Stage Fright / Goodbye, Sweet Prince / Brotherly Love

by Catherine Marshall

  Christy touched the stallion’s nose. “Goodbye, sweet Prince. We’ll miss you, boy.”

  With a nod to Mr. Collins, she put her hand on Ruby Mae’s shoulder, and together they started down the aisle.

  “Know what I whispered to him?” Ruby Mae said.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Christy said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “I told him someday, somehow, I’d get him back.”

  Christy wiped away a tear. There was no point in arguing with Ruby Mae. Let her have her tattered hope. They both knew Prince was gone from their lives forever.

  As they left the barn, Christy glanced back over her shoulder. Prince was being led away. Mr. Collins was following behind. He paused to toss something into a crate filled with trash, then continued on, basking in the admiring comments from the crowd.

  It took Christy a moment before she realized what he’d thrown away.

  “Ruby Mae, there’s something I want to check. You run on ahead, all right? There’s David, over by the cashier. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Ruby Mae nodded glumly, lost in her own sadness. “Hurry, though, won’t you, Miz Christy? I just want to go home now.”

  Christy ran down the aisle to the pile of trash. Lundy’s bridle lay on top. Next to it was Prince’s blanket.

  She pulled them from the trash. Carefully, she wrapped her shawl around them and tucked the bundle under her arm. Hopefully, Ruby Mae wouldn’t ask any questions.

  Christy started to call for Mr. Collins, but he had already vanished from view. Maybe, she thought angrily, it was just as well. There was nothing she could say. Prince was his now, and that was that.

  Six

  I have a special project for all of you today,” Christy announced one gloomy afternoon at school.

  A week had passed since Prince’s sale—a week of tears, moping, pouting, anger, and resignation. Christy had never seen her class so dejected. Finally, she’d decided it was time to take action.

  “We’re going to write a letter,” Christy said, leaning against her battered old desk. “A real, live letter that we’re going to mail this afternoon when Mr. Pentland comes.”

  “Who we goin’ to send it to, Teacher?” asked Little Burl Allen.

  “Well, I’ll give you some hints.” Christy closed the window near her desk. A steady, cold rain had sent a damp chill through the schoolhouse, which also doubled as the church on Sundays. Worse yet, one corner of the roof had developed a small, but steady leak.

  “He can’t read—not yet, anyway. He’s very proud. He’s a good friend of ours. And—oh, yes—did I mention that he has four legs and a tail?”

  “Prince!” Little Burl screeched, as the other students broke into applause.

  “Exactly. I thought we’d write him a letter telling him how much we miss him,” Christy said. “Of course, we can’t afford to send seventy letters. But you each can write one line. That should only take up a couple of pages. Then we’ll send that along with Mr. Pentland to the farm where Prince lives.”

  Ruby Mae’s hand shot up. “I don’t rightly see the point, if’n you don’t mind my sayin’ so. I mean, it’s like you said yourself, Miz Christy. Prince can’t exactly read.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Mr. Collins might even just throw the letter away.”

  Instantly, Christy thought back to the blanket and bridle she’d rescued from the trash heap the day of the auction. Fortunately, she’d managed to keep Mr. Collins’ thoughtless act from Ruby Mae. When they’d arrived home that evening, Christy had hidden the items in the trunk in her bedroom.

  “This letter isn’t so much for Prince as it is for all of us, Ruby Mae,” Christy explained. “I think we’ve all been feeling sad since Prince’s sale. And sometimes it helps to write down your feelings.”

  “Are you sad, Teacher?” Creed asked.

  “Very sad, Creed,” Christy answered truthfully.

  “Don’t know why,” Ruby Mae muttered. “You got your money, after all.”

  “It’s true, the mission has been able to buy badly needed medicine and supplies. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss Prince.”

  Christy retrieved two precious pieces of paper from her desk. “I’ll start the letter,” she said. In her careful penmanship, she wrote at the top of the page:

  Dear Prince,

  I miss seeing you run in the morning mist. I hope you are happy and eating lots of clover.

  Miss Huddleston

  She held up the paper. “I want each of you to write down a small note just like this, then sign your name. The older students can help the younger ones if they have trouble.”

