“Freddy!” he neighed again into the storm.
He heard a high whine just to his right, and Freddy surged forward to deposit the ancient Fuzzy Butt onto Phin’s back. He looked dead from shock already. Freddy’s head was just above water, his mouth still filled with fur. But his eyes danced with merriment.
“Shoot low, they’re ridin’ Shetlands,” he managed out of the corner of his mouth.
“What?” Phin neighed.
“Never mind, Phinny—just an expression. Don’t you got a blind reindeer to rescue?”
Phin had forgotten all about Sven. He swam in circles, trying to orient himself, but the world was a mad, dangerous place for a pony. Water surged around him, tossing wavelets in his eyes and twirling branches in his path. He couldn’t begin to imagine where the shed had been—all he could make out of the once all-too-familiar contours of the Funny Farm was a vast expanse of lightning-dazzled water and tree branches. He scanned the branches, hoping to find Sven’s antlers camouflaged among them. What was oak, what was reindeer? And then in another burst of lightning Phin spotted two swooping arcs that were far too graceful to belong to a storm-battered tree. Sumalee!
“I see them!” Phin trumpeted. “Get to the road, Freddy—we’ll meet you there.”
Swimming wasn’t difficult, but it was tiring, and by the time Phin reached Sven and Sumalee, his hooves longed for terra firma. The reindeer and the water buffalo, both strong swimmers, were calmly plowing through the waste-strewn waters, Sumalee looking perfectly in her element, and Sven looking rather like this was how he’d always imagined his end would come. For a moment Phin wondered why he bothered to go back for them. My herd, he thought, remembering something that Sumalee had once said. And what a herd it is.
“Phineas!” Sumalee bellowed. “See, Sven, I told you he’d fetch you. He’s been inconsolable,” she added in a lower voice as Phin reached her side. “He said you promised to guide him and he was quite sure he’d never make it without you.”
Sven sighed heavily.
My herd, Phin thought again.
“Well, here I am, Sven, so buck up. No, um, pun intended. When I say ‘go,’ open wide and start hunting around for my tail, ’kay?”
“’Kay,” Sven said.
“Go!”
It was a long, hard swim back to the fence line. Only a few posts were visible above the water, and Phin hoped hard they’d be able to swim over the remaining boards without injuring their legs. His neck was aching from the strain of keeping his head above water and his forelock was plastered over his face; luckily, Sven was being considerate about keeping slack in his tail so he wasn’t too much of a drag. Sumalee had convinced the old rabbit to hop onto the top of her head, where he sat perched like a very unhappy, sodden hood ornament.
“Freddy should be just ahead,” Phin neighed back to Sumalee. His words were drowned, as the world was drowned, in the unending, all-encompassing rain. Phin swam. All of his muscles ached, his head ached from the noise of the storm, his heart pounded out his worry for his friends. I’ve done what I could. We’ll all be together soon. He swam, past the floating remains of the shed, past a bit of peaked roof that was the hay barn, past the decimated chicken coop. His legs flagged and his head drooped lower and lower into the water. He thought of his Poppy, carrying children whose weight he could hardly bear. He thought of Poppy, turning circle after circle with one child after another, never complaining, never fussing, never refusing. Poppy’s reward was the work. The work and Jack. Jack’s friendship. Jack’s respect. His head dipped lower, water seeping into his ears. My gutcher. My brave gutcher. That was no work for a pony, but a pony did it. He thought of his mother and his heart nearly broke. I wanted to make her proud. And now I want to make them all proud. As I am proud of them, Poppy and my gutcher. The ponies that work. The ponies that love. And though he knew it was only the noise of the storm filling his waterlogged ears, he thought for a moment that he heard a sigh in the wind, a ripple in the water: You have. They are.
* * *
It seemed like a dream when his hooves finally scraped road. There had been so many false alarms: He’d kicked submerged tree limbs, planks, and other pieces of flotsam from the flood’s destruction and each one had raised—and dashed—hope of land. But this time as Phin moved his trembling legs forward, the obstruction didn’t float away. Not an obstruction. Road. The exhausted pony reached for his last ounce of energy and staggered on, the water now to his neck, to his chest, and finally to his knees. He stopped, flanks trembling from exertion, head bowed.
“It makes absolutely no sense that I’m thirsty, does it?” he panted.
“I think that’s what they call irony.” Even Sumalee sounded winded.
Sven’s eyes were closed, but he still had a firm chomp on Phin’s tail.
“Well, I’m not drinking this dreck,” Phin sniffed. “Let’s find the others and head for civilization.”
Wally, Matilda, the cats, and the goats had had to retreat quite a ways down the road, pursued by ever-encroaching water. Phin, fending off Wally’s slobbering kisses, was glad they looked none the worse for wear, though the goats, lower to the ground, were filthy. But then, everyone stank of wet and fur and mud and feathers. Only the cats, perched loftily on their feathered, albeit wet, nest, managed to preserve a certain air. The rain had finally slowed to a steady, annoying drizzle, and ahead the sky was beginning to lighten, a paler gray on gray. Phin could hardly believe it. He thought the night would last forever.
