Pony

by R. J. Palacio

  I could not help but gasp, at which point all the ghosts looked up at once, alerted to my presence. Every one of them covered in the wounds that killed them. Gashed and slashed and shot and ripped and rotted and burned. Skin shorn off bones. Limbs oozing. Bloodied. They began to come toward me. To what purpose, I did not know. And I could not help myself now. I cried out.

  “What’s the matter?” Marshal Farmer yelled, turning around in his saddle to look at me.

  But I was off before he could finish turning. Whether Pony was acting of his own volition or reacting to my sudden distress, I don’t know, but he darted in front of the marshal’s mean brown mare and we raced ahead, at full speed like we did yesterday, to wherever before us was free of ghosts.

  FOUR

  Any body, after having been exposed to light,

  retains in darkness some impression of this light.

  —Nicéphore Niépce Annual of Scientific Discovery, 1859

  1

  ALMOST EVERY NIGHT IN THE SPRING and summer, and sometimes even into the fall, Pa and I would sit on the front porch after supper and spend an hour or so there, taking in the sky as the cool breezes blew in across the prairie. Pa would read to me, usually from one of his journals. However difficult the subject matter, he always made it sensible to me. Or he would read me stories that he knew I would like. Tales about the Arthurian knights and musketeers and buccaneers and mariners. Magic carpets. Centaurs.

  Some nights, he would put the books away altogether and outline figures among the millions of stars that filled the sky. How those stories of the constellations captured my imagination! Pa’s soft, musical voice would transport me across deserts and oceans. He’d use words that sounded like make-believe. Barmy, for instance. As in, Cassiopeia was a barmy queen if ever there was one. Meaning foolish.

  Soogh was the sound of a long, soft breeze blowing over the sea.

  Amerand was what he called the color of grass in early spring.

  It was only much later that I found out these aren’t words from American English, but ones Pa carried with him from across the ocean.

  As I waited for Marshal Farmer to catch up to me, once I had ridden out of the Bog, all I could think of was Pa saying to me, You’re in for a gowling, Silas.

  And he was right.

  2

  TO SAY MARSHAL FARMER WAS furious when he finally caught up to me would be an understatement. The old man was livid, his face tomato red. He could barely speak.

  “I saw a bear” was the only lie I could think of in my defense. “I’m sorry.”

  He was out of breath, like he himself, and not his horse, had chased after me.

  “A bear,” he finally said through gritted teeth. “You saw a bear, and you didn’t say peep? By gum, next time you see something, you holler it from the treetops! You hear me?”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry, Marshal Farmer.”

  “What kind of bear was it? A black bear? A grizzly?”

  I was still shivering from my encounter, and I just wanted to continue riding as far away from there as possible. “I don’t know. It was a shadow….”

  “A shadow?” He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled a long breath, like someone blowing out a candle. “Why the sam hill I ever agreed to take you, I don’t know,” he muttered, more to himself than me.

  I thought it best not to answer him.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t get too far ahead of me, kid, that’s all I have to say,” he continued, waving his large bent finger at me, “because if you had, let me tell you, I would not have bothered to find you! Let the wolves eat you, for all I care! Just listen good now: if you ever do that again…”

  “I won’t! It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  He pulled angrily at his beard for a while, teeth still bared in fury, until he started calming down. When he was finally done being angry, he wiped his palms over his face.

  “Well,” he then said, looking around, “I guess this is as good a place as any to make camp for the night.”

  “No, please. Could we ride out a little farther?” I was still trembling.

  His eyes bulged like he could not believe I had the gumption to disagree with him.

  “Please. Just a little farther away from the Bog?” I pleaded.

  “What makes you think we’re not still in the danged Bog!”

  There are no ghosts here, I thought.

  “The ground is less wet here,” I said.

  “Exactly! The ground is dry!” he yelled, shaking his fist at me. “Which is why we should make camp here!” He pushed up his sleeves. “Now get off your horse and get a fire going! It’s almost dark. We’ve been riding twelve hours straight and the horses need rest.”

  He got off his horse and took a long stretch, holding his hand on his hip. I couldn’t help but notice that his back stayed bent at an angle, even when he tried to straighten himself out. When he spied me watching him, he roared, “I said to get off that dod-rotted horse! Go find us some firewood! Hurry up, while there’s still some light to see by!”

  I dismounted, tied Pony to a nearby tree, and hastily started looking for kindling.

  3

  I WAS SOME DISTANCE AWAY, my arms full of wood, when Mittenwool came up to me.

  “How are you doing there, Silas?” he asked sympathetically.

  “I can’t let him hear me talking to you,” I whispered, glancing back at Marshal Farmer to make sure he wasn’t watching me. “I don’t want to get him riled up again.”

  “I don’t like the way he talks to you.”

  “I shouldn’t have let Pony run off like that.”

  “He got startled.”

  “So you saw what happened back there? In the Bog?”

