Pony

by R. J. Palacio

  “No, you don’t need to know about anyone else.”

  He narrowed his eyes and scrunched up his face as he scrutinized me.

  “I have a grandson your age, you know,” he said. “What are you, nine, ten?”

  “I’m twelve.”

  “You are?” he answered, amused. “You’re a tiny thing for your age, aren’t you? Lookee here, Silas Bird.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tin badge. He held it up for me to see across the fire. “You know what this is?”

  “It’s a badge.”

  “That’s right. I’m a United States federal marshal,” he replied. “I’m tracking down some outlaws who are heading east. We got a tip they’re holed up in a cave on the other side of the big ravine. They’re about three days ahead of me, give or take. It just may be that you and I are looking for the same group of men.”

  “Are you looking for Rufe Jones?” I asked excitedly.

  “I don’t know that name, no.”

  “Seb and Eben Morton? They’re brothers.”

  “No. Were those the men who took your pa?”

  I nodded. “They were sent by someone named…Oscar something? I can’t really remember.” But as I was speaking, the other name popped into my head. “What about Mac Boat? Do you know him?” I babbled this without thinking.

  Here, finally, Mr. Farmer reacted.

  “Mac Boat?” he exclaimed, eyebrows raised. “Was Mac Boat one of the men who took your pa?”

  His reply made me instantly regret saying the name aloud. I don’t know why I did. I should have kept my big mouth shut.

  “No,” I said, “they just mentioned his name. I don’t know why, exactly.”

  “Well, Mac Boat is one of the most wanted fugitives around!” he croaked, almost admiringly. “I haven’t heard that name in years. But if he’s somehow connected to what happened to your pa, then our paths have indeed converged, kid. Because the men I’m tracking, they’re part of the biggest counterfeiting ring in the Middle West. And Mac Boat, well, he was one of the best counterfeiters there ever was.”

  THREE

  I am a poor wayfaring stranger,

  traveling through this world of woe.

  —Anonymous “Wayfaring Stranger”

  1

  MEMORY IS A STRANGE THING. Some things come to you crisp and bright, like fireworks on a long black night. Others are as dim and fuzzy as dying embers. I have always endeavored to provide order to my memory, but it can be like trying to put lightning in a box.

  Still, I have defeated lightning, so there’s that.

  I don’t remember exactly when Mittenwool appeared that night, which was the first of several I’d spend in the Woods. All I remember is waking up as the fire crackled and seeing the canopy of trees above me, through which only slivers of the night sky were apparent, shaped like broken glass. The stars dotted the black sky like tiny candles flickering somewhere far away.

  What gives those stars their light? I wondered. And then, What lies beyond those stars?

  I was half asleep.

  “Silas,” said Mittenwool.

  “Mittenwool!” I whispered happily, sitting up. “You’re back!”

  Mr. Farmer was sleeping across the fire from me. I could hear him snoring loudly. But I did not want to wake him, so I kept my voice as hushed as I could.

  “I thought I lost you,” I added.

  “Just took me a while to catch up,” he answered, smiling reassuringly. He patted my head as he sat down next to me. It was only when I reached up to squeeze his hand that he understood the extent of my relief. “Gosh, did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

  I shook my head, a bit overtaken by my emotions.

  “Silly billy,” he said gently. “Look there. The fire’s going out. You should stoke it. Add more wood.”

  I hadn’t realized how cold I was until that moment, even though I was using Pony’s saddle blanket to cover myself. Chilled as I was, I got up and threw some more big sticks on the fire. The flames shot up and made a crashing noise. I sat down next to Mittenwool and warmed my hands under my armpits.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know, here and there.”

  I usually did not ask Mittenwool questions like that. I had learned long ago that he was vague about certain aspects of his Being. Not because he didn’t want to answer these questions, I think, but because he simply didn’t know himself. His own origin was something of a mystery to him.

  “Who is that person asleep over there?” he asked.

  “An old man named Enoch Farmer. He found me. Turns out he’s a U.S. marshal tracking some outlaws. I think they may be the same men who took Pa.”

  Mittenwool seemed dubious. “Well, that would be quite a coincidence.”

  “It’s not a coincidence. It was Pony’s doing. He brought me here to him. I told you it was a sign, his coming back for me. He’s bringing me to Pa.”

  He smiled wanly. “I hope so.”

  “I know so.”

  “Hey, Silas, I have to confess, I am still a little peeved at you.”

  “About the empty arms thing?”

  “No. That you didn’t keep your word about going into the Woods. You promised me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “These Woods are no jest, Silas. You have no business being here all by yourself.”

  “I know! That’s why it’s good the marshal found me. He showed me how to start a fire, and how to make a bowl out of tree bark. He’s teaching me how to track.”

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And you trust him?”

  “He seems all right. Told me he has a grandson my age.”

  He made a face, not completely convinced.

  “Anyway, you should get some sleep now,” he said.

