Season of Ponies

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Pamela was excited as she started out along the north pasture cowpath early Saturday morning. It was so different to know, or almost know, that she was going to see Ponyboy and the ponies. But when she reached the gate at the end of the pasture, there was no sign of ponies or boy. She waited and was beginning to wonder if he had decided not to come, when a bird called sharply from a clump of trees on the hillside just beyond the gate. A bird, or was it?

  Pamela quickly opened the gate and in a moment was among the trees. She looked around. Nothing stirred. Short, sun-dappled grass, tall pines and oaks, but nothing else. Perhaps it was only a bird.

  Just then a giggle directly over her head made her jump. There, stretched out on a limb, was Ponyboy—his hands under his chin. He sat up and shoved himself off the branch, landing lightly beside Pamela.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’ll carry the lunch. I left the ponies farther up the hill.”

  Shadow Glen was beautiful that day. The sun was warm, but it was cool and dusky under the trees that edged the brook. While the ponies grazed, Pamela and Ponyboy made boats of tree bark, manned them with people made from hoarhound sprigs, and ran them over the rapids. While the daring hoarhound boatmen shot the waterfall, Pamela made up names and life histories for each limp green hero.

  “This is Stanley Drudger,” she announced, shoving a boat out into the current. “He’s a street sweeper. His wife and eleven children are watching down there by the waterfall. He entered this race because he needs the prize money to buy shoes for his children.”

  Pamela and Ponyboy leaned over the bank and watched the tiny craft bobbing precariously over the rapids. The boat plunged over the waterfall and disappeared under the swirling water.

  “Oh, oh,” said Ponyboy. “There go the new shoes.”

  “And daddy, too,” sighed Pamela. “It’s sad, isn’t it?”

  Just then the boat popped up beyond the whirlpool, still carrying its hoarhound sailor.

  “Hurrah!” shouted Pamela and Ponyboy. “Hurrah for Stanley Drudger!”

  Pamela picked out an especially handsome hoarhound man, long and limply graceful.

  “Next will be Sir James Diddle-Dumpling, from a noble British family. He’s shooting the rapids to impress his sweetheart Lady Gwendolyn. She says he’s a sissy.”

  “I don’t blame her,” said Ponyboy. “He looks like one to me with that head.”

  Well I think he’s handsome. He can’t help it if his head happens to be a daisy.”

  Sir James was launched and soared grandly over the fall. The boat landed right side up in the whirlpool, spun round and round, and disappeared as if it went down the bathtub drain. After a long moment the capsized boat appeared—without Sir James.

  Pamela and Ponyboy exchanged tragic glances. Ponyboy shook his head slowly. “He should have stayed a sissy,” he said solemnly. Pamela giggled.

  After a while they ran out of boats and decided to hold a funeral for the race’s unlucky victims, Sir James and another unfortunate named Percival Poppyhead. They had a grand funeral procession which Solsken joined until they had to disqualify him for frisking. The heroes were buried near the site of their glorious deaths.

  “Let’s eat lunch,” suggested Ponyboy. “Mourning makes me hungry.”

  Fear Comes Closer

  PAMELA AND PONYBOY SPREAD their picnic on the ledge and ate until they were stuffed. Solsken decided he much preferred cookies to grass and hung around getting in the way, almost stepping in the lemonade. Finally, they took what was left of the cookies up to where the fork of a huge old oak tree made a comfortable nest-like seat. Solsken wandered around below, looking up at them and stamping his tiny hooves.

  “Why don’t your aunts take you with them when they go shopping?” Ponyboy asked suddenly. “Don’t they like you very much?”

  Pamela was startled by the question. “No,” she stammered. “I mean—no, they do like me—and they would take me if I wanted to go. But they were used to not having children around for so long that it makes them sort of nervous; and it makes me nervous to be around people that I’m making nervous. So I’d rather stay home. Besides, they sit and talk to other ladies for hours. It’s not much fun.”

  Ponyboy considered this for a moment. “How about your father?” he asked. “I guess he doesn’t want you along with him either?”