  He clenched his jaw. “I did.”

  “There were so many of them, Mittenwool. Covered in blood. It was the most scared I’ve ever been in my life.”

  “I know. But you’re all right now.”

  “What if they come here tonight, though, while I’m asleep?”

  “They won’t. They don’t leave the Bog.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just how it is.”

  “But why? Why do they not leave the Bog? And how do you know that? Just yesterday you said you didn’t know what they were.”

  “And I didn’t, not for sure. But today I saw them, just like you did. It’s obvious what they are.”

  “They’re ghosts.”

  He grimaced and nodded.

  “You saw them,” I said. “But they didn’t see you.”

  He shrugged, like he wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Then it hit me. “Maybe some ghosts don’t know they’re dead.”

  He stood silently for a few seconds, his hair falling over his eyes as he looked down at his feet.

  “I can’t tell you what some ghosts know or don’t know,” he replied softly. “Death is different for everyone. Just like life is. People see the world they believe in. And you see the world they believe in. I know it’s not easy for you.”

  He brushed the hair away from his face and looked at me intently. “Those ghosts in the Bog don’t mean you any harm, Silas. They’re just passing through, same as you. Maybe they linger because that ground holds some meaning to them. But they’ll move on when they’re ready. Either way, it’s nothing to do with you. So you don’t need to worry about them coming here tonight. All right? You’ll be fine.”

  “Darnation and hellfire!” Marshal Farmer bellowed from the other side of camp. “What is taking you so long, kid?” He was looking for me through the trees.

  “I’m coming!” I called back. Then, to Mittenwool, “We should get back before he has another conniption.”

  “Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Wait. You’re not coming with me?
”

  “I’d rather stay put, if that’s all right. I can still hear you from here.”

  “Is this because you don’t like him?”

  He glanced over at the marshal, who was by now furiously kicking out his bedroll, stomping and cussing and throwing a fit that I hadn’t started the fire yet. “Like I said before,” he said, “it bothers me the way he talks to you. He’s a mean old fogy.”

  “I know he is, but he’s going to help me find Pa. That’s all I care about.”

  “Well, he better start being nicer to you, or else.”

  “Or else what? You going to give him a drubbing?” I chuckled.

  “Oh, you don’t know what I can do!” he replied comically, balling his hand into a fist. “Anyway, I’ll be right here if you need me. Go get some sleep. Good night.”

  “Night.”

  I started to walk back to camp, then remembered something.

  “What about Aethon, by the way?”

  He weighed the name. “What is that from?”

  “One of Hector’s horses.”

  He repeated it a few times. “I still like Pony better.”

  I frowned. “Hmm. All right.”

  “Keep thinking, though.”

  “I will.”

  4

  MARSHAL FARMER DIDN’T UTTER two words to me once I returned to camp, not even when I offered him some morels I had foraged after I made the fire. He just waved me away brusquely, lit his pipe, and stared into the flames. I was fine not talking to him, either. Happy not to have to talk, quite frankly. At least, at first I was. As the night went on, though, and the memory of the ghosts in the Bog kept swirling in my mind, the silence started wearing on me. It seemed like wherever my eyes turned, I’d see that woman’s face in the darkness. The bright red blood. The horror of her demise so plain to see. I could not shake the questions taking turns in my mind, until finally, I had no choice but to break the silence.

  “Marshal Farmer?” My voice sounded like a little squeak in the night, even to my own ears. “Can I ask you a question?”

  He looked at me warily. “What.”

  I chose my words very carefully. “Did something happen back there once? In that Bog we passed through?”

  “You mean the place where you saw a bear?” he sneered, then spat into the fire.

  I ignored his tone. “I remember my pa telling me there were a lot of skirmishes in these parts. Between the settlers and the natives.”

  “This was all disputed territory, if that’s what you’re talking about,” he answered, throwing a little stick into the fire. “But we drove them out.”

  “Who is we?”

  “The government.”

  “Drove them out where?”

  “Indian Territory! God blast it, with all your questions!”

  I thought of the ghosts.

  “I don’t think they were driven out,” I noted quietly. “I think they were killed. Some of them, at least.”

  “There was killing on both sides.”

  “My pa says it’s repugnant what’s been done to the natives,” I answered.

  Marshal Farmer harrumphed and tossed another stick into the fire.

  “I think it’s repugnant, too,” I added.

  “Well, you’re just a small fry. You don’t know much.”

  “Let us fight; and, if we must, let us die; but let us not conquer.”

  “That something else your pa says?”

  “Fénelon wrote it. Do you know who that is?”

  “Another one of your ghost friends, I wager.”

  “He was a writer,” I answered. “François Fénelon. He wrote The Adventures of Telemachus. Do you know it?”

  He looked surprised by the question.

