by Jane Yolen
Stupid people called the house,
Early in the morning
Made my mother really cry …
“Oh, Ari,” he whined, “I can’t think of a rhyme for morning.”
It was hard to tell if he was more upset about the rhyme or Mom, but I said, “Borning, corning, horning, scorning, warning—”
“Aha!” He smiled his glorious smile, the upset forgotten. “Warning! Thanks, Ari.”
Meanwhile, Dr. Herks had put his arms around Mom and said into her hair, “It will be all right, dear girl.”
My eyes got big. I felt my heart skip a beat.
Robbie sang, “So listen, here’s my warning. Is that good, Ari?”
I didn’t answer. Robbie would figure it out on his own. He always did. Instead, I turned to Dr. Herks, ignoring the fact that he was hugging Mom, and summed up what I’d heard Mrs. Angotti say about the summer psychology class and Zoe’s teacher sending the essay to the Boston Herald.
Wiping her eyes with a tea towel, Mom added, “The reporter said he confirmed the sighting with two sources.”
“Wanna bet it’s Joey and Angela?” I said.
“And so it starts,” Dr. Herks muttered.
“You were right,” Mom said between snuffles and into the front of his jacket.
“I hate being right.”
“They meant the promise when they said it,” I reminded her.
She nodded more to Dr. Herks than to me. “Lack of sleep does not help.” She pulled away from him. “Let’s go give Martha a hand.”
“Robbie,” I said, “you stay here. Man the phone.”
“No way,” Robbie said. “I’m not a man, and I want to take care of my brother.”
“Brother?” Dr. Herks asked.
“It’s what he calls Kai.”
* * *
Martha was no longer standing quietly with the pitchfork by her side. Now it was in her hand, the sharp tines pointing at the throat of a disheveled-looking redheaded man who was backed up against the barn. His arms were raised, maybe in prayer, and his face was bone white. There were large, untidy damp patches under his arms, staining his blue-striped shirt. He must have arrived around the time Dr. Herks and I were comforting Mom. His camera lay at his feet on the concrete floor of the barn’s corridor. It was small and black with the word NIKON on its front.
“Please, lady…,” he was saying, his voice high-pitched, shaking.
“Martha,” Dr. Herks used what must have been his soldier voice, “put … the … pitchfork … down.”
She didn’t turn around or lower the pitchfork, but said in her own version of the voice, “He’s a dang pappanazzi taking pictures of things he isn’t meant to see. He’s on land he wasn’t invited to. And he’s threatened me and mine. His kind killed Marilyn Monroe, hounding her everywhere she went, poor kid, and I won’t have him here on the farm.”
I said to Dr. Herks, “Who’s Marilyn Monroe?”
Mom answered, “A movie star.”
“Did a pappanazzi actually kill her?”
“I think she means paparazzo,” Mom said. “Martha reads too many movie magazines.”
Robbie piped up, “What’s a paparazzo?”
“They call themselves photojournalists and track down celebrities, movie stars, and rock-and-roll singers,” Dr. Herks said. “Then they take pictures of them, which they sell to magazines.”
I whispered to Mom, “Maybe Dr. Herks reads those magazines, too.”
“But,” Robbie whispered to me, “Kai’s no celebrity.”
As soon as he said that, my traitor mind added, Yet.
“Hey,” begged the photographer, “can you call the crazy lady off?”
Dr. Herks put out a hand to either side, as a warning to Mom, Robbie, and me to stay right where we were. Then he walked to where Martha stood and glared at the red-headed man.
“My name is Gerald Arthur Herks. I am the veterinarian for this farm. I am also a captain in the army. Who and what are you?”
In a shaky voice, the redheaded man said, “I’m a freelance photographer, sir.” He straightened his shoulders a bit. “An award-winning photographer. Name is Nathan Fern. Sent to town to get a picture of a local contest winner, Zoe Krosoczka. She told me her story was about something real that happened on this farm. And even though I thought it preposterous, it always pays to check. So I thought … well … you know … came over. And I got attacked by the harpy with the fork! Here’s my identity card.” His fingers shook as he fumbled in his shirt pocket and drew out two very crushed and dirty cards.