  I lay back again and pulled the saddle blanket up to my ears. He got down next to me, resting on his elbows, face up to the sky. I turned on my side and studied his profile for a while, a landscape more familiar to me than any other place on earth. Every once in a while, the sheer wonder of Mittenwool took hold of me. The strangeness of us.

  I almost did not want to ask, because I did not want to disturb the peacefulness of the moment, but I asked anyway.

  “You heard them, too, right? Just before Pony ran off. I wasn’t imagining it.”

  He clenched his jaw. “No, I heard them, too.”

  “It wasn’t a bear, was it? That time with Pa?”

  “No. It wasn’t a bear.”

  “Who are they? What are they?”

  “I don’t rightly know.”

  “Are they like you?”

  He thought about this for a second. “I honestly don’t know.” He was looking up while he talked, at the same starry night as I was. “There are so many things I don’t know, Silas.”

  I nodded, for it occurred to me that if life is full of mysteries, death must be, too.

  “It’s kind of like these Woods right now, I think,” he continued thoughtfully. “We can hear all the hoots and cries coming from everywhere around us. Branches falling. Creatures dying and being born in the darkness. But we can’t see them. We just know they’re there, right? We’re aware of them. That’s how it is with you, I think. You’re special, Silas. You’re aware of things that other people aren’t aware of. That’s a gift.”

  “I don’t want it. It’s not a gift. It’s a curse.”

  “It may help you find Pa.”

  I reflected on that. “I guess that’s true. And it makes it possible for me to see you. That’s something, I suppose.”

  He smiled and nudged me with his elbow. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me, lunkhead.”

  I chuckled. “You’re the lunkhead!”

  “Shh!”

  I had got
ten loud without realizing. We both looked over at Mr. Farmer to see if I’d woken him, but the old man just stirred a bit before rolling over on his side.

  “We should stop talking or you’re going to wake him up,” Mittenwool said. “Get some sleep. I have a feeling you’re going to have to be wide awake these next few days. You need your rest.”

  “But you’ll stay here, right?”

  “Of course I will. Now close your eyes.”

  I closed my eyes. “Mittenwool?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What do you think about the name Gringolet?” I whispered without opening my eyes.

  “Was that Sir Gawain’s horse? Seems a bit highfalutin for Pony,” he answered.

  “What about Perceval?”

  “Perceval. Hmm. That doesn’t seem right for him, either.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Now go to sleep.”

  I nodded. And then I fell asleep.

  2

  DAWN BROKE, BUT I SLEPT through it. By the time I wakened, it was a blinding bright day. The light didn’t come down from above as much as it shimmered on the mist that blew through the trees. It glimmered on the branches wet with dew. It fell like rain.

  “Well, about time, sleepyhead!” Mr. Farmer groused. He had his boots on and was tending to his droopy mare. He looked about ready to go.

  “Morning, Mr. Farmer,” I mumbled.

  “Marshal Farmer,” he corrected. “I tried to wake you but you were dead to the world. Come on, rise and shine.”

  I got up and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. It felt like my face was encrusted with tree dust, and my tailbone and legs hurt from all the horseback riding. My bones were weary to the marrow, as they say.

  “Is there any breakfast?” I asked, to which the old man made an angry face.

  The fire had gone out, with nothing but white cinders left, and I was cold. When I breathed, a little cloud of smoke blew from my mouth. As I put on my hat, I caught sight of Mittenwool, leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing. I only slightly acknowledged him. I didn’t want the marshal to catch me being strange.

  “You talk in your sleep,” said Marshal Farmer, regarding me with some suspicion.

  “I know. Pa’s told me I do.”

  “You said that name in your sleep. Mittenwool.”

  I raised my shoulders and pouted my lips as if to say, Hmm.

  “So who is he?” Marshal Farmer persisted. “This Mittenwool. That’s who you were calling for when I found you. Is he a friend?”

  I went to make water in the trees, where he couldn’t see me. I didn’t answer.

  “Is he a friend of yours?” he asked again when I came back. He was intent on knowing.

  “Just tell him I’m a friend from back home,” Mittenwool called out.

  “He’s a friend from back home, yes, sir,” I replied, picking up the saddle blanket and bringing it over to Pony.

  “And he came with you to the Woods?” Marshal Farmer said, eyeing me curiously.

  It was the first time I was actually able to see the old man’s face clearly, in the dappled light of morning. He was much older than I had thought. He’d been wearing a hat last night, but now I could see he was practically bald, with long tufts of scraggly white hair sprouting here and there like weeds. He had a broad face, weathered as rawhide. Crinkled around the eyes, which made him seem friendly. Red-nosed. That shock of white beard under his chin.

  “Mittenwool came with me to the edge of the Woods, yes, sir,” I answered quietly, laying the blanket over Pony’s back. “When I went inside the Woods, he stayed behind.”

  “So is he waiting for you where he left you?”

  “No. I don’t think he’s waiting for me, no.”

  “When I take you to the edge of the Woods,” he answered impatiently, “are you going to know how to get back to your house all by yourself? Because I don’t have the time to take you all the way back to wherever it is you live.”

