On the opposite side of the track, Sandy waves her camera. She is ready, saving her film for Twi’s performance. Kathy and Sandy are silent observers, side by side, scarcely aware of the tourists driving through the open gate, lining up to watch the action. The waiting is over!
Dorita reels in the longe line. She swings gracefully into the saddle. Effortless.
“Now!” Sandy says to herself. “Now I shall learn the secrets of the classical ballet—how the signals are given.”
Sandy blocks out Dorita as a rider; she is like a stage prompter in the wings. Sandy’s mind is centered on Twilight, her white spots shimmering. She is walking in majestic dignity toward them . . . abreast of them . . . passing them, around the track once, and once again. The pageantry flows before them, a vision of grace in action.
Then at an unseen signal, Twi’s propulsion quickens. She is up on the bit, eager, her hind legs well under her body, her action elevated. Around the perimeter of the track, she shows her collected walk. And then the elevated trot. And against the unseen prompting as Twilight swings into a canter, slow flowing at first, then faster and faster, her tail whisking back and forth as if a turnkey is winding up a toy pony.
Sandy’s camera still hangs unused over her shoulder. Her hands do not move. She is mesmerized by Twilight’s elegance, the splendor of her action. But what are Dorita’s secret signals? Sandy watches her knees, the calves of her legs, her hands, to catch any small movement . . . she listens to hear any clicking sound or a whispered word. She detects no prompting cues. None at all.
This was just the beginning of the miracle. Now the passage, a lilting trot with action so high that even while Sandy is standing motionless she has the heady sensation of scudding on a cloud. Twi is doing “the crossover,” stepping diagonally forward on her tiptoes, then back again to the collected trot.
Now she is doing lead changes at the canter, changing every third stride, then every second stride, and now at every stride.
Sandy wants to catch these tempi changes. But before she can focus on Dorita’s cues, the demonstration is over! Dorita slides gracefully to earth, removes her Spanish hat, and bows to the applause of the impromptu audience.
At last it is Kathy’s turn. Sandy can hear Dorita’s voice, full and rich, erasing any worry. Her comments are like a riding crop, full of gentle encouragement. Her directions are unique; they are not directions at all!
“Good!” Dorita stretches out the word as if it held a string of o’s instead of only two. “Yes! Yes! Keep sitting in the saddle, not on it.
“Ah, your head is up. Your heels are down.
“Go-o-od!—Your shoulders are back, your hips forward, your eyes ahead.”
Dorita is running alongside now, her laughter bubbling like champagne. “Kathy, mavourneen, you are making a Lipizzaner of Twi. You are both dancing to your own music.
“You are cueing Twi like Colonel Podhajsky, the master of the Spaniche Reitschule of Vienna. You are getting her hindquarters under her body so she is ready to trot on air—if you ask it.
“Excellent, Kathy! Twi is obeying your directions, changing leads when you ask for the change. Tempo one! Tempo two! Tempo three . . .”
With an audible sigh, Dorita exclaims, “Yes! You and Twi are now ready to take your place in the classical world of dressage.”
Kathy dismounts and bursts into laughter. She places her cheek against Twi’s neck and plants a kiss on her nose. Then, with everyone turning to look in Sandy’s direction, she leads Twi over to her and places a cube of sugar in Sandy’s hand, giving her the honor of offering “the reward.”
The excited spectators cannot bring themselves to leave. They cheer, too entranced to miss any action. Among the strangers, a red-haired tomboy and her mother hang behind.
They have a burning question.
“What,” the mother asks, “is the breeding of this spunky little ballet dancer?”
Almost in concert Kathy and Sandy reply: “She’s a direct descendant of Misty of Chincoteague!”
The tomboy lets out a whoop, races to the parking lot, and returns with a much-read copy of Misty. Carefully she flips the pages to the double spread of the ponies swimming from Assateague Island to Chincoteague. The result may have been nothing more than a coincidence, but Twi lowers her head as if to study the ponies, trying to recognize one or two old friends. Suddenly Sandy remembers to grab her camera. She focuses quickly and she snaps the scene, at the very second that the child throws her arms around Twi and tells her she is the most beautiful horse in all the world. For full seconds the child and Twi stand quietly with the book between them.
Chapter 21
HOOFPRINTS
In Twi’s twelfth year, holiday time with all its family gatherings and festivities arrived with an extra flourish.
The Christmas mail brought the thrilling news that Twi would receive an All-Breeds Award from the United States Dressage Federation. As if this were not exciting enough, Sandy, Chris, and Pam all received a personal invitation. The American Horse Shows Association was inviting Twi’s human family to receive a first-place trophy at the ceremony on December 27.
