Dreams of a Dancing Horse Page 5

  “I’m telling you, her bed hasn’t been slept in, Granny!” Jeremy cries.

  “Where on earth has that girl gone to? She’s getting too big for her britches. Mary? Mary!” Granny shouts.

  “She’s been acting strange all day,” Jeremy whines.

  Granny yells even louder, “Mary! Where you gone to, gal?”

  “I saw her sneaking into that there shed this afternoon,” Jeremy tattles. “Maybe some bad man is holding her hostage in there right now!”

  Again, I shake Mary and try to wake her.

  “Hold your horses, Mary! We’re coming to save you!” Granny hollers.

  “Where are you going, Granny?” Jeremy asks.

  “To get Old Betsy!”

  I have not seen another old woman in the house and wonder what use this Betsy might be.

  “Your rifle? Goody! I want a rifle, Granny!” Jeremy cries.

  “Mary!” I whinny.

  The girl doesn’t stir. She is the soundest sleeper in the universe.

  Soon the door to the shed flies open, and there stands Granny with Old Betsy … aimed right at me. “Mary?” She gasps. “Is that you, gal? Are you all right?”

  Mary finally sits up. She rubs her eyes and yawns. “Granny?”

  “Step aside, Mary!” Granny shouts. “I’ll bag me this critter and give him a whoopin’ that will send him into next Thursday!”

  “What? What’s wrong, Granny?” Mary sounds half asleep.

  I feel like a coward for doing it, but I attempt to hide behind the little human.

  “It’s a monster!” Jeremy shouts.

  “Where?” Mary asks.

  “Behind you!” he cries.

  Mary turns around. She grins. Then she laughs out loud. “That’s no monster. That’s Priscilla Pony.”

  “What did you say?” Granny demands, still leveling her rifle at me.

  “Granny, put your gun down,” Mary says. “This is my pony.”

  “That ain’t no pony, gal!”

  “Sure it is. Remember? You told me to put my tooth under my pillow and make a wish? Well, I wished for a pony. And the tooth fairy sent me one!”

  “You did tell her that,” her brother agrees.

  “But, Mary, that ain’t no pony.”

  Mary’s lips tremble. “Are … are you saying the tooth fairy didn’t grant my wish?”

  “Now, girl,” Granny says. “I’m not saying that.”

  “What are you saying, Granny?” Jeremy asks.

  “I’m just saying that this old plow horse ain’t the one sent by your tooth fairy. That’s all.”

  “You can’t take my pony away!” Mary stomps her little bare foot.

  “Aw, gal, I’ll get you—I mean, that tooth fairy will get you—a real pony. Just your size. Besides, didn’t you tell that tooth fairy you wanted a coal black pony? That’s what you’re always nagging me about.”

  Mary cocks her head like she’s thinking. “That’s true. I did wish for a black pony.”

  “Well, you see that?” Granny says. “This here isn’t your wish. We’ll go into town first thing and see about getting you the pony you’re supposed to get.”

  Mary runs to her granny and hugs her. “Really, Granny? I’m going to get a real pony? A black pony? All shiny and new?”

  I feel like second fiddle. Used and thrown away.

  “You got it, sugar!” Granny says in her kind granny voice. “The sweetest little pony in the world.”

  I should be happy for Mary. But I am not. I believe I’m in more trouble than ever.

  I follow Mary out of the shed, taking care to keep her between her grandmother and me.

  “Bye, Pony!” she hollers. “I hope you and the tooth fairy find your real owner. Have a nice day, Big Pony!”

  I take one look at Granny and Old Betsy. Something tells me I will not have a nice day.

  13

  To Market, to Market

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Old Betsy has no trouble firing at me as soon as little Mary is out of sight.

  I gallop away from the old homestead at top speed while Granny shoots at me. Luckily for me, she’s a bad shot.

  I don’t stop running until I cross the county line. Eventually, I happen onto a dirt road, so I follow it. For miles and miles, I don’t see a single farmhouse.

