“Why’s this little fella here, anyway? Somethin’ happen to his owner?”
Phin practically held his breath, ears strained to catch the answer.
“Yeah, something happened, all right,” Jack’s voice was bitter. “She got big.”
“Haw!” Frank laughed. “Girls’ll do that. So she dumped him here. Shame, shame.”
Jack sighed. “Frankly, ah, Frank, she coulda ridden him another year if she’d lost some weight. She was growin’ more out than up, if you see what I mean. Easier to blame it on Phinny, maybe wanted something new.… We tried to sell him,” Jack continued, and now his tone was a shade defensive. “But poor Phinny was out of condition—”
“Yah, he’s a fat little thing, too, ain’t he?” Frank interrupted.
“—and he wasn’t showin’ off his abilities as well as he might. Isabella—his owner—found her new pony before we found Phinny a new owner, and she needed the stall, so he was evicted, pretty much. Someone at the Chadwick knew about this place, so here we are.…”
The rest of the conversation dissolved around the pony, whose ears were ringing with the dreadful words … evicted … dumped here … fat little thing … tried to sell him. Shame rippled over Phin like an icy wind; he shook where he stood. His very bones ached with misery. He was being “dumped” … dumped the devil knew where, with an ex-felon for his new caretaker, all because he hadn’t shown off his abilities. He cringed as he remembered his sulky, balky attitude toward the children he’d thought of as his “exercise riders” … that was what Van der Luyden had meant when he’d said he hadn’t understood the situation! Oh, the allergic girl wouldn’t have been so bad! Or the mad cowboy! Even the boy who’d peed on him! Phin pressed his small head against Jack’s side, begging forgiveness, understanding.
“… I’m hittin’ the road for the summer—doin’ a tour with the carnival as a favor to a friend—but I’ll be back in the fall and I’ll come by to check on the laddie.”
Then Jack’s arms went around Phin’s neck, and Jack’s stubbly cheek was pressed against his golden one. Jack’s voice whispered words of encouragement in Phin’s dully dangling ears … and what could only be Jack’s tears dampened his creamy forelock.
“You’re a tough lad, Phinny,” Jack whispered. “Tougher than you know. Livin’ soft hasn’t knocked the grit out of you. You’ll be happy out here, in the sunshine and the grass, out o’ that dirty city. Sure, the Chadwick was posh an’ all, but you’ll be able to be a real pony out here. And it’s better than bein’ a carnival pony, right, laddie? You’ll be happy, won’t you, Phinny?”
Would he? As Jack hastily thrust the lead rope and the bag of Phin’s brushes at Frank and jumped in the cab of the truck, revving its engine and peeling out of the gravel driveway in a cloud of dust and swaying metal, happiness seemed like a land as far away as home.
CHAPTER 5
The sun was setting and the silence that settled over the farm seemed louder to Phin than any city noise.
He stumbled along behind Frank, who was leading him toward a broken-down warren of low sheds, hutches, and a crazily crisscrossed fence line punctuated by a large, rusted aluminum gate. On the other side of that gate was the weirdest assortment of animals Phin had ever laid eyes on. He planted his forelegs in the gravel, yanking the lead rope taut.
“Aw now, sweet pea, nothing to be afraid of. Here’s your new buddies, all ready to say howdy! Haw!” Frank patted Phin’s neck enthusiastically and practically dragged him forward. Phin was quite sure that if he refused to move, Frank would simply pick him up and carry him under one arm.
The strange figures lurked by the fence in the gathering gloom. Heads sprouted monstrous horns the size of coatracks; small, slippery creatures scurried and yowled beneath the brambly hedges that lined the area by the nearest shed. Bellows, grunts, squeals, rasping barks: A raucous cacophony rose from the mob, and Phin dragged his hooves, eyes rolling white, nostrils flared in panic. He needed a plan.
If Frank was going to stick him in there with the howling beasts, Phin would have to act fast. His eyes, accustomed to the light pollution of the nighttime city, were having difficulty adjusting to the pitch black overtaking the last traces of dusk, but he could make out what looked to be a low-ceilinged, stall-like construction some ways to the right of the metal gate. When Frank led him in, he’d make a fast break, before the animals had time to react … then he’d hide in the stall and wait until daylight. Phin’s very hocks shook: He hadn’t had to make a run for it since he was a yearling and Jack had (nearly) caught him with his nose in the oat bin. And now he was fat … juicy … tempting … No! Frank wouldn’t put him in with a horde of predators, would he? Would he? He was a felon! Maybe his crime was feeding ponies to lions! Or maybe that wasn’t even a crime here! Oh, Jack! Oh, Jack!
