“It’s not that, Maureen. The pictures are nice. Better than I could do,” he admitted honestly. “But in pedigrees the stallion’s name and his family always come first.”
“But, Paul, remember how Misty’s mother outsmarted the roundup men every Pony Penning until she birthed Misty? The Pied Piper was penned up every year, and if it hadn’t been for Misty, likely The Phantom never, ever would of been captured. Remember?”
“‘Course I remember! I brought her in, didn’t I?” He stopped and thought a moment. “But I reckon you’re right, Maureen. This pedigree is different. Misty and The Phantom should come first.”
“These children got real hoss sense, Idy,” Grandpa bragged. “I’m so dang proud o’ them I could go around with my chest stickin’ out like a penguin.” He strutted across the room, trying to stamp out his worry.
Suddenly the lights flashed on and a voice blared over the radio: “ . . . is in the grip of the worst blizzard of the winter. Twelve inches of snow have fallen in central Virginia and still more to come. At Atlantic City battering seas have undercut the famous board walk. Great sections of it have collap . . . ” The voice was cut off between syllables as if the announcer had been strangled. Again the house went dark, except for the flame in the lantern and a rim of yellow around the stove lids.
“Supper’s ready,” Grandma sang out in forced cheerfulness. “Guess we can all find our mouths in the dark. These oysters,” she said as she ladled the gravy over each plate, “is real plump, and the batter bread is light as a . . . as a . . . ”
“As a moth?” Paul prompted.
“Well, mebbe not that light,” Grandma replied.
They all sat down in silence, listening to the sound of the wind spiralling around the house. Suddenly Grandpa pushed his chair back. “I can’t eat a thing, Idy,” he said. “But you all eat. I just now thought ‘bout something.”
“’Bout what, Clarence?”
“’Bout Mr. Terry.”
Grandma put down her fork. “That’s the man who moved here to Chincoteague last fall, ain’t it?”
As Grandpa nodded his head, Paul broke in. “He’s the man who has to live in a kind of electric cradle.”
“That’s the one. His bed has to rock, Idy, or he dies. And now with the electric off, he may be gaspin’ for air like a fish out o’ water. Me and Paul could go over and pump that bed by hand.”
He hurried into the sitting room, to the telephone on the little table by the window. “Lucy,” he told the operator, “please to get me Miz’ Terry. She could be needin’ help.”
Grandma put Grandpa’s plate back on the stove. Everyone stopped eating to listen.
“That you, Miz’ Terry?” Grandpa’s voice boomed above wind and storm.
Pause.
“You don’t know me, but this here’s Clarence Beebe over to Pony Ranch, and I was jes’ a-wonderin’ how ye’d like four mighty strong arms to pump yer husband’s bed by hand.”
There was a long pause.
“Ye don’t say! Wal now, ain’t that jes’ fine. But ye’ll call me if ye need hand-help, eh?”
Grandpa strode back to the table, sat down and stuffed his napkin under his chin.
“What did Miz’ Terry say?” asked Grandma, setting his plate in front of him.
Grandpa ate with gusto. He slurped one oyster, then another, before he would talk. “Why, ye’d never believe it, Idy, how quick people think! First, Charlie Saunders, who’s in charge of the hull Public Service—he calls Miz’ Terry and warns her ‘bout the wind bein’ high and the electric liable to go out, so she calls Henry Leonard down to the hardware store, and almost afore she hung up there was a boy knockin’ at her door with a generator and some gasoline to run it.”
Grandpa sighed in satisfaction. “So let the wind screech,” he said, “and let the rain slap down, and let the tide rip. We’re all here together under our snug little roof.”
A good feeling came into the room. The lantern flame seemed suddenly to shine brighter and the homely kitchen with its red-checkered cloth became a thing of beauty.
Chapter 5
NINETY HEAD
BEFORE SECOND helpings the storm struck in full fury. It came whipping down the open sea like some angry, flailing giant. It shook the house, rattled the shutters, clawed at the shingles.
The kitchen, so snug and secure a moment ago, suddenly seemed fragile as an eggshell.
Grandpa and the children rushed to the sitting-room window. They could not see beyond the windowpane itself. Only wind-driven rain, streams of rain, slithering down the glass, bubbling at its edges. Every few moments one ghostly beam from the lighthouse over on Assateague sliced through the downpour—then all was blackness again.
