HORSE DIARIES
#1: Elska
#2: Bell’s Star
#3: Koda
#4: Maestoso Petra
#5: Golden Sun
#6: Yatimah
#7: Risky Chance
#8: Black Cloud
#9: Tennessee Rose
#10: Darcy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2013 by Whitney Robinson
Cover art and interior illustrations copyright © 2013 by Ruth Sanderson
Photograph credit: © Bob Langrish (this page)
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by
Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sanderson, Whitney.
Darcy / Whitney Sanderson ; illustrated by Ruth Sanderson. — 1st ed.
p. cm. — (Horse diaries ; 10)
Summary: Born on a windy hill off the coast of Ireland in 1917, a Connemara pony named Darcy is sold to a farm family and trained to pull a cart and plow.
eISBN: 978-0-307-97636-9
1. Connemara pony—Juvenile fiction. [1. Connemara pony—Fiction.
2. Ponies—Fiction. 3. Ireland—History—1910–1921—Fiction.]
I. Sanderson, Ruth, ill. II. Title.
PZ10.3.S217Dar 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2011039875
Random House Children’s Books supports
the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
To my sister, Morgan
—W.S.
For Whitney and Morgan
—R.S.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
1
Ireland, 1917
2
King Solomon’s Test
3
A New Herd
4
Sea and Soil
5
Black and Tans
6
English Roses
7
Night Ride
8
A Matter of Honor
9
Match Race
10
Berries and Briars
Appendix
About the Author
About the Illustrator
“Oh! if people knew what a comfort to horses a light hand is …”
—from Black Beauty, by Anna Sewell
Ireland, 1917
I was born in late spring, in a damp green fell that glittered with dew. My dam was a dappled-gray mare named Nessa who had worked the land for twenty years before retiring to deliver her last few foals. On the same day, sheltered from the wind by the same prickly furze hedge with its yellow flowers, another dappled-gray mare also gave birth to a black foal. My dam and the other mare, Alana, belonged to different farmers who shared the field.
The other filly was already standing by the time I pushed my way through the birthing sac and took my first gasps of salty air. My first memory is of seeing her nuzzling her dam’s side to find milk. Of course I would have known what to do anyway, but from that moment onward I felt like I was following in her hoofprints.
For the first few days, everything was too strange and new for us to venture far from our dams’ warm sides. But we watched each other in silent curiosity, flicking our fuzzy tails. One of the first things we learned was that the world was very wet. The air was mild, but it rained nearly every day, soaking us to the skin.
There was no shelter in our pasture except for the hedges and the ruins of a stone barracks that had lost two of its walls to the decay of time. The sea was a blue-green blur on the horizon, but the rhythmic sound of the tides filled my ears from my earliest memory.
One of the farmers had a small grandson, and he brought the boy out to visit us soon after we were born. The child’s eyes were as soft and dark as those of the rabbits that darted in and out of their underground burrows, their white backsides flashing in the dusk. The boy squeezed his eyes shut when the other filly stepped forward to snuffle at the patterned fabric he wore over his bare skin instead of proper fur. I was also curious, but I was too timid to approach. The filly nipped experimentally at the collar of the boy’s jacket, and he ran to hide behind his grandfather.
Yuck, said the filly, who was quite naughty and tried to taste almost everything she saw. They aren’t good to eat.
“Both’n the babies are black,” said the boy, peering from behind the old man’s walking stick. “Be they twins?” Although I didn’t understand the words, I was fascinated by the lilting rise and fall of his voice.
“No, lad. Each mare has had her own foal. But they are a spitting image of each other, aren’t they? And do you know, Mr. Connelly said he’d be right grateful if you’d name Alana’s little colteen as well as our Nessa’s.”
“Like I named Silk’s kittens, Granda?”
“Just like that.”
The boy was silent for a moment, gazing shyly at me. “I want to name that one Darcy,” he said finally, pointing to me, “and the other one Ciara. After the twins Mam had that died before they were baptized. Is it right to do that?”
The lines on the old farmer’s face seemed to grow deeper. But as he looked between me and the other filly, the ghost of a smile flickered on his face. “Aye, lad, those would be grand names. Did you know that Ciara and Darcy both mean ‘dark-haired one’ in the old Irish tongue?”
A misting rain had begun to fall. I was used to it, but the boy began to shiver. “We’d best be getting inside before ye catch your death of cold,” said the farmer, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Won’t the ponies catch cold too?”
“Nay, they thrive on the wind and the wild sea air. This land would cripple the finest Thoroughbred, but Connemara ponies are tough.”
The pair traced their steps back over the hilltop. The boy bolted ahead and the old man followed at a slower pace, leaning heavily on his stick.
The other filly—Ciara—reached over and gave me a playful nip. Race you to that clump of heather on the hill, she said. Now that we had sorted out our legs, all she wanted to do was race. She bolted away before I could argue. I was sleepy, and I’d rather have had a nap than a run. But I couldn’t help chasing after her, even though I knew I’d never catch up. Sure enough, she was already cantering toward some new adventure by the time I reached the patch of purple flowers.
