed, and the minutes wore slowly on. It was past time for Paul to be back. Grandpa peered out the window, trying to pull car lights out of the dark. He wished Grandma would not just sit there, hands folded in prayer. He wished she’d sputter and scold. He wished she’d say something. Anything.

  He even wished Maureen would say something. But she was intent on her work. “That’s good enough, honey. Better shut the flashbeam off now. We may be needing it for trips to the barn,” he added seriously.

  When at last Paul burst into the house, he set the can of coal oil on the table without a word. Grandma quickly opened it and poured some in the base of the lantern.

  “Wa-al?” Grandpa asked as he struck a match and lighted the wick. He turned it slowly up and watched the flame steady. “Where ye been? Yer Grandma’s nigh crazy with worry over ye. What took ye so long?”

  “I drove around to see how bad the storm is.”

  “And how bad is it?”

  “Bad. Real bad.”

  “What you lookin’ so ashy about?”

  “I got bogged down in the sand on Main Street. The bay water’s coming right over the road and lots of cars are stuck. Fire Chief had to push me out.”

  “Oh . . . ” Grandpa looked concerned. “Ye’d better run my truck up to that high place by the fence, Paul. If this wind keeps up, no tellin’ how far she’ll shove the tide.”

  Chapter 4

  LET THE WIND SCREECH

  THE STORM was sharpening as Paul moved the truck. If he hurried, he could look in on Misty once more. Skipper read his thoughts and leaped out with him, but he didn’t dash ahead. He hugged close to Paul, his action saying, “Two creatures against the storm are better than one.”

  The wind swept down upon them and struck with an iron-cold blast. It took Paul’s breath. He had to fight his way, reaching up, grasping for the clothesline. He might not be able to get out again. Suppose Misty’d already had her colt and was too frightened to take care of it? Suppose it suffocated in its birthing bag because no one was there to tear it open?

  He stumbled over a tree root, and only the clothesline kept him from sprawling. But now he had to let go. He had reached the post where the line turned back to the house. He was almost to the corral. Now he was there. He squeezed through the bars. He reached the shed, crying out Misty’s name.

  She came to him, her breath warm on his face. He put both arms around her body. The colt was still safe inside her. A wave of love and relief washed over him as he leaned against her, enjoying the warmth of her body. He stood there, wondering what she would say to him if she could, wondering whether she was thinking at all, or just feeling content, rubbing up against a fellow-creature for comfort.

  Skipper nosed in between them, nudging first one and then the other, wanting to be part of the kinship.

  “You can stay in here tonight, feller,” Paul said. “You’ll keep each other warm.” Reluctantly he left them and head
ed toward the house. The wind and rain were at his back now, pushing him along as if he were in the way.

  The kitchen felt cozy and warm by contrast, and the acrid smell of the coal oil seemed pleasant. The light, though feeble, didn’t hide the worry on Grandma’s and Grandpa’s faces. But Maureen was humming and happy, her head bent over small squares of paper. Wait-a-Minute was perched on her shoulder, purring noisily.

  Paul picked up the cat, warming his fingers in her fur. “What you doing, Maureen?” he asked.

  She folded one of the squares and held it up in triumph. “Isn’t it exciting, Paul?”

  “What’s it supposed to be?”

  “Why, a birth announcement, of course.”

  “Gee willikers! Horsemen don’t send out announcements!”

  “I know that. But Misty’s different. Everybody’s heard how she came from the wild ones on Assateague and chose to live with us ’stead of her own kin.”

  Paul held the folder close to the light. He studied it curiously and in surprise. On the top sheet were three sketches of horses’ heads. The one on the left was unmistakably Misty, and the one on the right could have been any horse-creature except that it was carefully labeled “Wings” Between the two, in a small oval, there was a whiskery colt’s face and underneath it a dash where the name could be printed in later.

  “Right purty, eh, Paul?” Grandpa asked.

  “Look at the inside,” Grandma urged.

  Paul opened it and read aloud: “Little No-Name out of Misty by Wings. Misty out of The Phantom by The Pied Piper. Wings out of a wild mare by a wild stallion.” He pulled at his forelock, thinking and studying the pedigree.

  “One thing wrong,” he said with authority.

  Maureen’s lips quivered. “Oh, Paul, I can’t help it if I can’t draw good as you.”