Stormy, Misty's Foal

by Marguerite Henry

  “Yup,” the men agreed. “A hurricane blows crazy, then it’s gone. But a tidal storm sneaks up on you and stays.”

  Wyle Maddox, the leader of the roundup men, had been listening as he crunched on an apple. He came over now to Tom Reed. “Tom,” he said, “you’re blest with mother-wit. You’re the one knows most about sea and sky. How do you figure it?”

  The small, spare man blushed. “Pshaw, Wyle, I’m no authority, but as I see it, the storm looped and come back, and kept a-pressin’ and a-pressin’ the water into the bay instead of letting it go out at ebb time.”

  “But why is the water so high on the bay side nearer the mainland?”

  “’Cause usually it’s a nor’west wind that helps the tide flow back out of the bay, but this time, wind blew nor’east and the water jes’ swelled up into a bulge at the narrows, and it had to go somewheres.”

  The door suddenly opened, letting in the sound and cold of the wind, and with it came Grandpa Beebe, looking hale and ruddy alongside the lean fisherfolk.

  “What’s the news?” Mr. Barrett called out.

  Grandpa looked from face to face. “Bad,” he said. “Government’s declared Chincoteague a disaster area.”

  A cry of scorn went up. “Disaster area? That’s no news.”

  “But this is! A hull fleet of heelyacopters is comin’ in from the military this afternoon and we’re all supposed to e-vac-u-ate over to the main.”

  “Evacuate?” The word dropped like a time bomb. Then the explosion.

  “Why?”

  “What fer?”

  “Mebbe okay for sick folk.”

  “Yeh, Or the homeless.”

  “Me, I got a second story.”

  “Me, too.”

  Everyone was talking at once. Everyone but Paul. He felt a hard lump in his stomach. He would refuse to go . . . unless they took Misty, too. The storekeeper rapped on the counter for silence. “Fellers, let’s hear Mr. Beebe out.”

  Grandpa took a moment before he went on. “Tide’s supposed to come up higher,” he announced. “Four feet higher.”

  “Four feet! Why, that’ll flood the whole island. Every house, every store. Even the Fire House and the churches!”

  “But that’s only half the reason. Government says there could be an epidemic of the typhoid, ’cause of all the dead chickens and fish a-rottin’ and mebbe”—Grandpa avoided Paul’s eyes—“mebbe dead ponies.”

  The talk ceased. There was a sudden exodus. Men sloshing heavy-footed out of the store, getting into their boats, going home to their families, figuring out how to break the news.

  “Come, Paul,” Grandpa beckoned.

  Paul followed along. “I bought us two cans of beans,” he offered, not knowing what to say.

  “Ain’t goin’ to need ’em,” Grandpa said gruffly; then he turned to look at Paul. “They might taste real good, though, come to think of it.”

  Chapter 9

  WAITING FOR THE WHIRLYBIRD

  GETTING HOME was rough going and agonizingly slow. The horses plodded through the water when they could, and swam when they had to. Paul and Grandpa stopped once to let them blow. Then they pressed on, man and creature eager for Home.

  Almost there, Paul saw the higher ground of Pony Ranch with the buildings still standing brave and whole—the cottage, its green roof darkened by the rain, the made-over chicken coop and the hay house and the smokehouse—but they looked littler than before, and somehow frightened, with the sea creeping up on them.

  At the gate Grandpa made his decision. “Ride down to the smokehouse, Paul,” he said. “Pick us out a big ham. If we got to go, we ain’t showin’ up over on the main empty-handed. I’ll dry off Billy Blaze and see about Misty.”

  Skipper swam out to meet Paul, then paddled alongside all the way to the smokehouse. Round as a silo and perched on the highest spot of the ranch, the smokehouse was a landmark for ships in the channel. Inside, it was a friendly place, with its exciting smells, sweet and smoky. In the little while it took Paul to select the biggest ham and to cut a piece of rind for Skipper, the rain turned to icy sleet.

  Grandpa was throwing an old red blanket over Misty when Paul looked in. “Grandpa!” he cried. “Misty’s standing in water!”

  “So’m I!”

  “But you’re not going to have a colt!”

  “Wisht I was. Then maybe I’d get a bit o’ coddlin’.”

  “But, Grandpa! What are we going to do with her?”

  “The only thing left to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Take her smack into the kitchen.”