Dr. Herks took the cards, glanced at them, tucked the cleanest one into his shirt pocket, then said, “Well, Nathan, here’s what we’re going to do,” in a voice that was low and controlled. “You are going to give me your camera, and I’m going to dump any pictures you made of our farm. If you ever come onto our property again without an invitation, I’ll call the police and confiscate the camera. Then I will sue you within an inch of your life, as you will be in violation of law 1-7-1-9 of the penal code. Oh, and the next time, I won’t stop Martha here from sticking her pitchfork into you as far as she can reach. Are we clear?”
“Clear … um … sir.”
“Good,” said Dr. Herks. He took the camera, opened it, and unspooled the film before turning to Martha and saying in a more genial voice, “Put the pitchfork down now, Martha.”
“Are you sure, Captain, sir?” She snapped out the sir like a soldier.
He nodded. “I’m sure.”
Only then did she do as he said, but slowly.
After that, Dr. Herks handed the camera back to Nathan Fern, who grabbed it and ran to his car. He got in and left so fast, his tires carved a long strip in our gravel drive.
“Wow!” said Robbie, gazing up at Dr. Herks with awe on his face.
As soon as Fern was out of there, Dr. Herks, Mom, and Martha burst out laughing. Dr. Herks wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“What’s law 1-7-1-9 of the penal code?” I asked.
“Oh, Arianne,” Dr. Herks said, still laughing, “your mom will say I’m a terrible model for you and Robbie!”
I looked at him strangely.
“I lied.”
“You lied?” Robbie asked. “Cool!”
“I made it up.”
“He made it up!” I said, and then I was laughing with the rest of them. A moment later, Robbie was laughing as well.
15
A Night with Kai
THE DAY WENT ALONG slowly and quietly after that. I did all my before-dinner chores and came back into the house to find that Dr. Herks had been invited to dinner once again and this time had brought along two large pepperoni pizzas he’d made himself.
“My specialty,” he said. “Mother was first-generation Italian, Father was Greek. I got the Greek looks and the Italian food genes.”
“Either way works for me,” Mom said in a dreamy sort of way that made me smile.
We made a salad and some garlic bread. Martha brought wine for the grown-ups. Robbie and I had milk, mine white, his chocolate.
As much as we tried to make it a festive time, dinner was tense. We ate and talked and ate some more.
We talked about everything but Kai: How the apple order had to be doubled, whether new fences should be built, whether a separate barn needed to be put up, and how much it might cost. In a way, though, everything we said was really about Kai. More apples was a Kai thing, the separate barn would be for him, new fences—again Kai.
Halfway between the last piece of pizza and ice cream for dessert, Dr. Herks’ pager went off and he phoned his office. “I’ve got a difficult situation here at Hannah’s farm,” he said. “It’s tricky, but nothing catching. Please direct all emergency calls to Dr. Small.” He didn’t mention Kai.
Yes, I was eavesdropping. And no, I didn’t feel guilty about it. It was, as Dr. Herks said, a difficult situation.
* * *
Something else wasn’t said. Evidently a Plan B had been mad
e without anyone telling Robbie or me. Mom and Dr. Herks and Martha had decided it while I was out doing my chores and Robbie was in his room watching television.
Plan B consisted of Martha sleeping the first part of the night on the couch in the barn office and Dr. Herks sleeping downstairs on the sofa in the living room. Then at midnight or one A.M., they’d change. He’d go out to the barn, and Martha would go to bed in her own little house.
And Mom? She was to get a good night’s sleep in her own bed this time.
This time. That sounded ominous. And I only found this out when everyone started to settle in for the night.
I hadn’t even been considered as the one to sleep near Kai. So I raised my hand like I have to in school and said, “I could—”
Robbie added, “We could do it together.”
The adults interrupted in chorus: “Absolutely not.”
Mom added, “This needs a grown-up, kids.”
“I’m grown up enough to feed and exercise the horses,” I pointed out. “I’m grown up enough to clean out stalls. I’m old enough to be trusted with the biggest secret ever.”