Sandy read the news standing up in the kitchen at the chopping block, so engrossed that she stopped nibbling the pecans she was shelling for the family’s Christmas pie.
A Special Invitation for You from the . . .
American Horse Shows Association, Inc.
&
American Bankers Insurance Company
The American Horse Shows Association
and
American Bankers Insurance Company
cordially invite you to attend the
ZONE IV AWARDS BANQUET
in conjunction with the Winter Equestrian Kick-off Dance
for
Presentation of the AHSA/American Bankers Zone Horse of
the Year Awards
December 27th at seven o’clock
PALM BEACH POLO AND COUNTRY CLUB
Polo Stadium
West Palm Beach, Florida
By Reservation Only Please Respond
Life certainly was sending out new challenges for Twi and for all who knew and loved her.
When Pam and Chris read the mail, Chris disappeared into the family’s hardware closet, then came bounding into the kitchen with a ruler and an empty picture frame. He held the frame over the award at the point where it said:
ALL-BREEDS AWARD
presented to
MISTY’S TWILIGHT
Sponsored by the
PINTO HORSE ASSOCIATION OF AMERICA
“Wow!” Chris exulted. “The frame fits! I’ll hang Twi’s award in the library, right next to her picture.”
“Hang it close to the oil portrait of Sunshine, her mother,” Sandy added. “She’d be mighty proud of her daughter’s high recognition!”
• • •
What a letdown! Sandy, Chris, and Pam never did get to the awards dinner to accept the trophy emblazoned with a gold seal and the name Misty’s Twilight. Instead, Sandy came down with the uglies—a runny and very red nose and a scratchy throat. In a husky voice she telephoned her cancellation to the American Horse Shows Association banquet.
In her disappointment there was no hint of rejection or aloneness, no time to feel sorry for herself. Pam had flown home for the 27th of December and Chris caught a ride from The Horseman’s Boys Ranch. When they saw Sandy’s nose, they both cancelled their banquet reservations, too. They were so full of health and zing that the farm rang with their fun and foolishness. They put on a show of their own for Sandy. At times they were elephant and trainer; Pavarotti the elephant and Dolly Parton the trainer. Then they impersonated Mr. Rogers and Miss Piggy. Their prize performance was a rousing history of dance with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. They closed with Sandy trying to carry a tune in a voice that bore no resemblance to singing!
At last the noise and hilarity leveled off with a discussion of such depth as they had not had in years.
Pam�
��s future seemed to be laid out neatly and in order. She had graduated from broadcasting school with honors and was accepted in the fast world of movies and stage productions.
Chris still had hurdles to clear. This was no surprise to Pam or Sandy; it was the story of his life—try this school, try that. Different schools. Different problems. But now, to everyone’s joy, he had started to jump hurdles like a pro. He was working at The Boys’ Ranch with outreach students. These young people were starting afresh, desperately wanting help from their peers—showing positive little beginnings and grand triumphs.
Sandy didn’t know whose future thrilled her more—Pam’s surefire work in the theater or Chris’ understanding of the land and all of its animals. Sandy declared her pride to both. Then, to her amazement, the children turned the tables on her.
They were celebrating the last day before the new year with a late supper of waffles studded with pecans and slathered with maple syrup and blueberries. They ate in near silence.
It was Chris who broke the quiet. “Y’know, Mom, I want to talk about you.”
Pam and Sandy exchanged surprised glances. This was a new role for Chris. His pup was nudging him, excitedly begging for the few blueberries left on his plate. Chris let him lick the plate clean, smiling at the crunching, slobbering sounds.
Neither Pam nor Sandy winced at the forbidden practice. This was a landmark moment . . .
“I know you’re a successful skin doctor,” Chris began, “but with us kids grown up, and most of the Chincoteague ponies given to young owners, what about you? Won’t it be a dud just clearing up kids’ faces for the rest of your life?”
“I wonder, too,” Pam said. “What kind of future do you have? Of course your new flying lessons will be fun. But where to? And why?”
Sandy was taken aback at such caring. “This cold seems to make my eyes water,” she said in a strangely husky voice. Then she brightened. “Actually I had planned to ask you that very question! I need your advice—not so much for myself . . .”
Chris’s laughter rang out. He tapped Pam with his toe. “Remember, Pam, on the way to Chincoteague when I said to you, ‘Some moms never grow up?’”
“Yeah, that was one time we agreed.”
They all smiled knowingly. “Is it wrong not to grow up?” Sandy asked.
“No, but what about your second childhood?” Chris persisted.
“I’m glad you’ve asked, because that’s the big problem, and you two have been in on it from the beginning.”