  After a few days, my surroundings change. The dirt has turned into paved roads. Farms come along closer and closer together. Soon I’m passing houses. Then more houses, and it becomes harder to find grass to eat. Each house is like an arrow piercing my heart, reminding me that I have no place to call home.

  Finally, I know that I am close to an actual city, though I have no idea which city.

  I’m so hungry that my nose follows the scent of food. I turn a corner and behold a real, live marketplace. On both sides of the streets, humans have set up stalls. But these stalls are not for horses. The tiny booths hold things that humans want.

  On one side, a man stands in front of his cart filled with pots and pans. “Cooking pans for sale!” he shouts. “Shallow and deep! Costly and cheap! Come get your cooking wares here!” His words are singsong, nearly music.

  Next to him a woman sways in front of a fancy stall. Her dress is long and yellow, silky and beautiful. I imagine Lena in a dress like this. On the woman’s arms bangles and bracelets jangle—like Jingles’s bell. Scarves hang from her neck. “Get the finest goods for your girlfriend or your wife right here!” she calls.

  One stall sells dolls, and I imagine Mary playing with all of them.

  There’s an entire stall of leather belts, one for shoes, another for coats. And so on down the road as far as I can see.

  On the other side, I see and smell food. It’s mostly human food, but I am so starving, it still looks good to me. Fresh breads and jellies, pies and cookies. Bags of powdery things and boxes of mystery.

  Halfway up the street I see a vegetable stall. My nostrils flare at the sight of carrots and turnips. An apple cart is being wheeled down the center of the road, where a man stands with a paintbrush and begs people to buy his pictures.

  My legs move down the street and toward the apple cart. I am close enough that I can smell the red, juicy, delicious apples the apple man is shouting about. I remember the apples Lena used to bring me.

  Closer and closer I get to the cart until my nose … and my mouth … are a horse’s breath from a red juicy—

  But no. I am not Fred the Thief. I am Federico the Dancing Horse. I am also Federico the Starving Horse. Still, I refuse to take something that doesn’t belong to me.

  “Stop him!” someone in one of the vegetable stands hollers. “That horse! That wild horse! He’s stealing your apples, Manny!”

  I turn to face my accuser. “I most certainly am not doing any such thing!” I protest. Then I remember that all this human will hear is “neigh, neigh.”

  The apple man cries out and drops the wooden tongue of the cart he’s pulling. Apples fly out and roll in the dirt. The front of the cart slips opens, and all the apples spill to the ground, bouncing this way and that. “Help!” he screams.

  “I’ll stop that wild horse!” shouts another man.

  “Come on!” shouts a stocky woman in a white cap. “Let’s get him!”

  This is serious. People surround me. If they could speak horse, I could make my defense. But of course, they can’t understand me. They could smell my breath and see there’s not a whiff of apple there, but they do not appear to have this in mind. They’re running at me with rakes and brooms.

  Horrified, I break into a trot, weaving between these misguided humans. Fortunately, humans are a good deal slower than the slowest horse, and I am able to distance myself from their human pack.

  I glance over my rump to make sure it’s a clean getaway.

  Crash! I slam into one of the stands. Hats fly in the air—straw hats, ladies’ bonnets, hats with feathers. A cowboy hat lands on my head, blinding me. And …

  Crash! I bang into what must be a jewelry stall. G
old and silver trinkets roll to the ground. I have to jump to avoid stepping on them.

  People are screaming at me. I find myself to be wearing several necklaces. So I shake my head and lower my neck to let the chains slip off. When …

  Crash! My head rams a food stall. Long, strong-smelling, cylinder-shaped meats wiggle overhead before attacking me. The nasty smell is enough to make my belly ache.

  One glance behind me is enough to warn me that what looks like half the town is chasing me.

  I make a sharp turn, skidding right, pulling left. I turn again, spot an alleyway, and duck inside. I barely fit between the brick walls of this dark passageway. Quaking from fright, I inch through the passage and wait. It occurs to me that if I’m discovered, I am, as they say, a sitting duck.

  I hold my breath and hear the thunder of footsteps behind me. Angry voices draw closer. Then the footsteps and the voices grow faint.