  “He does, too,” Pamela said indignantly. “But he can’t take me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, he travels all the time, and lives in dingy hotels, and has to eat at restaurants, and—”

  Ponyboy’s shrug dismissed all those things as unimportant.

  “Besides, there’s Aunt Sarah. You see Aunt Sarah is my father’s sister. She’s older than he is, and she took care of Aunt Elsie and my father after their parents died. I guess they just got used to doing what she said when they were little, and it’s hard for them to stop.”

  Ponyboy shook his head disapprovingly. Pamela was beginning to feel unhappy in the midst of such a wonderful day. But Ponyboy suddenly changed the subject.

  “Let’s tell some more stories,” he said.

  Pamela knew by now that this meant she would tell stories and Ponyboy would comment on them, but she didn’t mind. Some of his comments were fascinating and very puzzling.

  “That’s silly!” he’d say when she finished a story. “Goblins don’t do things like that. I’ve never known a goblin that acted that way.” Once, after a story about a troll, he said, “I met a troll once. He was ugly, but he really wasn’t very dangerous.”

  Pamela was fascinated, but she never asked questions. She knew it wouldn’t do. Once she had said, “Is that really true?” and Ponyboy hadn’t spoken to her for an hour.

  On this particular day Pamela couldn’t think of any stories that she hadn’t already told.

  “I’ve told all the best ones,” she said. “There’re just some awfully common ones like Hansel and Gretel and Goldilocks.”

  “That one will do,” he said.

  “Which one?”

  “That one you said first—Hansel and Griddle.”

  For the first time Pamela really realized that no one had ever told him fairy tales before. Imagine growing up to be—whatever age he was—and not ever hearing Hansel and Gretel.”

  At the end of the story, Ponyboy had some comments to make as usual. “She was a pretty stupid witch to be tricked so easily. I’ll bet they couldn’t have fooled the Pig Woman like that.”

  “Who’s the Pig Woman?” popped out before Pamela could stop it.

  But Ponyboy seemed too startled by her question to notice it was one. “Don’t you know?” he asked in wonder. “You mean no one’s ever warned you? Well, isn’t that just like Them! That proves They don’t really care what happens to you.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me then?” Pamela asked. “Or don’t you care what happens to me either?”

  Ponyboy looked impatient. “You sound just like a girl,” he said indignantly.

  Well, I can’t help that, Pamela thought; but it didn’t seem wise to say it.

  Finally Ponyboy stopped frowning. Slowly and reluctantly he said, “I wouldn’t want to see the Pig Woman get hold of anyone. I don’t much like to talk about her, but you really ought to know. Do you remember the swamp we rode by over below Sleeping Lady Mountain?”

  Pamela could suddenly see the bleak gray swampland with its twisted, moss-hung trees and black, still water. She shuddered. “Yes, I remember.”

  “That’s where the Pig Woman lives,” Ponyboy said. “Only sometimes she comes out into the forest.”

  “Why is she called the Pig Woman?” asked Pamela. “And why is she so dangerous?” It seemed strange that Ponyboy, who seemed not at all afraid of anything else, should be almost afraid to talk about this mysterious person.

  “Look, Girl,” he said. “Just remember if you see a woman with some thin black pigs—run as fast as you can! Or if you hear a woman’s voice singing anywhere in the forest, particularly near t
he swamp—run! That’s all you need to know. Just run!” And he wouldn’t say any more.

  They had to leave Shadow Glen soon after that, to get Pamela home in time for dinner. On the way home she tried once or twice to bring up the subject again, but without success.

  Then one night not long afterward, when she and Ponyboy were playing with the ponies in the forest clearing, a strange thing happened. They were trying to teach Solsken to jump over a rope when suddenly Cirro whinnied, high and shrill. Instantly all was quiet in the meadow as every pony stopped as still as a statue, listening. Pamela glanced at Ponyboy. With the rope still in his hand, he stood as if turned to stone while his dark eyes grew large and his golden skin paled.

  Then Pamela heard a faraway voice singing. High and clear, beautiful and yet evil, the song drifted into the clearing.

