Phin gave a little shudder. He could imagine what Frank did with the naughty children. He briefly wondered if Frank could take on Isabella before deciding that even the tattooed giant would be overmatched by his mistress. Still—kids! Lots of them! Phin peered ahead hopefully toward the driveway and barn.
“If you’re so gone on goats, you’ll have a blast here,” Freddy growled. “Me, I like to talk, and goats don’t talk—they just eat and make more goats. But don’t let me rain on your parade.”
“Who said I liked goats?” Phin snorted, glad for once to be the one doing the correcting. “I’m simply looking forward to meeting some of the children—whom I’m sure will be more than happy to see me—but I have absolutely no interest in goats, thank you very much.” He lifted his muzzle just a touch.
Freddy’s howl of laughter was long and unnerving. Phin tried to look unconcerned, even contemplated slowing down to wait for Wally, who was wandering dreamily in their wake, mumbling to himself and occasionally attempting to plant a sloppy kiss on Phin’s hindquarters. But Freddy wasn’t about to let him off so easily.
“Not that kinda kid, you dumb blond!” the dog yapped delightedly. “I was talking about baby goats! You think any ankle-biter hangs out here? Maybe once upon a time, back before the highway got built, but no one drives by the Funny Farm now, unless they’re lost. Sorry, Prince Pony—it’s just us folks and Frank. Ain’t we good enough for you?” Freddy leered at him.
Something was tugging on Phin’s tail. He turned and saw that Wally had taken a big mouthful of the soft golden strands and was chewing contentedly. “Yummy ha-a-ay,” he sighed.
No, Phin thought as he tried to remove his sodden tail from the mouth of the camel. No, you’re not good enough for me.
* * *
Meeting the rest of the funny farm’s inhabitants did little to change that opinion. The place was, as Freddy said, lousy with goats, all of whom seemed to be enormously pregnant or nursing baby goats. Oddly, Phin had yet to see a billy goat, and he mentioned this to Freddy.
“That’s our little local mystery,” Freddy said in a carrying whisper. “No one’s ever seen a daddy goat … just nannies and kids. Must be something in the water.”
In addition to the tribe of goats, Phin was introduced to, or saw at a distance, the rest of the farm’s boarders. There was a bizarre-looking, leggy, feathered creature called Matilda. The thing with the coatrack antlers turned out to be a mild-mannered, blind reindeer named Sven—the same reindeer who frequently got his antlers stuck between the slats of the fence while he was grazing. Sumalee the water buffalo could not be coaxed from the “crick” (or creek, as Phin now understood it to be), but she sent a vague bellow over the field that Freddy assured the pony was a warm greeting.
“She’s a real doll face, that heifer,” Freddy said fondly. “Usually you ungulates are dumber than turds, but she’s got brains between those big ol’ horns. More’n you can say about the guy who put her here. Thought he’d start a craze for water buffalo milk—‘WaBuMi’ he was gonna call it. I’m gone on Sumalee, but no way in heck I’m gonna drink her WaBuMi, if you catch my drift. And I’ll drink a lot more things than a durn person will—except maybe my old master, Charlie. He’d drink paint. Probably did drink paint, come to think of it.” Freddy turned his head and snapped at a flea.
“So he put Sumalee here…?” Phin didn’t want to complete his thought (like I was put here) so he let the sentence trail off.
“Righto. Haven’t you caught on yet? This is Nowheresville. Everybody at the Funny Farm is here ’cause they got nowhere else to go. Who’s gonna keep a water buffalo once they figure out they can’t make any beans off her?”
“They closed down my zoo-oo-oo,” Wally sighed lugubriously.
“I was almost made into a purse,” squawked Matilda. “They had me pegged as an ostrich, the ning-nongs.”
“Instead of a … what, precisely?” Phin thought Matilda might be a bird (feathers, beak) or perhaps a giant lizard (scaly legs, nearly bald head).
“An emu, you galah! Got a few ’roos loose in the top paddock, don’t you?” Matilda gave her feathers a light fluff while staring down her beak at the confused pony.