Frank hummed nonchalantly as he unwound the thick chain that fixed the gate to the unpainted wooden fence post. Phin tensed his small body, preparing for flight. Then the gate swung forward with a raspy sigh, Frank unclipped the lead shank from his halter, and Phin was alone with the menagerie.
He bolted before Frank’s last pat could graze his hindquarters, bolted with every bit of speed he could muster from his short legs. He felt something smelly and hairy brush against his left flank, and then his right front hoof landed on something sickeningly squishy … and it squealed. Horrified, Phin squealed in return and plunged forward into the dark. There! He could just make out the shed and he ran headlong toward it, rounding the corner handily and leaping inside toward the darkest, most protected corner of the extraordinarily pungent stall. And then all hell broke loose.
The first feathery, clawed bomb went off between Phin’s forelegs and he reared, smacking his head against the low ceiling. When he came down, three more squawking, flapping feather-grenades exploded by his back hooves, and then the very air around his head was filled with stinking feathers, wild cackles, and painfully sharp talons that scraped his sensitive muzzle and raked his soft golden coat. Blinded by the eye-watering stench and deafened by the shrieks of the crazed chickens, Phin bolted for the door, willing to brave the mob outside to get the heck out of the chicken coop.
As he ran through the deep, dark night, Phin could sense other animals somewhere near, at bay, watching but not approaching. He dug down for his instincts, dulled by his cosseted, stall-bound life, and he came up nearly empty. But he knew enough to run, to hide, and to wait until first light, when his poor eyesight would not put him at such a disadvantage. He plunged into a thicket of trees, pushing hard until he reached a small clearing where all was quiet and still. He stopped—flanks heaving, scratched nose bleeding, heart pounding—and waited for dawn.
* * *
When Phin woke up, he was surrounded.
His first bleary, confused thought was: Where am I? The second was: Oh no, I fell asleep! And the third, once his exhaustion- and sorrow-addled mind registered the circle of animals facing him, was simply: Oh no.
It was early morning and the first light touched the leaves of the unkempt grove, overgrown with nettles, weeds, and choking vines that clung to the slender trunks of pin oaks. Phin stared wildly about him; it was as if he’d stumbled into the darkest heart of the city park, ungroomed, uncared for, lost to civilization. The only sounds were birdsong, the intermittent belching of frogs … and the stirrings of the motley triumvirate of beasts ranged before him. An enormous, dung-colored, humped creature stared down at him from heavily lashed eyes while his drooping lips chomped methodically, as if he were looking forward to tucking in to a nice breakfast of fresh pony. A rough-hewn, three-legged dog scratched himself casually, head cocked and tongue lolling from between his sharp white teeth. The last animal was the most frightening-looking of all: a mangy spotted rabbit staring up at him with red eyes charged with malice. Phin stared back, transfixed.
“That’s Flopsy.” The scruffy dog yawned. “You stepped on one of his cuzzins.”
“Oh,” Phin said. He’d never seen a meaner-lo
oking creature than this bunny. He took a small step back and his rump pressed uncomfortably against a thorny bush.
“He wants you to apologize,” continued the dog. “I reckon that—” But he was cut off by a sudden braying eruption from the giant, humped thing on the dog’s right.
“Buht he’s just uh little baby! He didn’t know no better! Look at the little ba-a-a-by!” it bawled, forcing Phin farther back against the brambles. He turned bewilderedly toward the long-lashed creature blinking down at him with a now unmistakably benevolent expression.
“Cuh-ootchie cootchie coo!” Spit came flying from the long, forked upper lip as it bent its head down over the pony. Phin froze, unable to back away any farther, and felt the reeking strands of saliva hit his muzzle. He shuddered.
And then Flopsy took one menacing hop forward.
“I’m sorry!” Phin shouted. “I’m really sorry I stepped on your, erm, cousin! I didn’t mean to, I swear! Please don’t … don’t…” Phin wasn’t sure what exactly he feared the rabbit would do, but he felt sure he was capable of horrible things. Childishly, he squeezed his eyes shut, as if the animals would disappear if he couldn’t see them. Many seconds of silence ticked by, and then he heard the dog’s raspy growl:
“You can open your eyes if you want. He’s gone.”
