Saturday. News briefs from around the world were coming over the radio
like flak:
"India agrees to a conference with Pakistan.... African leaders at
the United Nations are exploring the Common Market.... Russia accuses
the United States of war-mongering.... Jordan and Israel again at
loggerheads over the River Jordan.... England's Queen Elizabeth and
Prince Philip return in triumph from Australia and New Zealand."
The newscaster paused and took a breath as if all this were far away
and only a prelude to the real news. His tone became neighborly now and
concerned.
"And here on the home front, the tiny flooded island of Chincoteague
has aroused the sympathy of the whole nation. The islanders, whose
livelihood depends on chickens and sea-food and ponies, have suffered a
savage blow to all three industries. Their oyster beds are gone; their
chickens are gone. And today's report indicates that only a remnant of
the wild pony herds on Assateague Island have survived. These are the
ponies that made Chincoteague famous for the annual roundup and Pony
Penning celebration, and that have brought visitors by the thousands.
How seriously this loss will affect the tourist industry can only be
estimated.
"Yet the Chincoteaguers are showing indomitable courage. With
bulldozers and scoop shovels they are pushing tons of sand off streets,
off lawns, out of cellars, and back into the channel. Clean-up crews
are making bonfires of rubble and debris.
"Oh ... flash news! Two notes were just handed me. One says Misty,
the movie-star pony, has been evacuated from her owner's kitchen to
an animal hospital in Pocomoke, Maryland, where her colt is expected
momentarily.
"The other says the Second Army at Fort Belvoir is flying in
helicopters within the hour to remove the dead ponies from Chincoteague
and Assateague...."
At Pony Ranch Grandpa snapped off the radio in mid-sentence. "I got to
go now," he said in a tone of finality. "Them's my orders." He kissed
his family good-bye as solemnly as if he were going away on a long
journey and might never return.
"No, son." He shook his head in answer to Paul's asking look. "No,
ye're needed here today to work on Misty's stall. Somebody's got to
ready it for her homecoming. Besides, Grandma and Maureen can't lift
that wet rug out on the line by theirselves. They need an able-bodied
man."
"But who's going to help lift the dead po--"
Grandpa cut off the word with a sharp glance. His eyes said, "Less
talk, the better." And his voice said, "Each 'copter has a crew of four
stout army men, and there's Tom Reed and Henry Leonard to help me."
Grandma's eyes were bright with unshed tears. Quickly she went to
the cupboard and took out a small brown sack. "I was saving these
peppermints for Misty's baby. But here, Clarence, you take them. For
extry strength," she whispered, "when things is rough."
* * * * *
Paul and Maureen were soon so busy with preparations for Misty's
return that they forgot Grandpa. The phone might ring any minute, long
distance, with big news from Pocomoke. And if it did, the made-over
chicken coop had to be dry and snug and warm, and waiting.
The day was spent in a fever of activity. At first they tackled the
heavy, sodden straw with enthusiasm. They were used to cleaning
Misty's stall every morning before breakfast. It took only a few
minutes--fifteen at most. But now clumps of seaweed made the bedding
slithery as soup and heavy as lead. With fork and shovel they pitched
and tossed for an hour. Each wheelbarrowful seemed heavier than the
last, until finally it took both of them, one at each handle, to push
it and dump the muck in the woods.
Skipper found an old pulpy potato and asked Paul and Maureen to play
ball, but they were too busy and too tired.
At morning's end the floor of the shed was emptied of wet bedding,
but what remained was a churned-up, slimy mass of mud. Maureen leaned
against the wall, rubbing an arm across her face. "How are we _ever_
going to get it dry?" she said, bursting into tears.
Paul felt defeated too, and his head and body ached. "What we need," he
groaned, "is a thousand million blotters. But where?" Suddenly his face
lighted in inspiration. "Sawdust!" he cried. "That's what we need!"
He ran sloshing toward the road, calling back over his shoulder, "You
wait, I'm going to see Mr. Hancock."