“The goats and bunnies get dropped off regular,” Freddy continued. “Cats just show up. Sven got separated from his herd somewheres up north and still ain’t sure how he ended up here.…”
“We migrate great distances,” Sven commented, “so not being able to see put me somewhat at a disadvantage.” His voice put another knife of homesickness into Phin’s belly. He had a touch of Van der Luyden’s courtliness and a lilting accent that reminded Phin of Jack. The pony heaved another sigh.
“So how ’bout you, Prince Blondie? What’s your sob story?” Freddy cocked a ragged ear and the other animals looked expectantly at Phin. Being the focus of so many strange sets of eyes, from Matilda’s glistening black beads to Sven’s softly clouded irises, in so many strange faces, made him feel uncharacteristically shy. Phin ducked his head, shifting his weight from one leg to another.
“Have you got his tongue, Maxie?” came a sudden yowl from the direction of the chicken coop.
“Not me—how about you, Mixie?”
“Nah, must be Moxie!”
“SHUT IT, YOU PUSS IN POOPS!” Freddy roared. “NOBODY THINKS YOU’RE FUNNY!”
“You would if you weren’t too stupid to understand us, mutt!”
“No appreciation for self-referential wordplay!”
“Go bark up the wrong tree!”
“I’M ABOUT TO TAKE A COUPLE OF YOUR NINE LIVES!” As Freddy leaped to his three paws, hackles raised, the voices dissolved into a shrill caterwaul of jeers, razzes, and abusive language, then faded away.
“Cats?” Phin ventured.
“Of the worst variety,” Sven said mournfully.
Though undoubtedly obnoxious, Phin couldn’t help but feel grateful for the reprieve Mixie, Maxie, and Moxie’s interruption gave him. Freddy hopped off in the direction of the chicken coop, growling insults, and Sven and Wally resumed grazing. Phin turned pointedly away from Matilda the mammoth lizard-bird and wandered back over the field he’d just crossed. He sniffed the yellowing crabgrass and took a listless nibble. It tasted like dust. He felt the sun beating down on his golden coat and knew he was going to get a burn. He was thirsty. But mostly, oh mostly, he was alone. Nowheresville. As Phin stood in the middle of the field, eerily silent in the midday heat, he realized fully for the first time that no one was coming back for him. This was his new home. He was now a member of the Funny Farm.
CHAPTER 7
Du ain’t no better than a mark, du ain’t, du peerie pony. Du is dy midder’s bairn, and no mistake. Not that I’m smackin’ down dy midder, mind. I’ll nae forget the day she came trottin’ past the floss wagon.1 Outside of Natichoches it was—she was enterin’ some contest … pullin’ a braaly2 white cart all bedecked with posies. But dy midder was better’n any posy. Gold all over, like you are, with the sweetest expression on her boany3 face, but fire in her eye! Aye, she was an arg4 one. She won that contest, then I won her—ha!
Phin always shuddered to think what form Poppy’s wooing of his mother had taken. Over time, his memories of the golden mare he so much resembled were gilded into myth. He’d had less than a year with B&B Barn’s Summer Serenade (Serena for short): Her owner, disgusted that his champion American Show Pony had been put in the family way by such a low-class rogue, had dumped Phin at Jack’s trailer when the carnival had come back to town the next season.
Standing alone in the parched field of Nowheresville, Phin closed his eyes and tried to conjure up his mother’s limpid eyes, the feel of her velvet muzzle touching his flank as he nursed, the freshly shampooed smell of her penny-bright coat. And yet, the time he’d spent at her home hadn’t been an altogether happy one. He was the hard evidence of Serena’s fall from grace, and thus, at best, ignored by the B&B’s owners and staff. Like so much in the pony’s past, it was complicated.
No, Phin thought, the only place I’ve been truly happy—the only place where I’ve been appreciated—was the Chadwick.
Jack had taken him from the drudgery of carnival life, had brought him to the Fairmont Country Club Pony Show (where the halter class trophy was presented to them practically on bended knee), and had sold him on looks alone to Hilda Holzen, head trainer at the grand Chadwick Ostlers. The Chadwick proved to be a home for them both: Jack got a job as a groom, was quickly promoted to barn manager, and settled into city life as happily as his friend.