Phin raised his lids a millimeter and breathed a sigh of relief. Flopsy had indeed left the clearing.
“Probably a good idea, apologizing,” the dog commented. “That’s one mean bunny. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, or any of the Fuzzy Butts, for that matter.”
“The what?” Phin squealed.
“Fuzzy Butts. It’s a family name. There’s a whole slew of ’em aroundabout here. You want to stay out of their way. I ate one of Flopsy’s stepnieces a few years back, and well…” The dog looked meaningfully at the space where his left front leg should have been. Phin gasped in horror.
“The Fuzzy Butts took off your leg?” he whispered.
The dog gazed at him solemnly for a beat, then burst into tongue-wagging laughter, chasing his tail in delight.
“No, you goof! They’re bunnies! I’m part Catahoula, part shepherd, part pit bull, and not an ounce poodle! You think a bunch of rabbits could take me?”
Phin remembered the red gleam of hate in the bunny’s eyes. “Yes,” he said frankly.
“Ha!” the dog barked. “You, maybe. Not me. Not Freddy. It took a Mack truck to part me with my old leg, and that’s a fact. That truck was the only thing that’s ever beat me in a fight, and it wasn’t a fair fight neither,” he added, scratching an ear with cocky nonchalance.
Phin was thoroughly confused, but wanted to keep up. “Why wasn’t it a fair fight?” he inquired.
“Huh. ’Cause it had five hundred and sixty-five horses under its hood and eighteen wheels under its belly, and I’m, let’s see, a dog?” He snorted. “Not exactly on the stick, are you, Goldilocks?”
“Don’t call me that,” Phin cried, stung.
“Well, what should I call you? You didn’t exactly let Frankie introduce us properly last night. In fact, you stomped Flopsy’s cuz, then took off for the chicken coop and stomped a few birds. That ain’t what my old master would call ‘an auspicious beginning,’” Freddy growled.
The dog’s description of the previous night was too accurate to deny, and Phin felt the little puff of pride deflate. He hung his head, at a loss for words.
“Pore luhttle baby,” the humped animal murmured sadly. “Just a luhttle guy.”
Phin managed an upward glance, slitting his eyes in case any more toxic spit came flying his way. “I’m sorry, but what exactly are you?” He addressed the question to the creature’s cavernous nostrils, which hovered over his head, fouling the air with a moist fug.
“May-aybe I cuhn be your daddy?” the beast bleated hopefully. Phin just stared at him.
“This wet rag? This is a camel. You know, people ride ’em around in the desert, can go weeks without water, blah, blah, blah. This one goes by Wally. Mostly he’s dumb as a rock,” Freddy explained.
“I’m not a baby, Wally,” Phin said firmly. “I’m a Shetland pony. We’re a very popular breed.”
“Sure, I bet you got lots uh luhttle buddies.” Wally the camel sighed fondly.
Freddy rolled his eyes. “Well, time for this dog to make dust. See ya ’round, Blondie.” With a grace and speed Phin would hardly have thought possible, given Freddy’s conspicuously absent limb, the part-Catahoula, part-shepherd, part—pit bull made a hopping turn and proceeded to bounce jauntily from the grove, his long, feathered tail swinging rhythmic circles behind him, as if it were the dog’s propeller.
“Wait!” Phin cried. “Don’t leave me!” As soon as the words were out, Phin heard how pathetic he sounded, but he couldn’t care, not when this great, aching hole was taking over his heart once again. The hole where Jack and Isabella and Van der Luyden and the Chadwick … his whole life … had been.
Freddy paused mid-hop and glanced over one powerful, sloped shoulder. His quizzical expression softened a fraction toward pity.
“Well, come on and agitate some gravel. Guess I can hang ’round this burg for a spell, maybe show you the ropes.…”
Phin trotted forward gratefully. “My name’s Phin,” he said. “My full name is Dauphin … it’s French for ‘prince,’ but most everybody calls me Phin or Phinny.”
“Sure, Prince Blondie.” The dog laughed at him. “Prince Phinny from the city!” He gave a great bark of amusement and bounded ahead, Phin jogging resignedly behind him.