  Christy passed the page to Creed. “While Creed writes his letter to Prince, the rest of you can go on with your lessons.”

  During the morning, the children worked on their letter. At first they were very quiet, but soon, as Christy had hoped, they began to exchange happy memories about Prince. The conversation grew more animated, and even though a few tears fell, there was plenty of laughter, too. All in all, Christy decided, her idea was a success. At least she’d given the children an opportunity to express their sadness, and that was a start.

  After school let out for the day, Christy sat alone at her desk. After addressing the envelope, she re-read the letter the children had composed. Some of the entries made her laugh out loud. Others made her heart ache:

  I miss the way you flik off fliz with yer tal.

  Creed Allen

  Ridin on yoo, I felt jest lik a hawk in the sky.

  Wanda Beck

  I miss your wild beauty as you ran through the fields.

  Rob Allen

  Yer eazee to talk 2.

  Mountie O’Teale

  I mis the wa yu lovd everbodee. Even me.

  Lundy Taylor

  Even Ruby Mae had relented and added a note, although hers was very brief:

  I love you.

  Ruby Mae

  Well, Christy thought as she folded up the letter and placed it in the envelope, their spelling needs plenty of work, but not their hearts.

  “Howdy, Miz Huddleston.” Ben Pentland, the mailman, appeared in the doorway, dripping wet.

  “Mr. Pentland! Come on in and dry yourself off. You must be freezing.”

  The tall, weathered man removed his hat and stepped inside the schoolroom. He had a long, slim face, creased by wind and weather, and bushy eyebrows that arched above deepset eyes. Carefully, he set down his mailbag.

  “I’ve got a letter for you, Miz Huddleston, all the way from Asheville.” He fished inside the bag, then handed an ivory envelope to Christy.

  “It’s from my mother,” she said, smiling at the curly handwriting. “And as it happens, I have a letter for you.”

  Mr. Pentland examined the address. “But . . . I don’t mean to pry, Miz Huddleston, but ain’t this letter to a . . . well, a horse?”

  “The children miss Prince so much. I know it seems silly, but I thought perhaps if we wrote him, it would ease their pain a little. Can it be delivered?”

  “Sure can. The U-nited States Postal Service aims to please. I’ll make sure that letter gets delivered.” His eyes twinkled. “’Course, I can’t guarantee it’ll get read, mind you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pentland.” Christy hesitated. “Do you know anything about the folks at Great Oak Farm?”

  The mailman shrugged. “It’s a fancy enough place. ’Course, I don’t deliver mail thataways, but I know the fella who does. Hank Drew’s his name.”

  “Maybe you could ask him . . . I mean, if it’s no trouble—”

  “To check up on ol’ Prince? I’d be happy to. Hank’s a bit of a busybody, anyway.”

  “Thank you. It’d be nice, just to know how things are going.”

  “You frettin’ about Prince’s new owner?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Collins is a fine man,” Christy said. “It’s just that I want to be sure Prince is adjusting to his new life. That’s all. To put the children’s minds at ease.”

&nbs
p; And my own, she added silently.

  Seven

  That evening, Christy sat in the mission parlor by a crackling fire and began to write in her diary. She’d filled the pages with her hopes and fears, her embarrassing moments, and her happy ones. Writing down her feelings helped her understand what was happening in her life—the same thing she’d hoped to accomplish today by having the children write a letter to Prince.

  Tonight, Prince was very much in her thoughts:

  I’m not sure why I can’t get that image of Mr. Collins out of my mind—the memory of him tossing aside the blanket and bridle. He’s a wealthy man, after all. Perhaps he couldn’t see the point in keeping the children’s handiwork. To me, those items are worth more than all the riches a man like Mr. Collins possesses, because they’re gifts from the heart.

  What troubles me most was that he’d promised he would take the items. Was he lying? Or was he just trying to be kind to Ruby Mae? Perhaps, when we were gone, he figured there would be no harm in getting rid of the blanket and bridle. After all, he probably assumed he’d never see us again.