Maureen tugged at Grandpa’s sleeve. “Grandpa! What if Misty’s baby is being born? Right now? Will it die?”
Paul, too, felt panic. “Grandpa!” he yelled. “Let’s go out there.”
But Grandpa stood mesmerized. He wasn’t seeing this storm. He was in another storm long ago, and he was thinking: “‘Twas the wind and waves that wrecked the Spanish ship and brought the ponies here. What if the wind and waves should swaller ‘em and take ‘em back again!” In his darkened thoughts he could see the ponies fighting the wreckage, fighting for air, fighting to live.
And suddenly he began to pray for all the wild things out on a night like this. Then he thought to himself, “Sakes alive! I’m taking over Idy’s work.” He turned around and saw her at the sink washing the dishes as if storms were nothing to fret about. A flash of understanding shuttled between them. They would both hide their fears from the children.
Paul’s voice was now at the breaking point. And Grandpa knew the questions without actually hearing the words. But he had no answer. He, too, was worried about Misty. He put one arm around Paul and another around Maureen, drawing them away from the window, pulling them down beside him on the lumpy couch.
“There, there, children, hold on,” he soothed. “Buckle on your blinders and let’s think of Fun Days. I’ll think first. I’m a-thinkin’ . . . ”
In the dark room it was almost like being in a theater, waiting for the play to begin. And now Grandpa was drawing the curtain aside.
“I’m a-thinkin’,” he began again, “back on Armed Forces Day, and I’m a-ridin’ little Misty in the big parade ’cause you two both got the chickenpox. Recomember?”
“Yes,” they agreed politely. And for Grandpa’s sake, Paul added, “Tell us about it.”
“Why, I can hear the high-school band a-tootlin’ and a-blastin’ as plain as if ’twas yesterday. And all of ’em in blue uniforms with Chincoteague ponies ’broidered in gold on their sleeves. And now comes the Coast Guard, carryin’ flags on long poles, marchin’ to the music, and right behind ‘em comes me and the firemen a-ridin’.”
Now the children were caught up in the drama, reliving the familiar story.
“Misty, she weren’t paradin’ like the big hosses the firemen rode. She come a-skylarkin’ along, and ever’where a little riffle of applause as she goes by. But all to once she seen a snake—‘twas one of them hog-nose vipers—and ‘twas right plumb in the middle of the street, and she r’ared up and come down on it and kilt it whilst all the cars in the rear was ahonkin’ ‘cause she’s holdin’ up the parade.”
Grandpa stopped for breath. He gave the children a squeeze of mingled pride and joy. “Why, she was so riled up over that snake she like to o’ dumped me off in the killin’. But I hung on, tight as a tick, and I give her a loose rein so’s she could finish the job, and . . . ”
Maureen interrupted. “Grandpa! You forgot all about our pup.”
Grandpa winked at Grandma. His trick had worked. He had lifted the children out of their worry. “Gosh all fishhawks,” he chuckled, “I eenamost did. What was that little feller’s name?”
“Why, Whiskers!” Maureen prompted.
“’Course,” Grandpa said, scratching his own whiskers as he remembered. “Well, that pup was a-ri
din’ bareback behind me, and when Misty r’ared, he went skallyhootin’ in the air. But you know what? He picked himself up and jumped right back on, after the snake-killin’ was done. And Misty won a beautiful gold cup for bein’ the purtiest and bravest pony in the hull parade.”
“And that was even afore she became famous in the movie,” Paul added.
Grandpa stopped, groping in desperation for another story. In the short moment of silence a gust of wind twanged the telephone wires and wailed eerily under the eaves.
Maureen’s face went white. “Oh, Grandpa!” she whimpered. “Is Misty’s baby going to die?”
“No, child. How often do I got to tell you I’m the oldest pony raiser on this here island, and if I know anything at all about ponies, Misty’ll hold off ‘til the storm’s over and the sun’s shinin’ bright as a Christmas-tree ball.”
Paul leaped from the couch. “Grandma!” he challenged. “Do you believe that?”