“Where’s Freddy?” he asked suddenly.
No one answered.
“Where’s Freddy?” Phin repeated. Another silence followed his question, broken, finally, by Matilda.
“Last we saw, he was going for a rabbit.”
Phin stared at her. “For fun?” he said, bewildered.
“Lil bu-u-nnny gonna dro-o-wn,” Wally bleated. “Fre—Fredddyyy…” He stopped.
Phin couldn’t bear it. “WHAT? FREDDY WHAT? WHERE IS HE?”
“We don’t know,” Matilda said abruptly. “He … he went walkabout, didn’t he? How could we tell what was happening, cats on our back, lightning everywhere, dog swimming in circles. He just … wasn’t there anymore.”
Phin’s neigh echoed over the wet gray world. Tearing his tail from Sven’s mouth, he forced his weary body back into the water, plunging up to his chest and throwing his legs out to swim again.
“Freddy! FREDDY!”
He was so tired, he could hardly keep the tip of his muzzle above the water, but Phin swam on blindly, not knowing where to go, his legs frantic pistons beneath him.
“FREDDY!”
And then someone was swimming beside him. Someone was steering him, pressing their body against his. Someone was shoving their back under his neck to support his head and was carrying him back, back to the silent group of animals, away from Freddy.
“Freddy,” Phin whispered, too weak to fight Sumalee as she brought him back to land.
“He’ll come back,” she murmured. “He always does.”
* * *
That morning, a very strange procession approached the sleepy, soggy main street of Gibsonville. At its head, a thin, ragged pony of indeterminate color plodded, head down, his long, tangled mane a veil hanging past his neck. Behind him followed a reindeer, holding the end of the pony’s muddy tail in his mouth. Flanking the reindeer were a camel and a water buffalo. Riding the camel and the water buffalo were a white chicken and a lop-eared rabbit, respectively. Taking the rear were three cats astride an emu and a pack of goats.
“Wh-e-re are we?” Wally’s bleat was like a lament.
Phin looked up, surveying the neat rows of cottages and gardens glistening with rain in the soft, pearly light of morning.
“Who knows?” he said dully. Everyone was quiet again.
Phin wondered vaguely what to do next. They needed food and drinking water. They needed a home. I need Freddy. He continued walking.
The parade of animals continued past the
cottages. Suddenly the old Fuzzy Butt fell off of Sumalee’s head.
I knew he wasn’t going to make it, Phin thought. But to his surprise, the rabbit lurched to his paws and began hopping slowly to the sidewalk. Phin cocked his head at Sumalee, but she looked just as perplexed. The pony glanced up to the house, set back from the road, that the rabbit seemed to be hobbling toward. There was movement on the porch. Phin took a few more steps, then saw a rabbit hutch perched near the cottage’s front steps. Two small bunnies appeared to be huddled inside, chewing on lettuce being handed through the bars by a young, pretty girl with blond braids. Her other hand was occupied with scratching the belly of a very dirty dog whose closed eyes and lolling tongue spoke deep contentment.
“A pony!” the little girl shouted, pointing at Phin.
The dog rolled over reluctantly and opened one eye.
“Hey, Phinny. What took you so long?” Freddy yawned.
EPILOGUE
A photograph, taken by a Gibsonville citizen, of Phin and the Funny Farm herd walking down Main Street was picked up by a news wire and ran in papers across the country above captions such as “Plucky Pony and Friends Survive Storm” and “No Ark Required: Animals Brave Worst Flood in Twenty Years.” Frank collected all of the clippings and mounted them on the new bulletin board above the donations box at the entrance to the animals’ new, old home.
It was their old home in that it stood in the same location; new, because so much had changed. After spending some time in cramped temporary housing provided by a local pig farmer (the experience made Phin very glad that pigs seemed, bafflingly, to be prized creatures and thus not candidates for the Funny Farm), the animals were moved back to the soggy, muddy pit that had been their home. But it didn’t remain a pit for long. Phineas and his friends were famous, and as the little towns around them cleaned up and rebuilt after the storm, the people made the farm a special project and poured their energy into fixing it up. By the time the produce stands that now filled the farm’s driveway were selling Halloween pumpkins, it had a new fence, painted white; a real barn with four stalls, including one for the retired racehorse who had recently joined them; a new chicken coop; and even an Information Center where Frank had filled index cards with “Fascinating Facts” about the animals. He also painted a new sign to guide the steady stream of visitors who wanted to see the animals for themselves. It read:
WELCOME TO THE FUNNY FARM / HOME OF PHINNY, THE BRAVE PONY.
Phin tried not to let it all go to his head, which wasn’t difficult with Freddy and Sumalee around. But when one day Jack showed up, it was impossible to keep his happy pride in check, especially when Jack saw the sign … and wept.
“Phinny, my lad, my love, look at you.” Jack beamed at him. “You’re a right mess, but you’re famous.”
Phin could hardly stand still. He pranced in place and turned circles around Jack, like Freddy around a cool car.
“Freddy! Sumalee!” he whinnied. “This is Jack! Sven, Wally! Come meet my friend!”