  Maybe I’m making too much of this. He was very kind to Prince and Ruby Mae before that. It’s just that there was something about his smile . . . something insincere.

  Listen to me. I’m letting my imagination get carried away again! Sometimes I think I should be a writer instead of a teacher, the way I’m always making up stories.

  Christy paused when she heard someone come into the parlor.

  “Am I interruptin’?” Ruby Mae asked. She was dressed in her flannel nightgown and wearing a pair of floppy, hand-me-down socks.

  “Not at all. I’d be glad for the company.”

  “What you writin’?”

  “Actually, I was just writing about Prince. I miss him a lot.”

  Ruby Mae sat next to Christy on the sofa. “Me too. Does the hurtin’ ever get any easier, Miz Christy?”

  “Time’s a great healer. You’ll see.”

  “Maybe.” Ruby Mae didn’t sound convinced. “It just seems like sometimes I can’t get my mind off him. You know?”

  “I have an idea.” Christy set her diary aside. From her skirt pocket, she retrieved the letter from her mother. She passed the crisp envelope to Ruby Mae. “This is a letter from my mother that Mr. Pentland brought today. I was saving it to read this evening. Why don’t you open it, and we’ll read it together?”

  “Me?” Ruby Mae’s eyes glowed. “Open a real, for-true letter?”

  “You can read it out loud. It’ll be good practice.”

  Ruby Mae ran her finger over the sealing wax on the back of the letter, embossed with the letter H. “Is H for Huddleston?”

  “That’s right. Just slip your fingernail under the seal and the envelope will open.”

  “Oh, but I just can’t, Miz Christy. It’s way too purty.”

  “Go ahead, Ruby Mae. How else will I know what the letter says?”

  “When we’re done, can I keep the envelope for my own?”

  “Sure.”

  Slowly, carefully, Ruby opened the envelope and withdrew a piece of thick, ivory stationery.

  “Look at how purty your ma writes!” Ruby Mae exclaimed. “All those curlicues like a piglet’s tail!”

  “I know you’re just starting to learn to read cursive writing,” Christy said. “Whenever you come to a word you can’t figure out, you just tell me.”

  Ruby Mae cleared her throat and sat up very straight. “‘Dearest Christy,’” she began. She grinned. “Guess your ma don’t have no cause to call you Miz.”

  Again she cleared her throat. “‘I can’t tell you how much your feather and I—’”

  “That’s probably father, Ruby Mae.”

  “Oops. Yes’m. I do believe it is. Less’n your ma’s married to a feather duster.” Ruby Mae took a deep breath.

  “‘—how much your father and I miss you, even after these many months. I find myself talking about you every chance I get. Why, just last Sunday at church, I was telling the editor of the Asheville C—’” Ruby Mae frowned. “C—C—”

  “Sound it out,” Christy advised.

  “Cou . . . cuckoo?” Ruby asked hopefully.

  “Courier. It’s the Asheville newspaper.”

  “‘I was telling the editor of the Asheville Courier all about your adventures, and the interesting people you’ve met.’”

  Ruby Mae glanced at Christy. “Do you ever talk about me, Miz Christy?”

  “Of course. You’re one of Cutter Gap’s most interesting characters.”

  “How about that! Me, a character!”

  “Ruby Mae—the letter.”

  “Oh. I plumb forgot. Let’s see . . . ‘He said he’d love to do an article about you, but Cutter Gap is so re . . . remote . . . he just couldn’t afford to send a reporter. So I suggested you become a reporter for him and send him articles about your life in Cutter Gap, since you’re such a fine writer. And he thought it was a splendid idea.’”

  Ruby Mae gasped. “Miz Christy! You could write stories about us for a real newspaper! Wouldn’t that just be amazin’? Why, we’d be famous!”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Christy protested. “I mean, I’m a teacher, not a writer.”

  “You write things in your diary most every day.”

  “But that’s different. That’s just for me. Besides, who would want to read about my life in Cutter Gap?”

  Ruby Mae looked crestfallen. “I s’pose you’re right. Those rich people in Asheville don’t give a hoot about folks like us.”