Grandma was putting away the last of the dishes, and did not reply. The question was so simple, so probing. She wanted to tell the truth and she wanted to calm the children. “As ye know,” she said at last, “I had ten head o’ children, and it seemed like they did the deciding when was the time to appear. But from what yer Grandpa says, ponies is smarter’n people. They kin hold off ‘til things is more auspicious.”
Grandpa brushed the talk aside. “I got another worriment asides Misty,” he said. “She’s safe enough on high ground and in a snug shed. But what about all my ponies up to Deep Hole?” He jerked up from the couch. “I got to call Tom Reed.”
“Clarence,” Grandma reproached, “Tom Reed’s an early-to-bedder. Time we bedded down, too. It’s past nine.”
“I don’t keer if it’s past midnight,” he cried in a sudden burst. “I got to call him!” But he didn’t go to the phone. He suddenly stood still, his hands clenched into fists. “Somethin’ I been meanin’ to tell ye,” he said with a kind of urgency.
No one helped him with a question. Everyone was too bewildered.
“All I know in this world is ponies. Ponies is my life,” he went on. “And ever’ Pony Penning I buy me some uncommon purty ones.” Now the words poured from him. “Some fellers salt their money in insurance and such, but I been saltin’ mine in ponies. And right now I got ninety head. And they’re up to Deep Hole in Tom Reed’s woods. I got to know how they are!”
“Ninety head!” Grandma gasped. “I had no idea ‘twas so many.”
“Well, ’tis.” Grandpa’s voice was tight and strained. “If the ocean swallers ‘em, we’re licked and done.” He looked at the children. “And there’ll be no schoolin’ for this second brood o’ ours.” He rubbed the bristles in his ears, the worry in his face deepening. “One of the ponies is Wings.”
“Oh . . . oh . . . ” Maureen’s lips trembled as if she had lost a friend. “Not Wings!”
“Not Wings!” Paul repeated.
“Who’s Wings?” Grandma demanded.
“Why, Grandma,” Paul said, “he’s the red stallion who stole Misty away for two weeks last spring. Don’t you remember? He’s the father of Misty’s unborned colt.”
Maureen went over to Grandpa and took his gnarled old hand into hers and pressed it against her cheek. “Tonight I’m going to send up my best prayer for Wings. And for all ninety head,” she added quickly. “But, Grandpa, we don’t mind about school. Honest we don’t.”
“’Course not,” Paul said. “We’ll just raise more ponies from Misty.”
Chapter 6
OCEANUS
TRY ONCET more, Lucy! Just oncet more!” Grandpa was imploring the operator.
Paul and Maureen were on the floor at Grandpa’s feet, listening anxiously. Grandma brought in the lantern and set it on the organ near him as if somehow it would help them all hear better.
After an unbearable wait Grandpa bellowed, “Tom! That you, Tom? How are my ponies?”
A pause.
“What’s that? You’re worried about your son’s chickens!” Grandpa clamped his hand over the mouthpiece and snorted in disgust. He summoned all of his patience. “All right, tell me ’bout the chickens, but make it quick.” He held the receiver slightly away from his ear so that everyone could listen in.
“My son,” Tom Reed was shouting as loud as Grandpa, “raises chickens up to my house, you know.”
“Yup, yup, I know.”
“He’s got four chicken houses here, and he comes up about eight o’clock tonight, and wind’s a-screeching and a-blowing, and the stoves burn more coal when the wind blows hard.”
“I know!” Grandpa burst forth in annoyance. “But what about . . . ”
“He puts more coal on and he asks me to help, and tide wasn’t too far in then. But when we’d done coaling, he goes on back to his house. And an hour or so later he calls me up all outa breath. ‘Tide’s risin’ fast,’ he says. ‘Storm’s worsening. I can’t get back up there. Will you coal the stoves for me?’ So I goes out . . . ”
Grandpa stiffened. “What’d ye find, Tom? Any o’ my ponies?”
“All drowned.”
A cry broke from the old man: “All ninety head?”
“They was all drowned, two thousand little baby chicks. They was sitting on their stoves like they was asleep. The water just come right up under ’em. I guess two-three gasps, and they was all dead.”
“Oh.” Grandpa held tight to his patience. He was sorry about the chickens, but he had to know about his ponies. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Tom!” he shouted. “What about my ponies?”