Mr. Hancock was a long-time friend. He was a wood-carver, and had given
work to Paul and Maureen when they were earning money to buy Misty's
mother. Often for fifty cents apiece they had swept his shop clean of
sawdust and shavings.
By the time Maureen had finished her cry and wiped away her tears, Paul
and Mr. Hancock were driving into the yard in his newly painted truck.
She gaped in astonishment as she watched them unload bushel basket
after bushel basket of sawdust at the door of the stall.
"Ain't near enough," Mr. Hancock said as he helped dump the yellow
sawdust on the floor and saw it turn dark and wet in seconds. "Tell
ye what," he said, noticing Maureen's tear-streaked face, "it's
eatin'-time now and we all got to eat, regardless. That'll give this
stuff time to absorb all the wet it's a-goin' to. Then ye got to heave
it all out, and I'll bring more sawdust, and some chips too. Lucky
thing I had it stored high and dry in my barn loft."
Paul piled the empty baskets into Mr. Hancock's truck. Then he and
Maureen headed wearily for the house. Maureen was trying not to cry.
"See what I see?" Paul pointed to the back stoop. And there was Grandma
milking the nanny goat, who was tied to the stair railing.
"Sh ... sh!" Grandma warned as the children came up. "Don't frighten
her. This ain't easy, but I got eenamost enough to make us a nice pot
of cocoa."
All during lunch Grandma kept up a stream of conversation to cheer
them. "Children," she said brightly, "a she-goat was 'zackly what we
needed. If not for Misty, then for us. Ain't this cocoa _de_-licious?"
Paul and Maureen nodded, too tired for words.
"You can each have two cups. And all the biscuits you can eat, with
gooseberry jam. I figger the starving people of the world would think
this a Thanksgiving feast, don't ye?"
"Yes, Grandma."
"And since you still got work on Misty's stall, you don't need to hang
my rug outside today. I got all the windows open and there's a good
breeze blowing in."
"Thank you, Grandma."
"Now, you two perten up. Everything's going to be better this
afternoon. Life's like a teeter-totter. Heartbreak, happiness.
Happiness, heartbreak. You'll see. Everything'll be better this
afternoon."
Grandma was right. By the time the wet sawdust was shoveled out, Mr.
Hancock was back again with a small tow wagon hooked onto his car.
"Got a big surprise fer ye," he chuckled. "The road people was putting
down some ground-up oyster shells, and I got 'em to fill my wagon plumb
full. With them shells first, and the shavings atop that, ye'll have
the driest stable this side o' Doc Finney's."
The rest of the afternoon flew by in a fury of work. Paul dumped the
oyster shells onto the floor. Maureen raked them even. Then came layer
on layer of chips and shavings. For a final touch they took a bale of
straw and cut it up, a sheaf at a time, into short wisps.
"Why can't we just shake it airy?" Maureen asked. "My fingers ache. Why
do I have to cut it?"
"Do you want his pipestem legs getting all tangled up and throwin' him
down?"
"'Course not. When you tell me why, I don't mind doing it. But, Paul,
how do you know it's going to be a 'he'?"
"I don't, silly. People always say 'he' when they don't know."
"Well, _I_ say 'she.'"
With the work done, Paul flopped down on the straw and lay there quite
still.
"You sick?" Maureen asked in fright.
"No!"
"Then what are you doing?"
"I'm a newborn colt and I'm testing to see if there are any draughts.
Doctor Finney says they can't stand them."
"I feel the wind coming in through the siding. I can feel it blowing my
hair."
"That's easy to fix." Paul got up and plastered the cracks with straw
and mud. Meanwhile Maureen stripped some pine branches and scattered
the needles lightly for fragrance.
By twilight any horse-master would have tacked a blue ribbon on the
old chicken-coop barn. Maureen called Grandma to come out and inspect.
"You've got to see, Grandma. It's beautiful. Misty's going to be the
happiest mother in the world."
