Dreams of a Dancing Horse Read online

Before I realize what’s happening, my ears twitch and my tail starts swishing in time to the music. I close my eyes and sway. I prance in place and pivot, pawing the air as if conducting the orchestra in my head.

  “Why, Fred, you’re dancing!” Lena is standing on the bottom rung of my stall gate and smiling in at me. “If that’s not the cat’s meow! Don’t you dare stop on my account.” She claps her hands. “Please, Fred? I could almost hear the music when you were dancing.”

  I toss my head and shuffle my hooves a bit. But I’m too embarrassed to do more. She’s so graceful when she dances.

  “More! Encore!” Lena cheers. She hops into my stall and twirls on her toes. “C’mon, Fred. Let’s shake a leg!”

  I give in when she whistles a tune that makes me want to twist and turn like she does. I show her a few of my own dance moves, rearing and pivoting, twirling like Lena, if not quite so graceful as she.

  After a while we stop dancing, both of us laughing too hard to keep going.

  Lena looks both ways, then pulls something out of her pocket. It’s a big, shiny red apple. “Here you go, Fred. I brought you something.”

  I chomp half of the apple in one bite. Juice drips down the corners of my mouth. It’s the sweetest, most delicious thing I have ever eaten.

  Before Lena goes back to the house, she whispers in my ear, “Fred, I have an idea. And a plan. And a surprise for you. Tomorrow when I come out to the field, you just go along with whatever I do, hear? When I give you the sign”—she waves one hand toward the ground—“I want you to sit down right smack-dab in the field. No matter what Rollo yells at you, you just sit there. Okay?”

  I nod, wondering what she could possibly be planning.

  She kisses my forehead and says, “Now, you get yourself some shut-eye tonight. And tomorrow, I reckon you’re in for the surprise of your life!”

  4

  The Big Plan

  It’s the morning after Lena’s promise of a surprise. Rollo is even worse than ever behind the plow. He is hopeless as a driver.

  Up and down the furrows I plow, even when Rollo forgets to drop in the seeds for planting.

  To amuse myself, I think of my mother’s song and sing the melody in my head:

  Dance, dance, dance, Federico!

  Dance, dance, dance to your own special song.

  Sway and spin. Let the music in.

  And the world will dance along.

  Dream your dreams, Federico!

  Dream your dreams, and of course,

  Soon you’ll shine like the stars above—

  Federico the Dancing Horse!

  When I reach the end of the row, I turn and face the field. One look, and I let out a horse laugh. The furrow is as jagged as a farmer’s saw. I must have been swaying to and fro to the tune in my head. It’s a good thing Round Rollo had his head buried in his comic book. I wouldn’t mind being around when Rollo’s father demands an explanation, though.

  About midday, Lena comes running out to the field with a bucket of water. Lena is a true friend. She never forgets about me and always seems to know when I need that drink. It’s as if we can read each other’s minds.

  I nicker a greeting to my friend and stop plowing when she sets the bucket in front of me.

  “Hey!” Rollo yells. “What do you think you’re—? Oh. It’s you again,” he says to Lena. “You slow me down.”

  “Yeah?” Lena says, winking at me. “What’s the rush?”

  “Huh?” Rollo says.

  “Ah, I know,” Lena says. “You’re in an all-fired hurry so’s you can get to the drugstore. I heard about that big shipment of comic books they just got in.”

  “The what?” Rollo asks, sounding alarmed.

  “I hear tell,” Lena continues, “that it’s the finest box of comics ever shipped this far west. I reckon they’ll sell out fast.”

  “No fair!” Rollo whines.

  “Yeah. And here you are with pretty near the whole entire field left. Shame,” Lena says.

  She turns toward the house. “Well, I’m fixin’ to go back and rest a spell since I got all my work done. I reckon you’d best be getting back to yours. If you rush, you could finish by sunset. Oh, that’s right. The drugstore closes before sunset, doesn’t it? Well, I’ll be seeing you, Cousin.”

  Turning her back on her cousin, Lena acts like she’s leaving. And that’s when she waves her hand down, giving me the signal to sit.