  “I’m not exactly a bookish man, kid. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

  “Well, it’s one of my favorite books in the world,” I answered. “Fénelon wrote it for the king of France when he was still a boy. Anyway, he wrote that war is only ever justified if it’s fought to bring about peace. But our government isn’t fighting for peace. It’s fighting for territory. So I don’t think it’s justified at all.”

  Marshal Farmer dug his canteen out of his coat and took a long drink from it.

  “I mean, you can’t just take someone else’s land and expect them to be at peace with it, can you?” I continued.

  He rubbed his eyes. “Well, when you got the big guns on your side, you can do anything you want.”

  “That’s a terrible attitude to have!” I yelled.

  He raised his chin at me, his eyes luminous, and I thought for sure he would rebuke me.

  “You’re a pistol, kid,” he answered, and burped.

  That’s when I realized it wasn’t water in the canteen, but something that made him that much more agreeable.

  “I bet you don’t even know who Telemachus is,” I said.

  “And you would win that bet,” he answered.

  “Do you want to know?”

  He raised his eyebrows and gave a short whistle. “Sure, kid. I’m dying to know.”

  Again, I pretended not to note his sarcasm.

  “Telemachus was the son of Ulysses,” I said, “Ulysses being the cleverest of all the Greek warriors who fought in the Trojan War. But Ulysses did something that made the gods mad at him, so they punished him by making him get lost on his way home to Ithaca, after the war was over. Twenty years went by, and Ulysses still hadn’t come home, so Telemachus, the son he’d left behind when he was just a baby, goes looking for him, to bring him back home.”

  Marshal Farmer crossed his arms and tilted his head at me.

  “Why the goose are you telling me all this?” he said wearily.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I guess I’m thinking it’s kind of like me looking for my pa.” This was actually a connection I had not made until this moment, and it pleased me to share it. “And Telemachus, he’s accompanied on his adventures by a man named Mentor, and that’s kind of like you, don’t you think? I mean, the way you’re teaching me about the Woods, and how to make a fire, and things of that nature.”

  I thought maybe this would flatter him, but he only huffed. He held the canteen up to me, like he was going to toast me or something.

  “You’re a very chatty kid, you know that?” was all he said.

  I flushed, feeling suddenly foolish.

  “I thought you’d find it interesting, that’s all,” I answered regretfully. “Pa told me the ancient Greeks put a lot of store in long travels, and homecomings, and all that.”

  “I told you, I’m not one for books,” he grumbled. “Anyway, it’s getting late.” He drained the last of his canteen. “And frankly, you chirping like a dad-blasted bird is putting me to sleep. Good night.”

  “Good night.” My voice quavered slightly.

  “You could tell me more about the book tomorrow, if you want,” he added in a way that I think was meant to be conciliatory. By now he had taken off his hat and placed it on top of his face. “Ha,” he added from under the hat. “Chirping like a bird. And your name is Bird. I didn’t even mean to be funny when I said that.” He pushed up the brim of his hat and peeked at me. “That was funny, don’t you think? Aw, I’ll be hanged. You’re not crying, are you?”

  “No.”

  “That dog won’t hunt with me!” he growled.

  “I’m not crying!”

  “Good!”

  “I know you think I’m strange.” I wiped my eye with my knuckle. “Not the first time someone’s thought that.”

  He groaned. Or maybe it was a long sigh.

  “I wouldn’t say strange, exactly,” he answered, not unkindly. “But you’re not like any other kid I’ve ever met before, I�
�ll tell you that much.”

  I sniffed in my tears and looked away. “That’s probably not even water in your canteen.”

  “Sure, it is! It’s my special nectar water.”

  I shook my head disapprovingly.

  “I’ll tell you what, kid,” he slurred softly. “There’s nothing in the world that doesn’t look better in the daytime than at night, so just close your eyes and get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “The moon does,” I replied, trying to keep my voice from breaking.

  He looked at me blankly for a bit, until what I’d said made sense to him.

  “Ha,” he said, nodding his head. “You got me there, kid. Good night.”

  Then he covered his face with his hat again, and was snoring before I could count to ten.

  5

  THE MOON DOES, I HAD SAID. It was a good retort. I wondered if Mittenwool had heard it. He would think it a clever reply to this unclever old man. Pa would’ve liked it, too.

  Just thinking of Pa made my heart skip a beat.

  I could see the moon above me, showing through the tops of the trees. A full white moon against a bone-black sky. Pa could be looking at it right now, I thought. What’s he doing at this very moment? Is he thinking about me?

  It was only a month ago that Pa and I had been on our front porch, taking a picture of a full moon just like this one. Well, not really like this one. Was it really only a month ago? Felt like ages.

  (My mind was doing that thing again where my thoughts went in all directions at once.)

  The plan had been to enter the photograph in a contest advertised in one of Pa’s science journals. The best “lunar picture” would win a cash prize of fifty dollars and be exhibited by the Royal Astronomical Society at the Great London Exhibition of 1862.