by Pasha Malla
But there was a horse.
I heard the clop of its hooves before I saw it coming round the bend. And then we were face to face, maybe a yard or two apart. Obscured in shadow, the animal paused. Snorted gently. Tossed its mane. The coat was a light colour, beige or grey. The smells were rustic. The head drooped with sedate deference. A small horse. Having some experience with equestrian measurements, I guessed its height at fifteen hands. Or fewer? I examined my palm and did a quick calculation, mentally severing my hand from my arm and stacking it fingertips-to-heel up the flank…
Twelve. The horse stood a dozen hands tall. Which meant, per equine specifications, this was no horse!
The creature before me was in fact a pony.
FOR MANY, THE SUDDEN ARRIVAL of a midsize animal (equine, bovine, venison) in the subterranean recesses of a shopping centre might be a source of alarm, even upset. But, as I’ve mentioned, having spent some time in equestrian circles—or at least “at the track”—I find horses quite soothing. Their gaze, their bearing, their sleek and placid way. Horses express to me a great equanimity and peacefulness. Ponies especially. Certainly their size helps. (A great Clydesdale trundling out of the shadows might have had a different effect.) But, at any rate, the pony set me at ease.
I made my approach at a slight angle, whispering soothing and complimentary words (Aren’t you a comely creature, etc.), a hand extended in a gesture of supplication. He gave my fingers a sniff and seemed unperturbed, so I settled them on his neck for a gentle massage, checking the undercarriage to confirm his gender: male, indeed! Even in the dim light of the industrial sector I could see wisdom and serenity in his eyes. And yet something haunting and haunted, too…
I stepped back. There was a lack to this pony, I thought. A lack, perhaps, that mirrored one I’d long sensed in myself—and which, certainly, had been accentuated since the beginning of this residency, preying as it did on my every insecurity. (A lack turned explicit when my only friend was murdered and my beloved was thousands of miles to the southeast tending to her dying mother. Never mind the profound inadequacies Mr. Ponytail inspired!)
A glance at the pony’s hindquarters confirmed it:
The fellow had no tail!
But I had no time to compare inadequacies. He’d come here to show me something, to take me somewhere, and with a nod and a snort he was quickly on the move. Clearly I was meant to follow him. I recalled some old maxim about being led by a horse to water…Yet surely I wasn’t obliged to drink anything. And what did I have to lose? The pony had come from somewhere. For hours I’d been circling this stupid basement with no end in sight. I was nowhere. And anywhere was better than that.
So I “took to my heels” and followed that mysterious, tailless pony as he tramped off into the darkness, the initial shock of his unfestooned buttocks now, as I fixed my eyes upon them, ceding to sadness. They were so tragically reminiscent of my whole reason for being (at least down here, in the mall’s underground industrial sector): Dennis, that is. My former best friend and current martyr. For whom vengeance would soon be mine—I just had to dare utter the phrase aloud first.
Before we could proceed, the pony would need a name. Never a task to take lightly. Naming an animal is a delicate affair. Especially an animal that one might enjoy for companionship rather than meat. You peer into their eyes, put your hand on their heart (if they’ll let you) and listen as their name speaks itself from within—from within the animal, that is, but within yourself as well, as if the souls of man or woman and beast are communing. This is who I am, whispers the creature’s soul to your soul. And then you say their name aloud, and then they come.
Have I ever given an animal the wrong name? Yes. Instead of listening (viz. the process described above), I gave it to her—a cat, Sharon (or so I thought), who, after fourteen painstaking years of a clear identity crisis that involved her spending entire days staring out the window into the rain or chewing the beaks off small birds, as well as thoroughly ignoring me at every turn (she never came once when I called), on her deathbed finally revealed to me the truth: her name was in fact Karen. And then she was gone.
Burying that poor, misnomered cat in the yard, I told myself that I’d never make the same mistake again. I’d not speak; I’d listen. That said, I was willing to swear on Sharon/Karen’s grave that my new equine friend was…Gary. And I believed this so heartily because I didn’t name him at all. I didn’t have to. He just was Gary.