  I have no idea of Lena’s intentions or why she desires me to sit down at this point. But I trust my friend. So I sit.

  “Say what? Get up, you nag!” Rollo sounds angrier than I’ve ever heard him. “I mean it! It’s your fault this is taking so long. Now get up!”

  Lena turns back to us. “What’s the problem, Cousin Rollo?” she asks.

  “Are you blind? This nag is the problem!”

  “I see what you’re saying, all righty. Too bad you’re the only one can finish a field like this here one,” Lena says. “What with all those comic books sitting up at the drugstore and all.”

  I sit tight.

  “That’s it!” Rollo throws down the reins. “You do it! I’m going after those comics.”

  “Me?” Lena says, as if the thought never occurred to her.

  “Yeah, you!” Rollo shouts. “You got nothing better to do anyhow.”

  Rollo storms off on foot, no doubt headed for the drugstore, where I imagine he will be quite disappointed in the selection of comic books.

  I wait until he’s out of range before giving in to the giant horse laugh I’ve been keeping inside.

  Lena laughs too. “That cousin of mine is dumb as a box of rocks, Fred.” She pulls an apple from her pocket and holds it out for me.

  I stand up before taking the juicy red fruit from her hand.

  Lena moves behind the plow. “Okay, Fred. Let’s do it!”

  Plowing with Lena driving is a breeze. She never rams into the back of my fetlocks. She never jerks the reins. And I know exactly what she wants me to do. I’m allowed to go my own pace, which turns out to be a good deal faster than Rollo’s speed.

  Straightaway, Lena begins to hum. I pick up my hooves to the beat of her music. The songs are lovely, classical. Often I crane my neck around to see her doing pirouettes, or taking tiny, graceful steps on the tips of her toes, or kicking higher than her head. Her arms move like a flowing stream. Her fingers are as fine as eyelashes. Lena’s movements look like her music sounds.

  I dance too, though I do try to keep the rows straight. Lena tells me I’m stronger than new rope, which I take to be a compliment.

  As the afternoon wears on, I gain more energy, instead of losing it.

  Lena talks about herself and where she came from. “My ma was a prima ballerina. She danced at the Royal Academy and all over the world. When she got married, people thought she’d stop dancing. But my pa helped her career. She became even more famous.

  “I never knew either of them. Pa was killed in a farm accident two months before I was born. My mama died bringing me into the world.

  “Uncle Herbert didn’t bother coming to the funeral, although he made it to the reading of the will, all right. He left me in an orphanage until I was six years old. I guess he didn’t think I’d be much help with the chores until then. I’ve been here ever since. I suppose I’ll be here until the day I die.”

  I want so much to be able to talk to her, to tell her she must not end her days at Quagmire Farms. She will be a prima ballerina like her mother. She is still Crystalina the Ballerina.

  Lena grows quiet for a while, undoubtedly lost in her thoughts. Finally, she rallies. “Enough of that! Only happy thoughts now, Fred,” she says. She returns to humming and whistling.

  The sun is meeting the horizon when we finish the last row of the field.

  “Okay, Fred! We did it!” Lena shouts. “Are you ready for the surprise?”

  I nod my head.

  “Then it’s time to spiffy up. We’re going to a hoedown!”

  5


  Horsing Around at a Hoedown

  I can’t say I have the slightest notion of what a hoedown is. But Lena is convinced that I shall love it. And I would go anywhere with her.

  Lena brushes my dingy coat until it’s quite shiny. “A horse needs a lick and a promise before going to a shindig like this,” she says. “A gal too.” She brushes her own hair and washes up in the barn as best she can.

  At last, she turns to me. “Fred, I’ve got a hankering to cut a rug. How about you?”

  I have no idea how we shall accomplish cutting a rug, or whose carpet Lena intends to cut. But doing anything with my friend will be a joy. I nod my head energetically.

  Lena climbs to the top of the stall gate. “Mind if I catch a ride?”

  I trot over and let my friend slide onto my back. She’s so light that I barely feel her up there.

  “Fred, you’ve got one great back!” Lena declares. “Why, I’ll bet I could dance up here.”