Chris turned his chair around so he could lean his arms on the back of it. Pam joined the Rhodesian on the floor. Sandy fortified herself by taking some deep breaths. Then she plunged in. “It all goes back to Chincoteague.”
Pam sat up. “I knew it! I knew it! It’s about Misty’s Twilight.”
“However did you know?”
“Easy! When a teacher used to ask me how many children in our family, I always said three—Chris, Twi, and me. But, what about Twi?”
Sandy did not hesitate. “Twi is on the brink of greatness in her career. She may be the only pinto pony in the world to compete in classical dressage with purebred Lipizzaners and Arabians.”
“Don’t knock it,” said Chris.
Pam turned to Sandy. “What’s to worry?”
“Plenty! Is it fair to work Twi daily and strenuously, to ship her across the ocean to enter the Olympics? Are we satisfying our belief in her . . . or is it our own vanity?”
“Or what?”
“Or should she end her days being a mother, in a green pasture with thoroughbred mates and foals?”
“Why not do both?” Pam asked.
“Yeah! After collecting a bunch of gold medals, why not fly her home from the Olympics and let her be a mother? Like you! We know kids are work. But can’t she handle two jobs—just like you?”
“Will you two please let me use you as sounding boards? Twilight, you see, has come to represent much more to me than gold medals and motherhood.”
Chris sat up, waiting for the big question. “She’s really awesome, Mom.”
“Yes! And I want her to achieve all that she can. I’m proud of her, just the way I’m proud of you. But I want to go back in time for a few minutes.”
Chris and Pam settled down on the floor and let their pups, Rhodi and Rags, flop down beside them.
“It has been fifteen years since the three of us went to Chincoteague, and much has changed in our world. Wild habitats, and the wild creatures they shelter, are being lost as environments change. People seem to take up more and more space, leaving less and less for creatures to exist. Isn’t it important for children, the world over, to save the wilderness areas for the future of all creatures?
“Twilight has come to represent a lot more to me than a great horse with accomplishments in cutting, jumping, and dressage. She’s already gone farther than any other Chincoteague pony, and I want her to go as far as she can—maybe even represent the United States as part of the Olympic team in 1996.
“However, as I think back, it is Twilight’s special Chincoteague heritage—the blood of the wild ponies and the visions of wild islands with marshes, beaches, and freedom that first caught my imagination as a child and took me there with you fifteen years ago. What if all that had been destroyed—and we had never been able to share this dream?
“How wondrous life is—how precious. But it must have a chance to thrive. I would like Twilight to be a symbol for children to rally around; a symbol of what Nature has to offer us, and what we stand to lose if we aren’t careful.”
Pam looked thoughtful. “Y’know, Mom, maybe Chris and I didn’t seem to appreciate our trip to Chincoteague, but it means a lot more to us now. We’ll have kids of our own one day, and we’ll want to share Assateague and other untamed places with them. We’ll all have to pitch in and help!”
Thus they came back to the islands. They were no longer dots on the map, but had grown in stature because of Misty’s birthright. More than ever Sandy longed to clasp both children in her arms, but she couldn’t embarrass them. They were grown-up and she wasn’t.
And that’s the way they left it, that last day of December.
MARGUERITE HENRY is the beloved author of such classic horse stories as JUSTIN MORGAN HAD A HORSE; MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE; and STORMY, MISTY’S FOAL; all of which are available in Aladdin paperback editions.
OTHER BOOKS BY MARGUERITE HENRY
Album of Horses
Black Gold
Brighty: Of the Grand Canyon
Justin Morgan Had a Horse
King of the Wind
Misty of Chincoteague
San Domingo: The Medicine Hat Stallion
Sea Star: Orphan of Chincoteague
Stormy: Misty’s Foal
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALADDIN PAPERBACKS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright 1992 by Marguerite Henry
Illustrations copyright © 1992 by Karen Haus Grandpré
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and related logo are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The text of this book was set in Baskerville.
This Aladdin Paperbacks edition May 2007
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Henry, Marguerite.
Misty’s twilight / by Marguerite Henry;
illustrated by Karen Haus Grandpré.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Captivated by the story of “Misty of Chincoteague,” a woman wit
h a horse farm in Florida raises one of Misty’s descendants to become a champion show horse.
1. Horses—Juvenile fiction. [1. Horses—Fiction.] I. Grandpré, Karen Haus, ill. II. Title.
PZ10.3.H43Mk 1992 [Fic]—dc20 91-42582
ISBN 978-0-02-743623-5 (hc.)
ISBN 978-1-4169-2787-7 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-1-4424-8806-9 (eBook)
Misty's Twilight Page 7