Robbie didn’t say a word.
“There’s no danger in any of that,” Mom said, her voice low, careful, but she looked over at Dr. Herks as she said it.
I didn’t ask what danger. The memory of Martha and the pitchfork was sharp enough.
I stayed up as late as I could, but Robbie went quietly into his own room and didn’t even turn on his TV. He must have been asleep before nine. Mom, too, didn’t make it past nine, retiring to her room after a long, hot bath.
I managed to stay up until ten, still hoping to be included in the grown-up end of things, but a little after the grandfather clock chimed the hour, I was yawning hard, so Dr. Herks sent me to bed. I’m ashamed to say that I fell right to sleep.
My old room had been the quiet room, away from road noise, not that there’s much of it. We’re the last farm on the paved road. After us, there’s nothing but a bumpy gravel path for about a hundred yards, and then forest land for miles. Our farm owns about ten acres of the forest, and the rest belongs to the government.
In the winter, loads of Ski-Dooers go roaring down the road and through the woods. Although Martha had threatened to set out chain-link fences strategically on the trails near our farm, Mom wouldn’t let her because she liked to keep the trails open for anyone who uses them responsibly. Of course, every time a snowmobiler roars past our house in the dead of winter, Martha says, “Nothing responsible about that!”
When Robbie was born, Mom switched me to the bigger room, the one with windows looking out over the road. The only noisy bedroom in the house.
I liked being away from everyone else. And I hardly ever woke up when something noisy drove by.
However, the whole Kai thing made me sleep lightly that night, which is why I woke up at one A.M. precisely. Something was driving slowly up and down our road. As it went along, I heard our grandfather clock ring its single chime, so I knew what time it was.
I sat up in the dark and watched out the window as a car crept past the farm, got as far as the gravel road—I could hear how the road sounds changed—and then it turned around. When it kept on past us, going back toward the Suss farm, I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
Pulling on my jeans, I tucked my nightgown into them, put on my sneakers, and placed the lanyard with the barn keys around my neck. Then I grabbed a flashlight and tiptoed down the stairs.
I didn’t wake Mom because Dr. Herks had said she needed her sleep. I figured I’d just go and check to be sure no one had gotten out of the car. If I saw or heard even the smallest thing, I’d tell whoever was asleep in the barn. I wasn’t planning to be a hero or anything. I wasn’t stupid.
Maybe it wasn’t Plan B, since I’d had no part of that. Maybe it was Plan C, which was all my own.
* * *
I carried a flashlight for its light as well as a possible weapon. Night had tucked in over the barn, but I wasn’t fooled into thinking it would be like a cozy blanket. Mom told me that the horses always watch you in the dark with the attention of any wild animal, waiting for what will happen next, ready to flee if they don’t like what they see. As they are in stalls, they can’t flee very far, but the possibility is there, a kind of electricity in the air, their eyes shifting, even if nothing else moves.
Being in the barn in the middle of the night is very different from being there in the daylight. I’d never been out here so late except for the time Mom and Robbie and I went to see the Perseids, and the time we went for a Christmas night sleigh ride at the Suss farm pulled by their two heavy horses. But those were early nights compared to this.
I expected it to be spooky outside, but there was an almost-full moon, which lit everything enough so I didn’t even need the flashlight. Still, I kept it ready, in case there really was someone sneaking around.
Someone besides me, that is.
I sure didn’t want to trip over a bucket or a bridle once I was inside, because I didn’t want to scare off any intruders before I could identify them.
It was past time for insects to be flying, or bats. Maybe even past owl time. At least I didn’t see any of them, or hear them call. The horses in the front barn were all quiet, probably asleep. After checking on them, I swung around to the other side of the barn to see if anyone was near Agora’s stall. Taking the keys from around my neck, I opened the stall door. It creaked so loudly, I expected Martha or Dr. Herks to come galloping over, pitchfork in hand.
That’s when I heard snoring from the office. It was loud, stuttering, a long, drawn-out sound. An army could have marched in here and taken Kai away, and we wouldn’t have known.