  Pshew. Grateful for the safety of this alley, and unsure where to go from here, I ease to the other end of the passageway and peek out. Little by little, the tradespeople return to their booths and stalls and carts. Even the apples are recovered, washed, and set out for sale once again.

  More and more customers visit the market as the day passes. They’re shopping and buying, and having a lovely time of it. I watch them and wish I could stroll the street, safely of course, with Lena and Mary and Bessie and little Moony.

  Directly across from my alley is the painter I saw earlier. His back is to me as he stands before his easel and fills a canvas with reds, blues, greens, and every other color of the rainbow. It’s like watching magic to see the plain white canvas transformed into a beautiful painting that looks exactly like this very market.

  When the man finishes, he puts his painting up in the tiniest booth, next to a dozen paintings that look a great deal like this one. Then he walks back out to the street.

  “You there!” he calls to an old woman in a black hat and a flowered dress. “Would you let me paint you? Or I could sketch your face, if you prefer. You have an amazing face, madame.”

  She frowns at him. “Go away, young man. What would I want with a picture of this face?”

  “I’d do it for you for cost,” he offers.

  “Ha!” says the woman. “Cost, is it now? Then what would my grandchildren be eating for dinner, I ask you? Go on about your business.” She waves him off.

  I feel sorry for the man. He has a nice face, long like a horse’s face, brown hair longer than most men. He’s skinny as an old mare, though. And his jacket looks like it’s seen better days … on somebody else.

  “Hey there, Jonathan!” hollers a young woman from one of the vegetable stands. She’s not as pretty as Lena, but she’s nice looking for a human girl. Her hair is straight and black, and I like the dress she’s wearing, a gingham, I think they call it. It would look fine on Lena.

  “How do you do, Molly?” The man, Jonathan, tips his hat.

  “By the looks of it, I think I’m doing a might better than you. I don’t know what’s wrong with folks around here. They should be standing in line to have a sketch of themselves. You’re that good, you are.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Molly,” he says. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “None of that, Jonathan Bean!” Molly says. “You’re a true artist, and don’t you be forgetting it. You’ll get to New York City one day soon.”

  Jonathan smiles at her. He mutters in a whisper I can hear, but I doubt his young friend can, “And I’ll be hoping you’ll go with me, my Molly.”

  I watch Jonathan the rest of the day. I’m reasonably sure he doesn’t sell a single painting. And no one comes to have him sketch a portrait.

  By the time the clothing merchants start packing up their wares, I am truly starving. That’s when I spy a half-eaten apple lying in the dirt, where someone must have tossed it. Without thought, I step from the alley and head for the apple.

  “There he is!” cries a little boy. “There’s the wild horse!”

  Fast as I can, I back up to the alley and retake my hiding place.

  But I’m too late. Jonathan the Painter turns and looks right at me, watching me wriggle back into the alley.

  In seconds, several of the men race toward the boy.

  “Where’s the horse, Matthew?” a man asks.

  The little boy waves his finger in my general direction.

  The painter turns toward me. He knows I’m here.

  “Jonathan!” the biggest man shouts. “Did you see where that wild horse went?”

  Jonathan clears his throat. “Horse, you say? A wild horse? Well, we mustn’t have a wild horse around here. I certainly would have hollered if I’d seen one of those. Did you check over by the courthouse?”

  “Let’s go there!” somebody shouts.

  “This way!” cries another.

  They race off like a pack of angry humans.

  And I was so sure that painter saw me hiding here.

  Once everyone else is gone, Jonathan the Painter turns and grins at me. “You there!” he calls. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a wild horse around here, have you?”

  14

  A Painter’s Dream

  I stare at this skinny painter, who sent my enemy in the wrong direction. Why? Why would a human do such a thing?

  But of course Lena would have.

  “The coast is clear,” he calls over. “Come on out.”

  I pick my way through the alley and venture into the open. He’s correct. No other human is in sight. It’s as if the entire street has closed down.

  My stomach rumbles, and a wave of dizziness sweeps through me. My legs give out, and I stumble, but catch myself.