And yet, and yet … had he ever really belonged there? This was the question that was now tormenting Phin and dragging forth the echoes of his father’s contemptuous harangues. The pony felt sore all over: stiff from the long, bumpy trailer ride; heart-sore from missing Jack and from being abandoned and unloved in general; and now his brain hurt from thinking, an exercise he generally avoided doing to any strenuous degree. He was also thirsty—and that at least he could do something about.
The “crick” wound haphazardly through the Funny Farm like a tangled, discarded ribbon. The first spot that Phin approached was a discouraging, muddy-brown trickle purling between steep banks that looked too difficult for the pony to navigate. But as he continued downstream, Phin discovered what a changeable creature the small stream was: It swelled unexpectedly to a torrent chattering over rough gray stones, flattened out to a tranquil pool flickering with fish, and generally traipsed along in a most inconsistent fashion. Phin was so occupied with following its progress, and puzzling over the best drinking spot, that he’d entirely forgotten that the creek was also the favored haunt of Sumalee, the water buffalo.
At first Phin thought that a large boulder had fallen into the stream. This was disappointing, as the bend was by far the nicest he’d yet found—wide and deep, with a clear path down the banks and a pleasantly shady canopy of trees overhead. And then the boulder addressed him.
“Good afternoon,” it said.
Phin shied in surprise, taking a few skittering crab steps away before realizing that what he had taken for rock was, in fact, a very large animal. At least, Phin assumed she was large: The only parts of her above water were her head and the side of her boulderlike belly, brown with mud and slick with water. She looked a bit like a cow, Phin thought, but closer inspection belied the comparison. There was more intelligence in her dewy, heavily fringed eyes and more grace in the magnificent horns that swept back from her lined brow than Phin had ever seen in a cow. Even the shape of her prominent nose, rising up from the end of the long, firm swoop of her face, was distinctive. All in all, she wasn’t very terrifying, despite the horns, and Phin sidled back to the bank.
“Oh, hello,” he said in an offhand manner, “I didn’t realize this part of the, er, crick was taken.”
“Not taken—only borrowed. You’re welcome to join me, if you wish.” The water buffalo’s voice was mellow and almost sweet.
“Pardon me, but I don’t wallow,” Phin said stiffly.
“Well then, come down for a drink. There’s a nice spot just upstream from here. That trail goes right to it.” The water buffalo blinked pleasantly at him, then eased to her side, submerging most of her head. She sighed contentedly and ripples of water danced away from her face.
Phin picked his way neatly down the muddy trail and placed a tentative hoof in the stream. The water felt deliciously cool. So deliciously cool, in fact, that it soon became quite tempting to wallow. Instead, well-bred Shetland that he was, Phin moved carefully upstream until he judged he was far enough away from the water buffalo to make their shared bathing and drinking place palatable.
It was a novel experience, not drinking from a bucket. It took a bit of getting used to, the way the water swirled around his nose and fetlocks and had an almost tangy, mineral taste. After several minutes, Phin raised his dripping muzzle and gave a small snort of satisfaction.
“Nothing better than Adam’s ale, as Freddy calls it,” the downstream water buffalo commented.
“You’re Sumalee?” Phin turned gingerly around, testing the ground before each step.
“Yes, and you must be Phin, the city pony.” The Shetland gave silent thanks that Freddy hadn’t told her that his name was Prince Blondie or Goldilocks.
“The farm must be a little different from what you’re used to,” Sumalee continued, a gentle question in her voice. Phin gave a curt nod. It was suddenly difficult to keep misery and self-pity at bay, with Sumalee’s kind gaze fastened so sympathetically on him.
“Tell me about it,” she said simply.
And Phin did.
* * *
“I just can’t believe Isabella didn’t even say good-bye.” Phin knew he was starting to repeat himself, but the luxury of having a good listener was too dear to relinquish quite yet. He was lying comfortably on the sandy floor midstream, his legs tucked neatly beneath his belly, in what he thought was a genteel approximation of a wallow. He had to admit it felt very nice.
“Usually humans are more sentimental than animals, but occasionally they’re decidedly not,” Sumalee said. “It seems your Isabella was of the pragmatic variety, as was my owner.”
Phin was pondering whether it would be rude to ask Sumalee about her WaBuMi, when she changed the subject.
“What about your family? What did your father and mother do?”