Jack had brought a bucket of brushes, and after giving Phin a thorough shampoo and condition, the groom went to work polishing, buffing, and untangling. He picked his hooves (shoeless now, though Phin couldn’t remember when he’d lost them all) and Phin didn’t once lean his weight on him. The pony settled dreamily into the unexpected, almost forgotten luxury, marveling that he had once taken it for granted. He was so preoccupied with all of the nice things being done to him that at first he didn’t notice the glum faces of his friends.
“Is he gonna ta-a-ake you ba-a-ack to your mo-o-ommy, Prince Baby?” Wally asked tremulously.
“Don’t worry about me,” Sven sighed. “I’m sure someone will take pity on me the next time I get stuck in the fence. Or not. I suppose it doesn’t much matter.”
“Good riddance!” shrieked Matilda, who still hadn’t forgiven Phin for making her a cat taxi.
Just then, Jack reached in his pocket and offered Phin something from his hand. The pony took it automatically. The blast of sweetness hit his tongue, filling his mouth with a cloying, overwhelming saccharine taste. He spit it out hastily.
“Since when don’t you like sugar?” Jack stared at him in bewilderment.
That was sugar? I feel like washing my mouth out. And then Van der Luyden’s words came back to him once again: “We endure, even without sugar.” I suppose I did, Phin thought, and now I’ve lost my taste for it. He didn’t waste much time wondering about it. Giving Jack an apologetic look, he trotted back to Sven and Wally.
“I can’t leave you,” he said simply. “This is where I belong.”
“Phinny of the Funny Farm.” Sumalee winked at him.
“Righto, stay. I’ll fill your berth.” Freddy’s voice came from farther away—a high, desperate whine. Phin looked around, and finally spotted him in the front seat of Jack’s car, his face rigid with a kind of ecstatic reverence.
“What are you doing in Jack’s car?” Phin neighed.
“Car? Car? You call this radioactive cherry a car? This is a 1967 Camaro Z28 Coupe with a 302 under the hood and a Holley 4-barrel. Zero to sixty in seven seconds. Your Jack is a god.” Freddy looked like his eyes were about to roll up in his head.
Phin and Sumalee exchanged looks. What was it with dogs and cars?
* * *
Freddy didn’t get to ride in Jack’s car that day, but he did the following week, and the week after, and the week after that. Every Saturday, Jack made the trip from the city to the farm, Phin’s old carnival-era saddle and bridle in his trunk. And every Saturday there was a line of kids—thin and chubby, nervous and fearless, allergic and not—standing in line in front of the donations box. Every Saturday, Jack whistled to his old friend, who trotted to the barn, picked up his feed bucket in his mouth, and brought it over to the fence, where the children filled it with carrots and apple slices (no sugar allowed), which Phin generously shared with Wally and Sven and the ex-racehorse. The children took turns brushing all the animals (except for Matilda, who insisted she didn’t need it), and then finally it was their turn to ride the Shetland pony—not quite as golden, not quite as glossy, but the bravest—who carried each one with joy in his heart.
NOTES
Chapter 1
1. Just because you’re not ugly like your father, you crybaby, doesn’t mean you should be a useless young pony!
Chapter 2
1. Aren’t you the fussy one? You scream at a fly.
2. You poor miserable creature!
Chapter 7
1. You’re no better than a sucker, you little pony. You are your mother’s child, and no mistake. Not that I’m insulting your mother, mind you. I’ll never forget the day she came trotting past the cotton candy machine.
2. Pretty
3. Beautiful
4. Fiery
Chapter 10
1. Australian slang for an American. Not very nice.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s not an average mother that you can call and say, “I need a dictionary of the Shetland dialect and of carnival-worker slang,” and she doesn’t bat an eye. Stephanie Wedekind—my first and best reader, former children’s librarian, research assistant extraordinaire, who has a song for every occasion—was integral to the writing of this book … and, for that matter, to anything I write.
Kim Tenhacken pointed me in the right direction for Australian lingo, and Jim Guida made marvelous suggestions for improving Matilda’s insults. Sarajane Maki, the ultimate hotrod mama, vetted Freddy’s cars and explained carburetors in a way I actually understood, for an hour. I am grateful to the kind people at Visit Shetland (www.visitshetland.com), especially Deborah Kerr, and to Mary Blance of Shetland For Wirds, who took such care and time in looking over Poppy’s dialogue. Of course, any errors of dialect, whether Australian or Shetlandic, carney or hot rod, are my own.
This book, dedicated to my darling David, is also in memory of Christopher Roberts, my Freddy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
/> ANNIE WEDEKIND grew up riding horses in Louisville, Kentucky. Since then, she’s been in the saddle in every place she’s lived, from Rhode Island to New Orleans, South Africa to New York. Her first novel for young readers, A Horse of Her Own, was praised by Kirkus Reviews as “possibly the most honest horse book since National Velvet … a champion.” She lives with her family in Brooklyn, New York. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Dear Reader
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Notes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK
An Imprint of Macmillan
LITTLE PRINCE. Copyright © 2009 by Annie Wedekind.
All rights reserved.
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Little Prince - The Story of a Shetland Pony Page 8