  “Into Grandma’s kitchen?”

  “The very one. And that’s where she’s goin’ to stay ’til tide ebbs.”

  “Whew! How’re you going to ask her?”

  “I ain’t askin’. I’ll jes’ put her halter on and lead her up the steps and onto the porch and in through the door.”

  “No, I mean how you going to ask Grandma.”

  “O—h. I ain’t askin’ her, neither. I’ll jes’ tell her, quiet-like.”

  But Grandpa didn’t tell her quietly. He led up to it like a growing storm. “Idy! Maureen!” he thundered as he and Paul stomped in. “Yer menfolk are home.”

  “Praised be the Lord!” Grandma exclaimed. “I been so worried I couldn’t do a lick o’ work. Just sat by the window praying double-quick time.”

  “Tell it now,” Paul whispered to Grandpa.

  “Now ain’t the time.”

  “But Misty’s feet are wet.”

  “Won’t hurt her none. Salt water’s good for feet, man or beast.” He turned now to Grandma. “Idy, dear, don’t set the table. We’ll jes’ stand up and eat beans and sop up the ’lasses with some of yer good bread. Then we got some packin’ to do, Idy dear.”

  Grandma mimicked. “Don’t you ‘Idy-dear’ me, Clarence Beebe! What you up to? Yer face is red as a gobbler’s wattle.”

  Paul giggled nervously. Often he had thought their tom turkeys and Grandpa looked alike, but he had never dared say it. He couldn’t stop giggling. And soon Maureen was laughing along with him.

  Grandma began to chuckle without knowing why. “I declare to goodness! Hearing people laugh is like sunshine flooding the house.”

  “It’s floodin’ I want to talk to ye about, Idy.”

  The laughter stopped.

  Grandpa’s voice was stern. “All morning heelyacopters been carryin’ off the sick. Now they’re comin’ for folks as is well.”

  “Not me, they ain’t!” Grandma flared up. “They can jes’ count me out! I’m too old to start riding acrost the sky in an eggbeater.”

  “All righty! Mebbe ye prefers stayin’ here and havin’ sharks and crabs slinkin’ into yer house and grabbin’ ye.” He winked at the children. “Recomember the day when that crab pinched yer Grandma when she was bendin’ over, gatherin’ oysters? Why, she went off like one o’ them big rockets from Wallops Beach.”

  Grandma turned her back and began slicing bread with a vengeance.

  “But what’ll happen to Misty?” Maureen asked in alarm.

  “I’ll stay with Misty,” Grandma announced without turning around. “Much as I dislikes treating ponies like folks, I admit to a kinship when she’s having a baby.”

  Grandpa cut open the can of beans with his knife. “Paul,” he growled, “mebbe ye can explain things to yer Grandma.”

  “It’s true, Grandma,” Paul said, helping himself to the heel of bread. “Tide’s coming back four foot higher, and the island’s going to be contamin—going to be spoilt rotten with dead chickens and stinky fish and snakes and mushrats and maybe even dead horses.” He looked at Grandpa, wishing he hadn’t said that. Then he went on quickly. “Health officials want everybody to clear out. They say there could be a fierce epidemic.”

  No one spoke. Grandma sat down at the table and stared vacantly. She brushed imaginary crumbs into her hand.

  “Wa—al, Idy,” Grandpa said, “ye can have yer druthers. Do ye
want to stay and take a chance on losin’ Paul and Maureen to the typhoid? Or do ye want to light out now, afore the tide pushes us out?”

  For the first time Grandma began to waver. “Why, I had no idea ’twas that bad, Clarence.”

  “Wal, ’tis! Way to look at it is: people got to go. Why, up to the north end of the island there was one big fat lady, weighed nigh two hundred pound, and this lady and her teenage girl and her girl’s beau was a-sittin’ in their house just talkin’ away, and all to once a big whoosh o’ the sea come spang into their sittin’ room, and they was scramblin’ atop tables and chairs, and they would’ve clumb into the attic if they’d a had one. But they didn’t. An’ that young boy, he had to saw a hole in their ceilin’, mind ye, and he clumb up into the teensy air space there under the roof, and with him a-pullin’ and the girl a-pushin’ they squeezed the mother up through the hole.” Grandpa stopped for breath.

  “What happened to them?” Maureen asked. “Were they there all night?”