  We take off to the dirt road beyond the field. Lena shows me which turns and shortcuts to take.

  We’ve gone about a country mile or two when I hear something. I stop and prick up my ears, rotating them to capture the sound. Music!

  “I’ll bet you can hear it already, can’t you?” Lena says. “Keep on now. Just yonder past that set of trees.”

  I break into a trot, then a canter. The music is like nothing I’ve heard before, filled with twangs and tweets. It’s pleasant, yet exciting at the same time.

  Lena lets out a whoop. “Will you lookee there? There’s so many folks in that barn, you could stir ’em with a stick!”

  A big white barn comes into view. A mix of rusted automobiles and worn buggies are parked on both sides. About a dozen horses are tied out back. And not a one of them seems to care about the magnificent sounds all around them.

  I whinny a cheery greeting to the horses. Only two bother to look up. No one offers an answering neigh. I dearly hope that Lena won’t make me wait for her with the rest of the equine species.

  Lena and I walk up to the barn and peer in through the window. I can see cowgirls and their cowboys, farmers and their wives, stomping their feet to the music. Couples whirl around the barn, the dusty floor transformed into a dance hall.

  “So how do you like your first hoedown?” Lena asks. “Truth is, it’s my first too. Mind you, I’ve snuck down here before to watch the action and listen to the music. But this will be my first time to dance.”

  I kneel on my forelegs to make it easier for her to dismount. It would be such a treat if I could remain by the window so I can watch Lena dance with the other humans. Once she’s firmly on the ground, I peer in through the window again, hoping she understands and doesn’t take me back to the other horses.

  “What do you think you’re doing there, Fred?” she asks, her hands on her hips.

  I nod. I’m sure she’s right. I do belong with the horses, after all. I turn to head back with my own kind.

  “Well, now where do you think you’re headed?” she demands.

  Humans can be quite confusing. I crane my head around to see her.

  Lena crooks her finger at me. “How are you going to be my dance partner from way over yonder?”

  I perk up. Lena wants to dance with me?

  “You didn’t really think I was going to dance without you?” she asks. “We can cut a rug here just as good as any spot inside, don’t you reckon?” She holds out her arms.

  I rear up on my hind legs and sway to the music. We’ve danced together a dozen times in our old barn.

  They play a tune called “The Hokey Pokey,” and Lena and I do what the song says. We put our right legs in, then our right legs out. We stick our legs in again and shake them all about. We do the Hokey Pokey and we turn ourselves about. I believe I love this odd dance.

  Lena sways and twirls to the next song, and I follow her lead. Soon we’re sashaying and do-si-do-ing all around the outskirts of that barn. We square dance, just the two of us. It goes on for a couple of hours, the most fun I’ve ever had.

  And then I have an idea. As much as I love dancing with my friend, I know in my heart of hearts that a wonderful dancer like Lena should be seen and enjoyed by other humans. If Lena could understand how amazing she is, maybe she could regain her confidence—and more importantly, her dream of becoming a dancer.

  When the music starts up again, I take the lead. Faster and faster we spin. As usual, soon as Lena gets caught up in the music, she closes her eyes. This time, I’m ready. I gently nudge her through the open barn door.

  Staying outside, I peek in and watch my Lena swirl and sway to the music. I’m sure she hasn’t realized where she is. She’s spinning too fast, twirling with the grace of a fawn.

  Two by two, the other dancers drop back, their mouths gaping open at this young prima ballerina. Soon, no one is left dancing except Lena.

  The music stops. Lena laughs and open her eyes to the thunderous applause breaking out all around her. “What? I—” she sputters, eyes wide at the cheering crowd.

  Then with a hearty laugh, she bows. “Much obliged.”

  Lena races out of the barn and straight into me. “Fred! Why, if you didn’t fall out of the sneaky tree and hit every branch on the way down!” I think it’s an insult, but Lena is laughing, glowing. “Well, don’t just stand there like a bump on a log. Bad as I hate to, you and me done got to get along home.”

  Lena hugs my neck, then swings up onto my back.

  I prance toward home.