  “No, you don’t need to do that,” I said quickly. “I mean, I don’t want to go home, Marshal Farmer. I’d like to go with you, if that’s all right with you.”

  He snickered and jerked his head as he tightened his horse’s stirrups. “That’s certainly not all right with me.”

  “Please,” I implored. “I have to find my pa. I’m sure those men who took him are connected with the people you’re after. If you find them, you’ll find my pa.”

  He was feeding an apple to his horse.

  “Maybe they are connected and maybe they’re not,” he answered, “but either way, you’re not coming with me.”

  It peeved me to see him feeding an apple to his horse and not sharing it with me, given that I had offered to share my meal with him yesterday, but then I thought of how I had cost him a rabbit. Still, my stomach yearned for that apple.

  “Please, sir,” I said. “Let me come with you. I don’t have anyone at home waiting for me.”

  “Your pa told you to wait for him,” he answered brusquely, not looking up. “You should do what your father says.”

  “But what if he’s in trouble?”

  He leaned over his horse’s back and rested his elbows on the saddle to look at me.

  “Kid, your pa is obviously in a peck of trouble,” he replied, “but that doesn’t mean you can help him out of it. You’re just a little twig of a thing. You don’t even have a gun.”

  “But you do.”

  He chuckled. There was a bit of a warmth to him, and I think he regarded me like he would his own grandchild. “Look, son,” he said thoughtfully. “Go back to your house. Wait for your pa there, where you’ll be safe and sound. I’ll be on the lookout for him, all right? Martin Bird was his name, right? What’s he look like?”

  “He’s very tall. And lean. And he has black hair with some gray at the temples. He has piercing blue eyes, and very fine teeth. He’s a handsome man. That’s not just me saying that. I’ve seen how ladies lower their eyes when he talks to them. He has a dimple in his chin like I do, but you can’t see it when his beard grows in.”

  “All right, I’ve made note of his appearance,” said Marshal Farmer, tapping his forehead, “and I’ll be sure the deputies are apprised of it, too, so he doesn’t get hurt in any crossfire.”

  “What do you mean, crossfire?”

  Marshal Farmer frowned. “You don’t think I’m taking on a big counterfeiting ring all by myself, do you?” he said. “As soon as I’ve tracked them down and found their headquarters, I’ll round up a posse in Rosasharon. That’s a town on the other side of the ravine. The banks have a reward out for whoever catches these counterfeiters, so I’ll have plenty of volunteers. Now, come on, mount up already, or I’ll fall so far behind I won’t be able to track them.”

  He mounted his horse, clicked, and turned the horse around.

  I finished cinching Pony’s saddle and pulled tight on the strap. Pony eyed me, and I thought for a second he was wishing I had an apple to give him. But then something in his expression made me think he was simply responding to my mood. His eyes had a human quality to them, the way they regarded me now. Like he understood everything that was happening.

  “The marshal’s right,” Mittenwool said.

  I glared at him, since I couldn’t voice my reply.

  “Don’t dally now!” Marshal Farmer yelled.

  “I’m not!” I answered sullenly.

  “Going back to the house is the wise thing to do, Silas,” Mittenwool continued.

  I put my foot in the stirrup and swung my leg over Pony without looking at him. It was bad enough having the marshal tell me I couldn’t go with him. I didn’t need Mittenwool hectoring me about it, too. I was starting to feel hot anger rising in me at both him and the marshal equally.

 
“The edge of the Woods is about an hour from here,” Marshal Farmer announced, pointing vaguely to his right. “I’ll take you as far as the birch copse. From there it’s just a short ride out.”

  “Fine,” I mumbled.

  “Now, come on, kid, enough with the long face. I told you why you can’t come with me,” said the marshal, trying to get me to look at him. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “This is the right thing to do,” Mittenwool insisted.

  “Let’s just go,” I said, and nudged my heels into Pony to follow Marshal Farmer.

  3

  WE TROTTED IN THE DIRECTION Marshal Farmer had pointed to, until we came upon a trail too narrow for us to ride side by side. He signaled for me to go ahead of him, and he followed behind. Mittenwool kept his distance as he walked parallel to us, bobbing in and out of the trees.

  “Say, what’s that thingum hanging from the back of your saddle?” Marshal Farmer asked at one point. His voice was light.

  I pretended not to hear him, for I was in no mood to talk.

  “Did you hear me, kid? What’s that thing you got there? Looks like a tiny coffin.”

  “It’s a violin case.”

  “A violin case? Why’d you bring that with you?”

  I didn’t answer him. I could feel my fury rising in my bones, up through my legs, my spine, and culminating in my head, which was hurting. All of me was hurting.

  “Why’d you bring a violin case with you?” he repeated.

  “To protect the violin inside of it.”

  “Why’d you bring the violin inside it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You play the violin?”

  “No!”

  He made a sound like a penny flute, a long, slow whistle.