Grandma, holding her sweater tight around her neck, stepped inside the
snug shelter. She beamed her approval. "I declare to goodness, I'd like
to move in myself. Just wait 'til yer Grandpa sees this. Likely he'll
do a hop-dance for joy."
But that night Grandpa never even looked at Misty's stall. It was
dark when he came home. Without a word he made his way toward the
kitchen table and sat down heavily. His face seemed made of clay, gray
and pinched and old. Without removing his jacket he sat there, hands
folded, just staring at the floor.
The noisy clock was no respecter of grief. Each stroke of the hammer
thudded like a heartbeat. The seconds and minutes ticked on. Paul and
Maureen sat very still, saying nothing, doing nothing. Just waiting.
"Yer Grandpa's had a mill day," Grandma whispered at last. "He's all
cut to pieces. Jes' leave him be."
It was as if the gentle words had broken a dike. The old man hid his
face in his arms and wept.
"Don't be ashamed to cry, Clarence. Let the tears out if they want to
come." Grandma put her clean, scrubbed hand on the gnarled, mud-crusted
ones. "King David in the Bible was a strong man and he wept copiously."
Her voice went on softly. "In my Sunday School class just two weeks ago
I gave the story of King David. There was one verse and it said, 'The
King covered his face and wept.' Just like you, Clarence."
Neither Paul nor Maureen made a sound. They were too stunned. They
watched the heaving shoulders in silence. Grandpa, who had always
seemed so strong and indestructible, now looked little and feeble and
old. When his sobs quieted, he wiped his eyes and slowly looked up. "I
ain't fit to talk to nobody," he said, his voice no more than a breath.
"Oh ... oh, Grandpa!" Maureen cried. "Your voice! It's gone! You ain't
bellerin'!" And she ran to him and flung her arms about him, sobbing
hysterically.
"There, there, child. Don't you cry, too. I'm plumb 'shamed to break
down when we're lots luckier than most folks." He smiled weakly. "We
got our house and each other and...."
"And Misty," Paul said earnestly.
"And Misty," Grandpa nodded. "It's jes'...." He swallowed hard and his
hands gripped the table until the knuckles showed white through the
dirt. "It's jes'," he repeated, "that all the days of my life I'll hear
that slow creakin' of the crane liftin' up the dead ponies, and I'll
see their legs a-swingin' this way and that like they was still alive
and kickin'." Now the words poured from him in a tide; he couldn't stop
the flow. "And some had stars on their faces, and some had two-toned
manes and tails, and some was marked so bright and purty, and most o'
the mares had a little one inside 'em." His voice broke. "I knowed all
my herd by name."
"How many were there in all, Clarence? Yours and the others?"
Grandpa's breath came heavy, as if he were still at work. "We lifted
off more'n we could count," he said, "includin' the wild ones over
to Assateague. And when the trucks was all lined up with their dead
cargo, ever' one of us took off our hats, and the army men and us
Chincoteaguers all looked alike with our sunburnt faces and white
foreheads. And we was all alike in our sadness.
"Then the preacher, he come by and he said somethin' about these hosses
needin' no headstone to mark their grave, and he put up a prayer to the
memory of the wild free things. He said, 'Neither tide nor wind nor
rain nor flight of time can erase the glory o' their memory.'"
Everyone in the little kitchen let out a deep sigh as if the preacher's
words were right and good.
After a moment Grandpa got up from the table and put his arm around
Grandma. "Now ye see, Idy, why I had to smuggle ye home. I needed ye
for comfort."
Grandma wiped her spectacles with her apron. "Must be steam in the
room," she said.
Grandpa had one more thing to say. "Fer jes' this oncet in my life I
wisht I was a waterman 'stead of a hossman. When oysters die, ye can
plant another bushel, and when boats drift away, ye can build another.
But when ponies die ... how can ye replace 'em?"
Paul glanced around in sudden terror. It was as if a cold blade of fear
had struck him. His eyes sought Maureen's. They were very dark and wide
and asking.
Was Misty all right?
_Chapter 18_