  “Yup, and ’long ’bout daybreak the boy sawed a hole in the roof and they all clumb out, and later one o’ them whirlybirds come down and rescues the three o’ them from the rooftop, all shivery and wet and hungry.

  “Now, Idy, how’d ye like it if we had to cut a hole in our purty green roof, and I’d have to haul ye up like a sack o’ potatoes?”

  Paul nudged Grandpa. “Tell her now.”

  “So ye see, Idy, we could be next. Already flood waters is seepin’ into Misty’s stable. She’s comin’ into yer kitchen,” he announced, “and that’s where she’s going to stay ’til the tide’s out.”

  “Good heavings!” Grandma looked beaten.

  “Now then,” Grandpa went on heartily, “ye better start packing. We’ll want a blanket apiece and we’re takin’ a beautiful ham to surprise the mainlanders. And speakin’ o’ eatin’, these beans is Paul’s treat.”

  At last Grandma accepted the truth. She began to scurry about, talking to herself. “We got to take some soap for sure, and we’ll have to have a comb and . . . ”

  Grandpa and the children left her to her bustling. There was much to be done before the helicopter came. Misty had to be brought into the kitchen and, before that, the marsh ponies in the hay house had to be made comfortable.

  “Let’s lift down the top bales,” Grandpa directed when they reached the long shed. “We’ll pile ’em two deep over the hull floor. That way even their feet’ll be dry.”

  “And if we don’t break open the bales,” Paul said, “it’ll take them just that much longer to eat the hay.”

  “They could live for a week in here,” Maureen said.

  “’Zackly!” Grandpa nodded. “No need to worry ’bout them.”

  Then it was Misty’s turn. Paul had expected to lead her out of her stall quietly and that she would foot her way along carefully, as any broodmare should. But the moment he put on her halter, she began quivering as if the wind and waves called up the wildness in her. Her head went up, her tail went up, her ears pricked sharply. And even in the bitter cold she broke out in sweat.

  “Whoa there, girl, whoa,” Paul soothed. He slid his hand through her halter as he opened her door. But with one leap she was in the water, lifting him off his feet. She didn’t want to be led. She wanted to splash and play like any Chincoteague pony.

  Grandpa grabbed her from the other side. “Maureen!” he yelled, “you hop on and ride her to the steps. Me and Paul’ll guide her from behind.”

  Maureen climbed aboard. Through her legs she could feel Misty’s heart pounding. The water was up to Misty’s knees. Then a swirl of it hit her belly. She tried to jump over it.

  Maureen grabbed a handful of mane. “Yahoo!” she cried in startled surprise.

  Misty tried one more leap, then settled down and went steadily forward. She reached the steps well ahead of Paul and Grandpa, who came wading up, out of breath.

  “Now here’s the touchy part,” Grandpa panted. “Steps’re mighty slippy and we don’t want her fallin’ and hurtin’ herself.”

  But Misty had been up these steps before. She clomped up happily, lifting each foot high. On the top step she paused, mesmerized. A little brown rabbit sat stock-still on the porch rail, not a whisker twitching. It seemed more statue than real. The two creatures stared at each other, the big soft brown eyes and the small beady ones. Misty snorted as if to say, “What you doing here? Go on back to your briar patch!” But the rabbit never budged, not even when Misty stretched out her neck and breathed right in its face.

  Grandpa guffawed. Even then the cheeky little thing stood its ground, more afraid of the rising water than of people or ponies.

  “He’s sassing Misty,” Paul laughed. “‘Don’t eye me, ma’am,’ he’s saying, ‘I been flooded out. Same as you.’”

  At last Misty grew bored and ambled across the porch, through the back hall, and right into the kitchen. When they were all crowded inside, Grandpa took off his hat in a sweeping bow. “Meet Idy, my wife,” he said.

  Grandma winced. “We met before,” she said drily. Then her heart melted. “Take off yer purty red shawl, Misty,” she said, entering into the game, “and make yerself to home.” She went to the refrigerator while Misty followed after, snatching a streamer of her apron.

  Grandma jumped in fright, almost stumbling over her apron on the floor. “Why, that ungrateful rascal! I’ve a good notion to put these carrots back in the box.” But she didn’t. She held them out and let Misty lip them. “Feels tickly, her lips and whiskers, don’t they?”

  Paul and Maureen exchanged glances.