There was a long pause. Then the voice at the other end stammered, “I don’t know, Clarence, but no cause to worry—yet. Stallions got weather sense. They’ll just drive their mares up on little humpy places.”
Grandpa wasn’t breathing. His face turned dull red.
“They must of sensed this storm,” the voice went on. “Tonight after I watered ’em, they just wanted to stay close to the house. But I drove ’em out to the low pasture like always. I’ll go out later with my flashbeam. You call me back, Clarence.”
There was a choking sound. The children couldn’t tell whether it was Grandpa or a noise on the line.
“You hear me, Clarence? I’ll go out now. Call me back.”
Blindly Grandpa put the receiver in place. He went to the window and stood there, his head bowed.
No one knew what to say. Their world seemed to hang like a rock teetering on a cliff.
The quiet felt heavy in the room, with only the wind screaming. Suddenly Grandpa turned around. His eyes seemed to throw sparks. “Idy! Play something loud. Bust that organ-box wide open. March music, mebbe. Anything to drown out that wind. And Paul and Maureen, quit gawpin’. Get up off’n the floor and sing! Loud and strong. Worryin’ won’t do us a lick o’ good.”
Grandma was relieved to have something to do. She plumped herself on the organ bench, spreading out her skirt as if she were on the concert stage. “Now then,” she turned to Grandpa, “I’ll play ‘Fling Out the Banner.’”
“I don’t know the words,” Paul said.
“Me either,” Maureen chimed in.
“Ye can read, can’t ye?” Grandpa barked. “Here’s the song book. Go ahead now. I’ll be yer audience.”
The organ notes rolled out strong and vibrant, and the children sang lustily:
“Fling out the banner, let it float
Skyward and seaward, high and wide . . . ”
When they were well into the second verse, Grandpa silently tiptoed into the hall, put on his gumboots and slicker, and let himself out into the night.
A flying piece of wood narrowly missed his head as he went down the steps, and a piece of wet pulpy paper hit him full in the face. He wiped it off and focused his light to see the path to the corral. But there was no path; it was covered by water. He drew his head into his coat and sloshed forward, bent double against the wind. “’Tain’t a hurricane, it’s naught but a full tide,” he kept telling himself. “
Still, I don’t like it, with Misty so close to her time.”
Inside the shed all was dry and warm. Misty was lying asleep, with Skipper back-to-back. The light brought the collie to his feet in a twinkling. He almost knocked Grandpa down with his welcome. Misty opened wide her jaws and yawned in Grandpa’s face.
He couldn’t help laughing. “See!” he told himself. “Nothing to worry about. Hoss-critters is far smarter’n human-critters.” He fumbled in his pocket and found a few tatters of tobacco and said to himself, “Watch her come snuzzlin’ up to me.” And she did. And he liked the feel of her tongue on his hand and the brightness of her eye in the beam of his flashlight.
Affectionately he wiped his sticky palm on her neck and said, “I got to go in, Misty, now I know ye’re all right. See you in the morning, and by then all the water’ll slump back into the ocean where it b’longs.”
When he came into the kitchen, Grandma was standing with a broom across the door. “Praises be, ye’re safe!” she exclaimed. “I been holdin’ these young’uns at bay. They wanted to follow ye.”
“Grandpa! Has the colt come?” Maureen and Paul asked in one breath.
“Nope. And if I’m any judge, ’tain’t soon. Now everybody to bed. Things is all right. We got to think that.”
“Paul and I, we can’t go to bed yet,” Maureen protested.
“And why can’t ye?”
“We haven’t done our homework.”
“Clarence,” Grandma said, “you’re all tuckered out, and you can’t call Tom Reed ’cause our telephone’s dead as a doorknob. So you go on to bed. I’ll listen to the homework so’s no more members of this household tippytoe out behind my back.”
Grandpa patted everyone good night and went off, loosening his suspenders as he went.
“I feel like Abraham Lincoln studying by candlelight,” Maureen said, bringing her pile of books close to the lantern.
“Wish you looked more like him,” Paul teased, “instead of like a wild horse with a mane that’s never been brushed.”
Stormy, Misty's Foal Page 3