He was Gary in the measured, dutiful and pensive way that he plodded along the industrial corridor; Gary in the methodical and rhythmic bob of his head; Gary in the sombre yet considerate gaze that he occasionally flung over his shoulder to make sure I was keeping up; Gary in his unbridled (no pun) acceptance of me as a kind of interspecific sibling; Gary in the trust he elicited as I followed obediently behind. (So I was the one “coming,” in a way. And I came and came and came, everywhere that Gary went.)
Where did Gary go? For a while I felt we were just navigating the same circuit that I’d been walking so hopelessly on my own. But Gary had a few tricks up his proverbial sleeve, or should I say mane. In one of those intermittent swaths of darkness between the security lights, he paused. Waiting for him to continue, I was acutely aware of his lack of tail: nothing swished through the shadows; nothing dangled between his legs beyond the more utilitarian anatomy. A pony with no tail is a curious sight, like a house with no windows: not essential, though they do make for a nicer view. I wondered if he’d had an accident or been attacked; was what I’d taken for melancholy actually the restrained anguish of a survivor?
But there was no time for further speculation because—was it? yes!—from within the shadows an elevator was opening. Not the elevator: this was larger, a little more sterile. The sort one finds in a hospital. Roomy enough for a coffin, or even two or three in a pinch. As with the other elevator there was only one button, I discovered, as I squeezed in beside Gary and the door closed behind me. He neighed softly; the indication was clear. I pressed the button. And the thing sprung to life, and Gary nodded, and down—or up?—we went.
For anyone who’s ridden an elevator with a pony, tailed or no, what follows might be redundant. But for those who haven’t, it’s needless to say that even the most sedate animals can become unsettled by disembodied movement through space. Gary was a serene creature indeed, and admirable for his restraint, but I could sense that as we plummeted (or rose? or travelled on a horizontal axis?) through miles of subterranean mall that he was growing increasingly antsy. For a pony wants to prance, not stand idly by while a mechanical contraption hauls them up and/or down and/or across some shaft.
So I took the liberty of laying a placating hand on Gary’s silver flank and bidding him, Shh. There, I cooed, who’s a clever pony?
The question was rhetorical (obvious answer: Gary), but it elicited the intended response. I felt his muscles relax. Surely he’d ridden this elevator before, so maybe all I offered was camaraderie and understanding. Though I wondered too if his tension wasn’t merely anticipatory. Maybe the elevator doors would open on a vast and archetypal meadow, butterflies flitting about a riot of lilacs, with a whole herd of ponies romping around. Gary’s brothers and sisters—finally he was home!
How I longed to see him run, all that glory unleashed. Or to munch some hay.
But why would he have fetched me then? Simply to show off? No, I expected that Gary had some greater purpose in mind. I felt anointed, chosen—and also, to be fair, rescued. With my hand on his haunches, the two of us zipping through space toward destinations unknown (to me, that is; Gary probably knew), I thought about my purposes—to solve and redeem the diabolical mystery of Dennis’s murder, to uncover the fraudulence of Mr. Ponytail, to flee to Klassanderella and marry her expertly. And now I had an ally. And perhaps, wherever we were headed, there were more of us still.
It was here that I began to “piece together the puzzle,” though with the f
ollowing discoveries came the larger, more humiliating realization that this alleged puzzle was in fact a fully formed picture that had been staring me in the face the entire time. My deductions were akin to pointing at an exquisitely rendered painting of a horse and screaming Horse! at the top of one’s lungs.
The key was this: no pony…tail. No ponytail!
Of course Gary and I were “playing for the same team.” He’d been down in the industrial sector for the same reasons I had: the pursuit of justice. Like Dennis he’d been de-tailed—viciously, humiliatingly—though somehow, perhaps because he wasn’t human, he’d escaped the same mortal fate. And now we’d found each other and formed a sort of retributive task force. On my own I’d been a lone vigilante, something of a renegade, and possibly weird. But now, equipped with both posse and steed (even if both were embodied in the same animal), I gained legitimacy. And power. And prestige!