  Jonathan rushes up to me. “Easy, big fella.” He pats my neck. “I’ll bet you’re hungry. Me too.”

  He walks over to his tiny suitcase, opens it, and brings out two smallish, reddish apples. “Here you go. They’re even paid for.” He bites into his and holds out his hand with the larger of the two apples.

  I can’t help my bad manners. That’s how starving I am. I take that whole apple in one bite.

  He laughs. “You really are hungry, aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  He appears to understand at first nod. I must say he is a most interesting fellow. Now that I see his face close up, I believe him to be quite a young man.

  “I’ll bet you’re thirsty too. Well, if you’re not in a hurry, you can come home with me. I’ve got a well full of rusty-tasting water you’re welcome to.”

  This is by far the best offer I’ve had in more days than I can count. I nicker my thanks and nod again.

  “Right you are, sport! Let’s be on our way, then.”

  Jonathan chooses to walk rather than ride. Yet he is overloaded with his wares from the market. Under one arm, he carries a bundle of his paintings. Under the other arm, he tucks his folding chair. The small suitcase dangles from one hand. The load is too much for a skinny human. He keeps dropping one bag or the other.

  When I can no longer stand to watch him struggle, I take matters into my own hooves. I drop behind him and grab the pack of paintings in my teeth.

  “Say! What’s the—?”

  With one swing of my neck, I place the pack on my back. Lena herself said my back was broader than any horse she’d ever seen. The bag stays there as if it’s on a shelf. Then I take his suitcase in my teeth, careful to avoid teeth marks. He gives in without a struggle.

  “Well, thanks, fella! Say, you’re one unusual horse. You know that? Sure wish you could tell me where you come from and where you’re headed.”

  I, too, wish I could talk with this pleasant young man.

  “I’m headed to New York City,” he announces. “What do you think of that, fella? I’ll start as a portrait artist on the streets of New York, where there are so many tourists they’ll have to stand in line for me to draw them.”

  I know, like most humans, he doesn’t believe I can understand his words. It’s the human way of talking to
oneself. Still, it is lovely to be included in this way.

  He turns and grins at me. “That’s what I’m really good at. Painting portraits. You probably saw all of those look-alike pictures I paint for the tourists. People take home my cheesy paintings to show their friends where they spent a couple of days.

  “But faces are my true love. I love to draw faces and paint portraits. Molly says I can capture what’s inside people when I sketch their faces. I’ve drawn hers dozens of times, and still I haven’t begun to capture the goodness that’s in that gal. One day Molly and I will get married and live in New York, where art galleries and museums will beg us to show and sell my portraits.”

  We walk the rest of the way in a companionable silence. I’m pleased that this nice fellow has such a grand dream.

  “Well, here we are. Home sweet home.” Jonathan waves his arm, displaying a rather rundown shanty.

  I step closer to his “home.” Gray boards on the roof have been hammered at odd angles to cover gaping holes. There’s a nice porch out front, but the steps are crooked, and it would never hold me. I’m amazed it holds my slim friend.

  “It’s not much, but I don’t intend to be here long.” A cloud passes overhead, but there’s no promise of rain in it. “I guess I’ve said that for the last five years, since I moved here to make my fortune. Or at least make enough to see my way to New York City.” He sighs. “I don’t know why Molly puts up with me. She’s waited all this time for me to get on my feet. I want to ask her to marry me. But that gal deserves a better life than I can give her, someone better than me.”

  “Hi there, Jonathan! Who’s this you’ve got with you?”

  “Molly!” He runs to her, lifts her by her waist, and spins her around. Her long black hair trails behind her like the tail of a fine horse. She really is quite pretty.

  “This is Molly,” Jonathan says, turning to me. “Molly, this is … well, I guess I don’t know your name, do I, fella?” He holds Molly’s hand, and they come back to my side. “This is Fella,” Jonathan says. “How’s that?”

  I nicker a greeting.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Fella,” Molly says. She has a musical voice and reminds me a bit of Lena. “Any friend of Jonathan is a friend of mine.” She reaches up and strokes my head, rearranging my forelock.