That was how it always was between us. Ciara, my shadow sister, my dark twin. Our resemblance grew as we did, and we were like mirrors of each other in a still pond. But she was the bold one, the brave one. I often felt like her timid reflection, tagging along despite my better judgment.
Ciara had a knack for finding anything prickly, precarious, or otherwise dangerous. She scaled the stone ruins as nimbly as a goat. She danced across mossy boulders that crumbled under her hooves. She plunged into tangles of blackberry thorns without a second thought, and somehow emerged without a scratch on her body.
Meanwhile, I waited at the edge of the briar patch, and licked jealously at the berry juice dripping from her muzzle. I knew from experience that if I followed her, I’d end up with a twisted fetlock or a stinging cut on my haunches. Ciara was fearless, and maybe that was what kept her in a
constant state of grace.
The summer ripened to golden autumn and then faded into a gray winter. Ciara and I ventured farther and farther from our dams as we explored the limits of our pasture. In three directions it simply ended in a stone wall, but our fourth wall was the sea. We had been told many times not to get too close to the face of the cliff. Naturally, Ciara paid no attention.
One gray day, she walked to its very edge. Bits of stone crumbled beneath her hooves and fell into the ocean. I could hear the thunder of waves hitting the rocks below. The sea was beautiful, with iridescent colors that reflected the sky, but I feared its power.
Come closer, Darcy! cried Ciara as I lingered a safe distance away. Look at the waves!
It’s not safe, I said, scraping my hoof along the ground. Let’s go find something to eat. A large bird was circling above us, and it let out a piercing cry. I jumped, and Ciara laughed.
We’re sea horses, remember? she said. When we were newly born our dams had told us that long ago there were no creatures like us on the earth. Then a great sea god had spoken magic words, and the horses came galloping out of the water.
A gust of wind and spray whipped in from the sea. Ciara reared up on her slim legs to greet it, slashing at the whirlwind with her hooves. The image burned forever in my mind, her silhouette framed against the bruised sky. She looked so wild and unafraid. Her eyes glittered, dark and full of life.
A shadow passed over us. Another bird had risen from a roost on the cliffs to join its mate. They were sea eagles with wickedly curved beaks and mottled wings that seemed to block out half the sky. They wheeled around each other, swooping and parting, but ominously silent. Then one of them made a sudden dive toward us.
My squeal of warning came too late. The bird hit Ciara’s flank, leaving three red slashes, then it tumbled over the side of the cliff. Ciara was caught off guard and crashed to her knees. She thrashed to regain her footing on the slippery rock.
Then the second eagle dove. Its talons pierced Ciara’s neck and held fast, its wings beating against the wind. Ciara lost her balance and fell with it over the ledge.
I could not move or make a sound. I trembled and the earth trembled beneath me from the sea’s endless assault on the cliffs. The world was suddenly empty, as if I were the only creature who had ever existed. There was a strange smell in the air that mixed with the salt and fish scent of the ocean. It was sharp and metallic. I’d smelled it before when Ciara and I had stumbled on a newly killed rabbit. It was blood.
I could not bear to look over the edge and see her body on the rocks. From below, I heard the muffled squabble of the two eagles fighting over their prey. There was nothing I could do to chase them away. I felt as helpless as a newborn foal standing for the first time. I had always looked to Ciara to know what to do, but now she was gone.
For the first time in my life, I was alone.
King Solomon’s Test
My dam said it was the winter that turned our pasture cold and lifeless, but I felt like Ciara’s death had drained the world of color and warmth. Alana whinnied into the wind for weeks. She bared her teeth at any creature who approached. She would not seek shelter from the wind and rain, but paced endlessly across the hills until she was worn away to nearly a skeleton.
Then one day she came over to where my dam and I were eating a pile of hay. In colder months, the farmer sometimes left us a bale at the gate. Even so, all of us were ribby from the poor foraging.
My dam sidestepped so that Alana could eat without feeling threatened, but the mare did not seem interested in the food. She was staring at me with fever-bright eyes. She stretched out her neck and whooshed a hot breath into my nostrils.
My dam flattened her ears uneasily, but Alana did not threaten or attack. Instead, she pivoted her hindquarters so I could reach her udder.
My milk has nearly dried up with no foal to nurse, she said, her voice hoarse from calling to her foal. But grass is scarce and your milk is thin, Nessa. Let your filly be nourished by what little I have left to give.
My dam considered the ragged mare for a moment, then nudged me toward Alana’s udder. Many thanks, my friend.
It was strange to suckle from a mare who was not my dam, but I was grateful for the extra food. From that day on, it was as if I had two mothers. Alana ate with us and kept watch at night to protect me from danger. I grew sleek and strong on the milk of two mares. By spring I had exceeded both of them in height. They were small, shaggy ponies who had farmed this stony soil for generations. Their ancestors had survived the Great Famine, when most of the larger horses in Ireland had died for want of feed.