“Wait fuh me, Prince Ba-a-by!” Wally wailed, and the threesome made their noisy way through the forest.
CHAPTER 6
In the bright summer-morning light, Phin was able to take better stock of his surroundings. It didn’t take long for him and Freddy and Wally to clear the last of the woods—in reality, not quite the primitive jungle Phin had thought, but more of a forgotten waste of bramble, bush, and skinny, nondescript trees spreading out from a river that Freddy told him was about half a mile away.
“Can’t get to the river from the farm, but we got a crick that runs off it. That’s where Miss Sumalee hangs out.”
“A what hangs out where?” Phin asked.
“Not a what—a who. Sumalee. Great gal. Water buffalo. Likes, oh, let’s see, water? So she hangs by the crick.” Freddy affected an exasperated tone, but Phin suspected he enjoyed the pony’s ignorance. Phin still didn’t know what the “crick” was, but he didn’t feel like giving Freddy the satisfaction. As he trotted along beside him, Phin cast a sideways glance at his uncouth companion. Freddy was medium-size, he supposed—smaller than the Weimaraner Phin was acquainted with from the park, but considerably larger than Mrs. Ingram’s Yorkshire terrier. His ears flopped to the side of his broad forehead, and the left ear was shorter than its partner. Phin noted the ragged tear where the tip of the ear should have been and guessed it had been lost in a fight. The dog’s short coat, though rough with dust, was a showy collage of black, white, and gray patches more splotches than spots; his paws and chest were white, as was the tip of his incongruously elegant, feathered tail. He was wiry but strong, without an ounce of flesh to spare. Suddenly, Freddy turned and grinned at Phin, and the pony saw that he was also missing a front tooth: the final rakish touch to one tough mutt.
Phin looked away, but not quickly enough. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer, Prince Blondie,” Freddy barked. Phin tossed his forelock and stared with a sudden (feigned) interest at the surrounding countryside.
There wasn’t much to see. A flat field, speckled with burdock and onion grass, stretched north from the woods that hid the river. Bordering the field was a ragged, weather-beaten fence line, so warped and missing such a variety of boards that Phin couldn’t imagine it had much power to keep anything in—or out. At the opposite end of the field from the river were a few corrals and runs, plus the buildings that Phin had seen last night—chicken coop, three-sided sheds, and a m
iscellany of nondescript wooden piles that might hold anything from oats to vicious Fuzzy Butts.
To Phin, everything appeared to be in an advanced stage of decay and neglect. Under the blazing summer sun, the field looked parched and weedy, a far cry from the emerald lawns of the country club and the manicured meadows of the city park. The minimal shade was provided by a few copses of trees and the sheds. There were no fans that Phin could see, much less window boxes; the only flowers belonged to wild bushes of honeysuckle and Queen Anne’s lace that sprawled along the roadside. The farm looked like Phin felt: hot, tired, and forlorn.
“So what happens now?” he asked Freddy in a dull voice.
“How’s that?” Freddy cocked an ear in Phin’s direction, laughter still etched down his long muzzle.
“I mean, when do they come back for us? The people—erm, Frank?” Phin didn’t much relish the thought of the felon’s company, but he thought it best to be prepared.
“Aw, Frankie won’t come around for another week or so. He just did the water yesterday, before you showed your pretty little face. Delivered a coupla kids. Got the reindeer loose from the fence. The usual.” Freddy yawned. “Ziggy—that’s Frank’s nephew—he’ll be by tomorrow to drop kibble for the cats, stuff like that. If he remembers. He’s scared of anything bigger than a bread box, though, so don’t expect much conversation from him.”
Phin digested this in silence. An entire week, or more, without human company. He was afraid of Frank, but not as much as he was afraid of being alone. He tried to sound casual when he asked, “And the kids? Where did Frank deliver them?”
“Um, in the barn? In the field? How the heck would I know? I can’t keep up with ’em.” Freddy looked mildly disgusted.
“So there are lots of kids around here? Frank brings them regularly?” Phin’s spirits slid upward a notch—perhaps there might be some little girl, or boy, who would be glad to find a beautiful pony in this desolate waste.
“Sure, the place is lousy with ’em. But mostly their mamas bring ’em. Frank just helps out if the nannies are havin’ trouble.”
Little Prince - The Story of a Shetland Pony Page 4