  As Pamela watched, Ponyboy began to move slowly toward the sound. His eyes were cold brown glass.

  “Ponyboy!” Pamela screamed.

  Suddenly his eyes were alive again. He clapped both hands over his ears and ran to Cirro. Leaping on the pony’s back, he gave the sharp whistle he used to call the other ponies. The frozen ponies sprang to life and together they dashed away into the forest. As Cirro rushed past, Pamela felt herself being lifted into the air. A moment later Nimbus was running beside them, and Ponyboy dropped her onto the gray mare’s back.

  Lying low on the ponies’ necks, they fled through the whipping branches of the forest. Then out onto the open hillside they swept. Up to the top, and a sliding rush down the other side. But this was not like the wonderful moonlight rides they had had so many times before. This time fear rode beside them.

  After a long while they stopped and rested in a little valley. Pamela tried to question Ponyboy, but he only shook his head.

  Some time later they came, quietly, to the woods behind the old barn, and the ponies gathered around for Pamela’s good-by pat. Ponyboy had been very strange and quiet on the ride home, but now he grinned and touched his curly forelock in a mock salute.

  “Thank you, Girl,” he said.

  A Puzzling Surprise

  NOTHING WAS CHANGED BY the strange thing that happened that night except that the next few times Pamela met Ponyboy they did not go to the forest meadow. Pamela couldn’t get Ponyboy to talk about what had happened no matter how skillfully she questioned him, but it seemed to her that he was troubled at times. Sometimes he would stop whatever he was doing and listen intently. Then he would be himself again. But he came as often as ever, and they had good times at Shadow Glen and in the forest.

  After awhile they began to go to the clearing again to play games. Pamela was surprised to find how many games, like tag and hide-and-go-seek, could be played on horseback. They played these regularly, until the day they discovered the game of Circus. It started when Pamela was telling Ponyboy about a circus she had been to with her father.

  “The part I liked best,” she said, “was the equestrian act. There was a whole family in fancy costumes who did tricks on a troupe of beautiful, trained ponies.”

  “Bet they weren’t as smart as my ponies,” he said. “What could they do?”

  Pamela told him all about it, down to the last detail, from the plumes on the ponies’ headdresses to the hoops of fire the riders jumped through. When she had told everything she could remember, Ponyboy jumped up excitedly. “Let’s do it!” he cried.

  “Do it? What part of it?” Pamela asked.

  He gestured impatiently. “Everything. All of it.”

  “But you can’t just do those things. I mean not really. We could sort of pretend; but to really do the tricks, you’d have to practice and practice and it wouldn’t be easy. I read in a book once about how you start in a practice harness and—”

  “A practice harness?” Ponyboy asked.

  “Yes. It holds you up if you fall off the horse. Its fastened to a sort of crane overhead and—”

  “Bring the book next time,” Ponyboy interrupted. “I want to see it.”

  “Oh, I can’t. It was from the library in town. I got it out once when I went to town with my aunts.”

  “Well, take it out again then.”

  “I’m—I’m not allowed to go to the library any more.”

  “Oh?” Ponyboy asked. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, really. Right after I got that book out, Aunt Sarah decided to go to the library and pick my books out for me. She said she would select more suitable material.”

  “Just like Them,” he muttered disgustedly. “What’s wrong with a book about bareback riding, I’d like to know.”

  “I don’t know. I wondered about it.”

  Ponyboy’s shrug said that the whole thing was beyond sensible comment. “We don’t need a book,” he said cockily. “We’ll learn without it. It’ll be easy.”

  The very next day Pamela had scarcely reached her room when she heard the flute’s call. Ponyboy had never come two nights in a row before. Surprised and delighted, Pamela scrambled down the trellis and arrived breathless under the oak tree where he waited impatiently. When they reached the meadow, Pamela saw that he had outlined with stones a small practice ring. It lay at the end of the clearing under a huge old oak, and from a sturdy branch there hung a practice harness.

  “I made the harness from some stuff I found in the old barn,” he said proudly. “And I’ve been training the ponies. I think we’re ready to start learning.”