One morning, when a blush of green had begun to spread across the landscape, the old farmer returned to our pasture. Another man walked with him. They seemed startled to discover only one foal, and spent hours searching the pasture for the other. But of course they found no trace of her. The wind, the sea, and the eagles had seen to that long ago.
Finally, the men returned to where I was resting on the chilly grass. My empty belly rumbled, and I rose to my feet and trotted over to my dam to nurse.
“That settles it, Connelly,” said the old farmer. “ ’Tis my Nessa’s foal.”
My dam’s udder was nearly dry. There was less milk every day, and my dam said it was because I was getting too grown up to nurse. But I still preferred the creamy milk to the dried grass on which the mares subsisted. I went to Alana and got a little more milk from her, then flopped back down to resume my nap.
“Perhaps ’twasn’t my foal that disappeared,” said Connelly. “But how are we to know for sure? Both mares seem to think the little one is theirs.”
“Aye, but surely if we put our heads together, we can think up a test worthy of old King Solomon.”
I had no idea what they meant, but if I had, I would have leaped right over the stone wall of my pasture and galloped away.
You see, as a churchgoing pony, I later learned that King Solomon was a man who settled a dispute in which two women claimed to own the same baby. He said, Cut the baby in half, and both women shall have an equal share. But of course the real mother said, No, let the other woman have him, just don’t hurt my child. Thus King Solomon knew the baby belonged to that woman, and he was returned to her. Horses tied to hitching posts under stained-glass windows have learned much about the strange ways of people.
The two farmers weren’t planning to cut me in half, but what they came up with wasn’t much better. They returned the next day with a whole crowd of people. Everyone gathered at the freshwater pool where we drank. Someone had brought a boat down to the water, and it was floating at the pond’s bank. I hardly had a chance to take a good look at it before the old farmer whipped out a blindfold and tied it over my eyes.
Before I could object, someone prodded me in the rump with what felt like a walking stick. I scooted forward, aiming a kick behind me for good measure. My ears flicked in all directions, trying to make up for my lack of sight. Now the ground felt different under my feet. My hooves made a hollow sound, and suddenly the earth seemed to sway beneath them.
Mother? Alana? What’s going on here? I whinnied. Then someone took off the blindfold and I saw for myself.
I was in a tiny boat in the middle of the pond, and the farmer Connelly was holding my lead rope. The sight of water everywhere filled me with fear, and I reared up on my hind legs. Connelly gave my hindquarters a shove, and I toppled into the water with a splash.
So that was it, I was going to drown. The cold water numbed my body, and my legs flailed helplessly, searching for solid ground. But somehow I stayed afloat as long as my legs churned. If I let them hang limp to rest, I began to sink like a stone.
My eyes were so wet and blurry that I could hardly see better than when I was blindfolded. I heard my dam calling to me, and I swam toward the sound. My hooves hit the slimy bottom of the pond as I neared the shore. I galloped over to my mother with tendrils of seaweed streaming from my legs.
Why did they throw
me in the water? I asked indignantly as my dam nosed every inch of me to make sure I hadn’t been injured.
I don’t know, said my dam, satisfied that I was unharmed. I heard Alana whinny, and for the first time I noticed that someone was holding her near the far shore of the pond.
“I guess we’ve proven the filly is yours,” Connelly said gloomily as the old farmer buckled a halter over my head. “Grand big one too. Ought to fetch a fine price at auction.”
My dam let out a sigh at these words.
What’s the matter? I asked.
Auction, my dear, is the place where your new life begins.
You mean I must leave you and Alana? Where will I go? Will I ever see you again?
Before she could reply, the old farmer started to lead me away. My dam trailed behind us. Alana had been set loose, and she galloped over.
The farmer opened the gate. For the first time in my life, I stepped outside my pasture. The mares stood patiently and did not try to follow.
Goodbye, sweet Darcy, said Alana. Work faithfully for your new owner.
My dam said nothing, only watched as the farmer led me down the dusty track. I felt as if my heart were breaking—not only because I was leaving, but because they hardly seemed sad at all. I couldn’t have known then that I was one of a dozen foals they had borne, and that each had been taken away to be sold. Except for Ciara, of course.
I was only a yearling then and knew little about the ways of men and farming. But my life as a free and wild creature had come to an end, and I was soon to learn.
A New Herd
The farmer brought me to a rough stone pen beside his cottage. There was no grass, and I had only an ancient donkey for company. I was fattened on oats and corn so I would fetch a good price at auction. On market day, the farmer hitched the donkey to a rickety cart, tied me to the back, and led me down the winding dirt road into town.
The street was full of carts and wagons pulled by horses of every description. Thoroughbreds pulled buggies with glinting wheels, draft horses hauled loaded hay wagons, and shaggy ponies trotted with rattletrap carts behind them. Sometimes there were as many as a dozen children crammed into the cart beds, leaning over the edges like eager puppies.
Darcy Page 1