  “Oh, Ruby Mae. That’s not what I meant at all!” Christy cried. “It’s just that I’m no reporter. I wouldn’t know how to describe my life here. I wouldn’t be able to do it justice.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ruby Mae said quietly. “It’s like today, when you asked us to write Prince how we was feelin’. I thought and thought, but I just couldn’t find the right words.”

  “But you did. You wrote exactly the right words. Three of them, to be exact.”

  “So how come you couldn’t do it, too?”

  “This is different. The paper’s going to want more than three words.”

  “So fancy ’em up a bit.”

  Christy shook her head. “I don’t think so, Ruby Mae.”

  “Fine. Guess I won’t get to be famous, after all.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you’ll be famous someday, Ruby Mae,” Christy smiled, “but there’s plenty of time for that.”

  Eight

  Three weeks after Prince’s sale, Mr. Pentland came to the door of the mission house. “Special delivery from the U-nited States Postal Service!”

  “Mr. Pentland,” Christy cried, “look at all these boxes! What have you brought us?”

  He pointed to the load of crates on his small wagon. “Looks like supplies, unless I miss my guess. All I can tell you is some of them is right heavy.”

  Miss Alice, David, and Miss Ida came to the door. “My, you are a welcome sight, Ben Pentland!” Miss Ida exclaimed.

  Mr. Pentland blushed. “Just doin’ my job, ma’am.”

  “We have Prince to thank for this bounty,” Miss Alice said.

  “Without that money, we wouldn’t have been able to buy these supplies.”

  “That reminds me, Mr. Pentland,” Christy said. “Do you know if the children’s letter to Prince was safely delivered? It’s only been about two weeks since we sent it, but still, I was hoping for a reply of some kind.”

  David winked at Christy. “He’s a fine horse,” he said, “but as far as I know, his penmanship is lousy.”

  “I meant from Mr. Collins,” Christy said, grinning. “Of course, he’s probably too busy . . .”

  “There’s somethin’ I need to be tellin’ you folks, much as it pains me,” Mr. Pentland said. He hefted a crate off the cart and set it on the ground, then paused.

  “What is it, Mr. Pentland?” Christy asked.

  The mailman stroked his chin. “Guess there ain’t any good way
to say this. I ran into Hank Drew yesterday mornin’ over at the general store in El Pano. He’s the one I told you about, Miz Huddleston, the mailman over to those parts.”

  “The one who delivers mail to Great Oak Farm?” Christy asked.

  “Yep. I asked Hank about the letter to Prince, seein’ as how it was a mighty unusual piece o’ deliverin’. I’ve delivered plenty of mail in my time, but I can tell you for sure and certain I ain’t never delivered mail to no horse! To any critter, come to think of it.”

  Christy nodded patiently. Mr. Pentland didn’t talk much, but when he did, he had a slow, deliberate way of getting to the point.

  “Anyways, Hank and me got to talkin’, and he said he gave one of the stable hands— Uriah was his name, I think—the letter.” Mr. Pentland offered Christy an apologetic look. “This Uriah fella just up and laughed and crumpled the letter up in a ball. Said maybe Prince’d want to eat it.”

  “Well, I suppose I should have expected that,” Christy said sadly. “After all, the point of the letter was to make the children feel better.”

  Mr. Pentland cleared his throat. “Thing is, that ain’t the whole of it, Miz Huddleston. Seems Uriah told Hank that Prince has been nothin’ but trouble since the day they bought him. Ran away twice, he said.”

  “I’m not really surprised,” David said grimly. “Prince always has had a mind of his own.”

  “It’d be bad enough, the runnin’ away,” Mr. Pentland said. “But Hank told me as he was leavin’, he heard the sound of a whip, crackin’ away like thunder. A man was screamin’ and carryin’ on. And a frightened horse was stomping and whinnying something fierce.” He shook his head. “It was Prince. One of the stable hands was beatin’ him like there was no tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no!” Christy cried.

  David clenched his fists in fury. “I’ll . . . I’ll go straight to that Collins, and I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Why, I ought to—”

  “David,” Miss Alice interrupted, “calm down. We’re all upset to hear that Prince is being treated badly. But uttering idle threats isn’t going to help.”