Did this mean I should mount Gary? Not yet—probably.
AFTER A TIME—again, impossible to say how long—the elevator slowed and stopped. I sensed we’d travelled in circles, though that might just have been a holdover from endlessly coiling around the industrial sector, going insane. The doors opened. What appeared wasn’t a meadow of frolicking ponies. Before us, in a shimmering rectangle the colour of tears, sat the mall’s one and only swimming pool.
My first thought, of course, was of Dennis. But no body floated in the water. Which meant that someone had come and scooped his carcass from the pool, and perhaps even performed some sort of last rites (or else discarded him with the trash). K. Sohail seemed a likely suspect either way—out of her own innate decency, or per the callous protocols of the mall. For now, though, no one was here. The water trembled slightly, its reflection shimmering up the walls. Everything seemed so clean, so sterile. That a murder had ever happened here seemed not just improbable but absurd.
Gary nudged me gently with his nose. I was to step “on deck.” But what if this was a trick or a trap? I gazed into the pony’s eyes. No, this animal was looking out for me: what I saw there was truth, honesty, understanding. Possibly even love. I would not be duped by Gary. He’d definitely brought me here to show me something.
I went up to the edge of the pool and peered into the water. Nothing. Not even my own reflection. The surface swelled and ebbed like an epidermis rising and falling with each living breath. I looked back to Gary for help, or advice. But he only neighed softly, seeming to urge me forward. My god—was I meant to swim?
I believe I have mentioned elsewhere my incapacity for watersport. Simply put, I sink. However, Gary had brought me here—perhaps at risk to his own safety. And I felt I would be letting him down if I didn’t at least wade into the pool and have a poke around. So I boldly disrobed down to my undergarments, toed the water—warm enough—and eased in, while Gary watched from the elevator.
Clutching the side of the pool I surveyed things at eye level. Nothing of note. Gary snorted. I interpreted this to mean go under. So I dunked my head, eyes open, and peered into the pool.
The water was full of ghosts.
No: the water was ghosts.
They swarmed about wispily, a great traffic of them, twining past and between and through one another, like the cellular components of human blood. Though their forms weren’t human. None had a face. They weren’t bodies, but actual spirits: souls, I thought. Was Dennis’s among them? I searched the throng for his eager way—a single jolly character darting about with guileless abandon—but couldn’t distinguish one ghost from the rest. Also I was running out of air.
I surfaced for breath, gasping. Outside the water, the phantoms below were invisible. So I inhaled a lungful of air, plunged face-first again, and they reappeared, busily swirling around. Maybe a thousand ghosts, maybe more. And they seemed either not to notice me or not to care, plunging this way and that—with the express purpose, it seemed, of being water. Such that their movement seemed to create a kind of energy. A hydrologic energy, I thought, that might be used to power something. That could, in fact, power an entire shopping mall.
I surfaced. So, I asked Gary, was this the big secret? That the mall sacrificed its proprietors, severed their ponytails and enslaved their spirits to cut back on electric bills? Gary only stared. I went under again to watch the ghosts, to try to glean some understanding of their plight. How might I set them free? Drain the pool? Flood it?
But, watching them with this new-found intention, I didn’t sense misery. There was a certain dignity to the dutiful way they swam about. Who was I to decide they needed liberating? Though of course the caged bird doesn’t necessarily appreciate the thrill of flight until she is unleashed skyward…Maybe only upon their emancipation would the ghosts realize what they’d been missing—the world and all that was in it!
I came up again for air.
One would think, I thought as I clung to the side of the pool, that a key discovery along the way to solving a crime would inspire action or at least strengthen one’s resolve. But the more I learned about the mall, the more powerless I felt—and, perversely enough, the less I grasped.