  Pamela wasn’t nearly so sure. To stand up on a galloping pony’s back seemed pretty scary even with a harness. “But the ponies can’t be ready,” she hedged. “They have to be trained for a long time.”

  “Not my ponies,” Ponyboy said. “Watch!”

  He led Nimbus and Luna into the ring. He clapped his hands, and they began the slow rhythmical gallop of ring horses, their lovely heads tucked down sharply; their manes rippling gently to the softly rocking gait.

  “Oh-h-h,” Pamela breathed, lost in admiration.

  “Well, let’s get started,” Ponyboy said briskly. “Do you want to be first?”

  “No! I mean, you go ahead. I don’t mind.”

  “All right. I just thought you might want a head start. After all, I’m sure to learn much faster than you.”

  He ran to Luna and vaulted onto her back. He caught the practice harness and strapped it around him. Very slowly he raised himself to a squat. He grinned at Pamela triumphantly as he went by. Then he very slowly began to stand up. Suddenly he waved one arm in the air wildly and then one leg and went sailing into space, dangling upside down in the harness. Luna snorted, as he sailed past kicking wildly.

  That was the way it went for some time. Pamela sat on a rock and watched and tried hard not to laugh. Finally Ponyboy unfastened the harness and stopped Luna. He got down and put Nimbus into the ring. “Your turn,” he said. “I want to laugh at you for a change.”

  “You know I can’t jump on her when she’s galloping,” Pamela complained. Looking exasperated, Ponyboy stopped Nimbus and helped Pamela up. Then he handed her the harness.

  As he sat down at the edge of the ring he remarked loudly, “This ought to be good.”

  Pamela let Nimbus gallop around the ring once or twice while she got up her courage. “Well, I might as well get it over with,” she thought. She put her hands flat on the pony’s back and started to lift herself into a squat. To her complete surprise, her muscles suddenly seemed to know what to do. Confidently she lifted to her feet, keeping her knees relaxed, giving with the pony’s action. Then she stood with outstretched arms as Nimbus rocked on, around and around the ring. Ponyboy stared in astonishment, but he was scarcely more surprised than Pamela was herself.

  She was so amazed and delighted at being able to stand erect on the galloping pony’s back, as though she had done it all her life, that it wasn’t until the fourth or fifth trip around the ring that she noticed the look on Ponyboy’s face. She stopped Nimbus quickly and got off. She couldn’t help feeling a little triumphant, but she really di
dn’t want to hurt Ponyboy’s feelings.

  She led Nimbus up to him. “I don’t know how I did it,” she said. “I guess it was just an accident.”

  Ponyboy was generous with his congratulations; however, Pamela noticed that he sent her home rather early on Nimbus, and he didn’t go with her as he usually did. In fact, he stayed away for three days; and when he came for her again, she found he was quite good at riding standing up. So she was fairly certain that she knew just about how long it had taken him to learn.

  She never tried to explain to him how she had learned so easily, partly because she didn’t think he wanted to talk about it, but mostly because she couldn’t begin to understand it herself.

  The Circus Game

  THE CIRCUS GAME SOON absorbed most of their time together. After they had both practiced for several evenings, they moved the ring out to the center of the meadow and made it much larger. They harnessed the two white mares, Neige and Nuage, together and learned to ride them standing with one foot on each pony. They taught all the ponies to gallop in formation, to whirl and turn in unison, and to walk on their hind legs.

  Sometimes they would have a complete show with all the acts planned and scheduled just as if they were performing before a huge audience instead of a few rather indifferent birds and squirrels.

  The ponies would be decorated with bridles made of flowering vines, with plumes of ferns and lilies nodding over their heads. First would come the grand entry with Ponyboy seated on Cirro, Pamela on the lovely pink Aurora, and all the other ponies following two by two. Cirro and Aurora were chosen as the parade leaders partly because they didn’t do well as ring ponies. Neither of them could resist adding all sorts of fancy flourishes to a trip around the ring, flourishes that could easily make a standing rider wind up upside down on the grass. But they were gorgeous as parade leaders, and they knew it.