  Grandma stiffened. “You’re all dripping pools of water on my clean floor.” She sighed. “But no matter now, I guess. How soon will the heelyacopter come for us?” she asked.

  “Right soon,” Grandpa replied. “Come on, son, we better hurry and haul in plenty of straw for Misty.”

  After they had made a deep rustly bed for her in the kitchen, there was nothing left to do. Four blankets and the ham were ready and waiting, and Misty was already at home, contentedly munching wisps of hay while Maureen combed her mane.

  As the minutes dragged on, Grandma grew pale and fidgety. She busied herself pouring an extra bowl of milk for Wait-a-Minute. Then she began watering her sweet potato vine and her fern.

  “That’s my girl,” Grandpa came over and patted her shoulder. “That’s my girl.” Then he broke into a sudden howl as he caught her wetting down a plant of artificial violets.

  Even Grandma laughed at herself and her color came back. “Believe now I’ll just sit down and play us a hymn,” she said. “I hate waiting for anything, ’specially heelyacopters.”

  She opened up the organ and began playing and singing. Her voice quavered at first, then grew stronger as if she wanted to reach God in his heaven, direct.

  “Je-sus, Sav-iour, pi-lot me,

  O-ver life’s tem-pest-uous sea;

  Un-known waves be-fore me roll,

  Hi-ding rock and treach-erous shoal;

  Chart and com-pass come from Thee;

  Je-sus, Sav-iour, pi-lot me.”

  “That’s great, Idy. Misty’s ears is keeping time, turning ever’ which way.”

  Then Grandpa saw the helicopter breaking through the dun-colored sky. “Play it once more,” he urged. “Just once more!” No use worrying her too soon, he thought.

  Again Grandma’s trembly voice filled the little house.

  “Je-sus, Sav-iour, pi-lot me,

  O-ver life’s tem-pest-uous sea.”

  Chapter 10

  BACKYARD LANDING

  THE HELICOPTER was chewing into the wind, coming closer and closer to Pony Ranch. Almost over the house it stopped in midair, engine roaring. It silenced even Grandma’s music.

  Everyone flew to the window, including Misty. They watched as the noisy machine hung over their heads.

  “He’s trying to decide!” Paul yelled.

  “Who is? What?” Maureen wanted to know.

  “The pilot, silly. He�
�s figuring out where to land.”

  Grandpa was spellbound. “Ain’t that beautiful? It’s hangin’ in the air jes’ like a hummer-bird.”

  “Oh, mercy me!” Grandma cried as the helicopter tilted drunkenly, and began a steep vertical descent. “Oh . . . oh! It’s going to set right in my daffydil bed!”

  Like a bird aiming for its nest, the helicopter hovered over the mounded-up flower bed, then squatted down on the tiny patch.

  Grandma watched in dismay as its rotors spit sand and water in every direction. She hid her face in her hands. “Oh, Clarence! Oh, Clarence!” she sobbed. “I can’t go. I can’t!”

  “And why can’t ye?” Grandpa demanded.

  “Because, because . . . ” She groped for a reason. “Misty’ll ruin my linoleum and . . . ” Here the sobbing became a wail, “ . . . she’ll chew on my nice new table with the let-down leaves.”

  “No, she won’t!” Paul was on the defensive. “I’ll stay and watch her.”

  “You listen to me, Paul Beebe,” Grandpa exploded. “Anybody stayin’ behind’ll be me, head o’ the household. Quick now! Everybody grab a blanket. I’ll go out and explain things to that pilot.” He started for the door.

  Grandma reached it first and made a barricade of herself. Her crying was done. “If’n you stay behind, Clarence, we all do. Either we go as a fambly or we stay as a fambly.”

  Grandpa sighed, half amused, half annoyed. “Then everything’s settled. Throw yer mind outa gear, Idy, and get yer duds on.”

  While Grandma was struggling into her overboots, Grandpa and the children were doing last-minute chores: opening a window from the top, just a crack, taking vegetables from the refrigerator and scattering them in amongst Misty’s hay. Last of all, Grandpa put the stopper in the sink and turned on the cold water. “Makes a neat water trough, eh?” he chuckled, avoiding Grandma’s eyes.

  “You think she can manage without us?” Maureen asked.

  “We got to think that, honey. And even if the tide seeps in, I made this straw bed so thick the little colt won’t even get his hinder wet.”