  I can still hear the hoedown music when I feel Lena pull herself up to a standing position on my back. She is light as a twirling feather in the wind. I tread carefully, and she stays on my back, where I feel her turning and spinning, twisting and dancing under a full moon and a sky full of stars.

  6

  The Moneymaking Scheme

  A few weeks have passed since my first hoedown. The past nights dancing with Lena have been the best times of my life. We have found music everywhere. Some nights we gallop to the town diner and dance out back in the alley until, as Lena says, “they roll up the sidewalks.”

  We’ve found barn dances and hoedowns in neighboring counties. We even ventured, without invitation, to a garden wedding, where a band played.

  And when there was no music to be found, Lena and I made our own music in the old barn. I love it best when she climbs aboard my broad back and does her pirouettes and ballet moves as she hums her beautiful music.

  On Sundays we attend four church services. We stand outside and listen to the music, swaying and doing our own dance to the lovely hymns inside. As soon as one service ends, we gallop off to the next.

  It’s the last church we love best. The humans sing and shout the music from their hearts and souls. They even dance in the aisles of that church. The first time we were there, Lena and I walked right in, and not a soul objected. We danced along with them.

  At the end of the service, the preacher himself shook our hand and hoof and invited us back. The following Sunday, Lena and I were asked to perform a special number. “Looks to me like you two have done this dancing thing a time or two,” said the preacher. “Won’t you share your gifts with us?”

  “You’re dern tootin’,” Lena answered.

  I felt then that she was indeed gaining the confidence she needs to become Crystalina the Ballerina.

  The following Sunday, Lena gave my dingy coat “a lick and a promise,” and we did perform at that church. We danced to a tune called “Amazing Grace.” I was so nervous I stepped on poor Lena’s foot. That made me feel so bad, I stopped dancing altogether.

  But Lena just laughed and said, “Fred, who’s plucking this chicken, you or me? I reckon I aim to do the leading from now on, if that’s all right by you.”

  That comment brought down the house. The crowd loved Lena.

  Now every Sunday they ask for a special number.

  I confess that days at Quagmire Farms are as hard to take as ever, with Round Rollo “leading”
behind the plow. But Lena packs so much happiness into every night that I hardly mind the days.

  One morning as Rollo struggles with the harness, Herbert Quagmire himself appears in the field. I have never seen his face this close up and in direct sunlight. It is a leathery face, not unlike the face of a rooster, with a nose that could slice cucumbers and tiny eyes that look as if they were shot into place by a small sidearm.

  If I am not mistaken, his lips are attempting a smile. “Rollo, my boy,” Herbert Quagmire says, “wait till you see what your daddy done did. We are going to be filthy rich!”

  Rollo drops the harness onto my hoof and stands up. “We are?”

  “I’ve got me a surefire moneymaking scheme that can’t miss!” Herbert announces. “Just you wait! This morning, you’re gonna see for yourself.”

  “And we’ll be rich?” Rollo asks, his face reflecting his father’s expression.

  “Richer than rich!” affirms his father.

  An hour later I hear a chug chug, rattle rattle coming our way.

  When I turn toward the racket, I see something green crossing the field and coming toward us. Then I realize it’s Herbert Quagmire riding a tractor.

  He drives up waving like he’s in the Easter Parade. Rollo runs to him and pets the green monstrosity as if it’s a Thoroughbred or Lipizzan. The two of them ooh and ahh over the machine and, once again, discuss how filthy rich they intend to be.

  Lena comes out to the field, looking lovely, though barefoot and in oversized overalls. “Hey, Fred!” she says, making sure to scratch my ears before seeing what the fuss is all about. “What you got here, Uncle Herbert?”

  “A tractor. Ain’t you never seen a tractor before, girl?” Herbert Quagmire elbows his son, and they both laugh, a most similar and ugly sound.

  “Not in this here field,” Lena replies.

  “Well, you have now,” Rollo says. “And my daddy and I are gonna be rich!”

  “That right?” Lena says, obviously unimpressed. “So does this mean Fred here won’t have to pull that nasty plow anymore?”

  I hadn’t yet thought of this possibility, and a glimmer of hope simmers in me.