How could I, a person who resided here free of charge, who produced dubious Progress Reports to validate said arrangement, and who had been usurped by a renegade length of human hair, be expected to understand a poolful of ghosts? Their presence didn’t activate my inner vigilante; it only humbled me more.
And further to that: So what if I even figured out who or what had killed Dennis, and how? What could I do with that information? In what court would justice be served?
No, I thought, pushing away from the pool and sitting there dripping on the deck—under the watchful eye of Gary, who’d brought me here with intimations of solidarity and, I sensed, hope that I might be the one to take action. What could I do? I was no saviour. Not of ghosts, not of ponies, not of the downtrodden denizens of the mall.
And possibly not even of myself.
Hold on a minute.
When had I become so maudlin? Before moving into the mall I hadn’t exactly been a “go-getter,” but at least I’d been capable of going and getting through an average day with my chin held level if not high. I would have once considered myself an enthusiast, the sort of person inspired to act, even if said actions were more often felt—with passion!—rather than actually performed.
For example, whether it was the worst mistake of my life or not, I’d had the confidence to apply for this residency. I used to believe in myself! And now I’d been reduced to a withered, pathetic, snivelling thing, dripping on the deck of a ghost-filled swimming pool while an honourable, helpful pony looked on, bemused.
It was time, for once in my recent life, to do something.
So I dropped to my knees, cupped my hands, swept up some water from the pool, and drank it to the last drop.
Yes, indeed: I drank a ghost.
I could feel it slithering down my throat—not cold, not warm, not unpleasant. Just a tepid, slightly gelatinous slurp that settled in my guts in a little puddle.
Rising to my full, glorious height, I puffed out my chest a little. I’d taken action, been resolute, hadn’t dithered. An opportunity had presented itself and I’d seized it. And what a canny move I’d made: now I might, with one of their species inside me, better understand what help I might be to the ghosts. My god, I’d never felt so alive!
Gary appeared to feel otherwise.
Having stepped from the elevator onto the deck of the pool—presumably to stop me—he clomped his hoof and shook his head. No, he seemed to be saying. No, no, no.
I’d made a terrible mistake.
And alongside this horrible sinking feeling came the distinct sensation that I’d swallowed not one ghost, but two. And now they were battling for real estate, in their swirly way, among my internal organs. The feeling was somewhere between the first black inklings of a fast-metastasizing intestinal cancer and gas—a sort of hollow, dizz
y swoon that swam around my stomach and southward, precipitously approaching my colon before doubling back.
Gary, I cried. I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have drunk two ghosts!
But Gary only eyed the elevator—furtively, as the captain of a doomed spacecraft might its sole escape pod.
I collected my clothes and rushed at him, eyebrows arched in supplication. In apology. But as I ran, my feet lifted from the deck, churning air. I was floating. Maybe six inches off the tiles. Floating! In my stomach the ghosts were writhing over each other like lusty eels. So not only did they make me gassy; they made me float.
Gary shook his head: Now see what you’ve done.
Hovering six inches above the deck, I tried a breaststroke. Made a little progress, though slowly. But with no resistance from the air I couldn’t propel myself with much force. And Gary’s disappointed gaze weighed me down.
I stopped swimming and sank back to the deck. Cautiously took a step. But it was as if magnets on the soles of my feet were repulsed by a corresponding charge. I couldn’t make contact, couldn’t walk. Any movement only boosted me airborne.
So, hovering, I put on my jeans—the jeans, now, of abjection. And also my shirt (less disgraceful, but still not triumphant or anything). Then, fully clothed, I stilled my limbs and lowered to the deck again.
Remaining as motionless as possible, I asked Gary what was to be done.
And though I’d failed him, though he’d rescued me from the industrial sector and generously brought me to the “scene of the crime,” and though I’d shamed us both by swallowing ghosts and rendering myself even more useless than ever, he made a noise I can only describe as a sigh. He trudged forward, ducked his head and paused at my side.