So much for Plan B!
As I got inside, I turned on my flashlight, since the moon couldn’t penetrate into the stall, especially with the blinds back over the windows and door.
Agora looked up sleepily.
“Just me, girl,” I said.
Comforted, she lay back down. But her movement must have awakened Kai, because he clambered up on his knobby legs and began to charge toward me.
“Whoa, there!” I said, holding out my arms to keep him from knocking me over in his excitement.
He held out his arms too, just a little kid wanting a hug. A little kid with four legs. He smelled of both talc and horse. Martha must have given him a good scrub before he went to sleep, powdering his back and under his arms and on what she called the “seam lines” where his boy body met the horse. She’d shown me how there was sometimes a bit of irritation there, the rough horse hair rubbing against the little boy’s much more delicate skin.
“Good Kai,” I whispered.
“Good Ari,” he whispered back.
I giggled and put my face down into his mane.
“Go out now?” he asked. “Kai can go out and run?”
“No, Kai,” I said. “It’s dark out there.”
“Dark in here,” he said matter-of-factly. “I see in the dark.”
Like a horse, I thought.
The car I’d heard earlier was long gone—probably just stupid teenagers out joyriding, though it hadn’t sounded very full of joy. But that’s what Martha calls it anyway. There seemed to be no one else around for miles. At least no one awake.
“Okay, but you have to stay close and listen to me. And when I say it’s time to come back in, you have to come. I can’t go chasing after you. Not in the dark. I can’t see in the dark.”
“Okay, Ari,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
I nodded. “Promise?”
“Prrrrrromise!” His voice was breathily positive, as if he actually knew what a promise was.
I picked up one of my old sweaters that was hanging on the door and wrestled it over him. It was too big for him, so I had to help him with the sleeves. He giggled as I rolled them up.
“Don’t want you getting cold out there,” I said. Actually, it was a soft August night, and Kai seemed as resistant to mild night
temperatures as the rest of the horses.
“What is cold, Ari?” he asked.
I put my arms around him and made a shiver and said, “Brrrrr.”
He giggled and repeated the sound. But I wasn’t sure he got it.
“Cold wind,” I said. “Ice and snow. Freeze. Low temperature.”
“I’ve read about snow,” he said. “When can I see it?”
“Not for months,” I told him. “But it’s really cold.”
“Brrrr,” he said, and grinned.
“Never mind,” I said, and took his warm little hand in mine. “There’s plenty of time for snow.” We went out into the corridor, and he began to run before I had a chance to lock the door into the paddock. He cantered down to where the door stood ajar and then ran right into the paddock with the kind of knock-kneed joy that all colts have. In a moment, he had gone into the darkness near the trees.
I ran after him, calling in a desperate whisper, “Kai, get back here, now!”
Hera put her nose out of her stall, top female protecting her herd. She whickered quietly, and Kai trotted back to whinny at her. His voice sounded much more human than horse.
And then I thought, Come on, Ari, it’s night. Daylight is the problem, not the dark. No one can see him now, but he can see in the dark. Let him run around a little bit without yammering at him. Maybe that’s part of Plan C! I touched the horse part of his back. “Okay, Kai—go run in the paddock. But come back the moment I call!”
Off he went, outlined by moonlight, out where Mom and Robbie and I had watched the star shower last year, a time when life was predictable, if not always happy. A time when I’d wanted magic to come into my life. Before I wondered if that was what I really wanted after all.
He stopped in the grass and turned to me. “Soft,” he said.
“Grass,” I told him.
He spread his front legs wide and bent over until he could touch the tops of the grass, then pulled some up and sniffed at it.
“What does it smell like?”
He giggled. “Grass.” He rose on his hind feet and flung his arms wide. “It smells like grass, Ari!”
“Shush,” I cautioned, but I was too late, for he was suddenly running around the field close to the fence. The moon outlined his body, and he seemed to glow, like something out of a legend—otherworldly, beautiful. Something too wonderful to be kept hidden in a small, square, concrete-floored stall.