Phin hesitated. But there was something about the water buffalo’s expression, a kind of calm interest that was neither idle curiosity nor urgent questioning, that reassured him.
“My mother was a champion show pony, in driving. She pulled a little cart and won all sorts of trophies. Poppy … well, Poppy worked for the carnival, giving rides to kids. That’s, um, actually what I did, too, before Isabella…” Phin looked away in embarrassment.
“What an impressive variety of usefulness you ponies have,” Sumalee said robustly, smacking at a fly with her whiplike tail. “No wonder you’re such survivors.”
“Come again?” Phin was pleased to be thought of as impressive, but he wasn’t clear on the water buffalo’s point.
“Well, at the risk of sounding prideful, let’s take the example of my animals, the water buffalo. We have partnered with people since ancient times. We have plowed rice fields, pulled carts, provided milk. We have fought the tiger and the crocodile. We have run with the Crusaders. We are a farmer’s wealth, and often his best friend. Well-rounded, wouldn’t you say?”
And depressingly utilitarian, Phin thought. “But do you ever get to have any fun?” he blurted.
Sumalee’s voice was melodious, her presence was calming—but she had a belly laugh like a stevedore. Phin pinned his ears back at the spluttering bellow that shot droplets of water over his face and mane.
“Lots of it, actually,” the buffalo chuckled, sending another watery spray in Phin’s direction. “Many villages and towns hold festivals in our honor. There are parades, races, very exciting fights, and even beauty pageants. In Thailand, where my ancestors are from, the children make costumes to look like us. There are feasts and music.… Ah, it’s a wonderful time.”
Phin felt a stab of envy, mingled with awe. A festival in her honor … a beauty pageant … The pony had a vision of himself with a wreath of roses around his neck, walking with quiet dignity at the head of a long procession, a Shetland-themed song belted out by a chorus dressed in golden robes, children tossing flowers in his path.…
“You see,” the water buffalo interrupted this pleasant vision, “we are intimately connected with people, in all sorts of ways. It’s very nice to be appreciated, but many times the work must be its own reward.”
Phin had a thought. “‘We endure, even without sugar,’” he said. “A friend of mine told me that.”
“Your friend is wise,” the water buffalo said. Phin felt very grown-up. It was that sort of conversation. But then he had another thought.
“But sometimes the work kills you,” he said softly. “That’s not much of a reward.”
The
lines around Sumalee’s eyes deepened until they looked like plow furrows curving up to her brow.
“Ye-e-s, that’s so,” she said slowly. Then she stopped and looked at Phin, and under her kind regard he told a secret that no one knew—not even Jack.
“My gutcher—sorry, that’s Shetland for grandfather—he was a pit pony. Do you know what that means?”
Sumalee shook her head.
“Well, he worked in the coal mines, pulling carts loaded with coal. We’re so small, you see—we can fit in the mine shafts. I don’t … I don’t think he saw the light of day after he was three years old. He lived in the pit, breathing that foul air, not knowing night from day. And then, well, there was a cave-in, and he was trapped, along with several other ponies and miners. They never were able to reach the bodies. Poppy told me there’s a marker, like a grave marker, above the mine … but it doesn’t mention my gutcher or the other ponies. Just the miners.”
“You must be very proud of him,” Sumalee said quietly.
Phin was surprised—it was the first unintelligent thing she’d said. Proud of my gutcher? Phin thought bewilderedly. What’s there to be proud of? He was worked like a slave and died like a slave, forgotten and unmourned. And then crazy Poppy took him as a role model.… “I’ll go out horizontal, just like Faidir!” he used to say … and he did. Dropped dead in his tracks. His final action was to make sure he didn’t roll over on the child he was carrying as he took his last breath. Phin had never seen Jack cry before that terrible day.
“Jack saved me,” he said abruptly, not caring if he repeated himself or if he didn’t make sense. “My work won’t kill me. The work I do is for honor—to be recognized as the best. I’m the kind of pony that wins awards, like my mother. Jack saved me,” he insisted in a high voice that sounded lonely to his own ears.
“There is honor in all work, Phin,” Sumalee said gently. “Even the kind that doesn’t get trophies.”
Little Prince - The Story of a Shetland Pony Page 5