No Small Thing

by Natale Ghent

  “We’re lost!” Cid says furiously.

  “We are not lost!” I yell back, although I’m not sure. “Just keep your mouth shut or you’ll scare Queenie!”

  But Queenie doesn’t look scared. I pull out the piece of phone book with the directions that Cid wrote. “The lady said we need to go left at this point,” I say, trying to sound confident.

  “You have no idea,” Cid says, sneering.

  “Then, why don’t you go your way and Queenie and I will go my way?”

  Cid glowers at me. She doesn’t have the guts to go off on her own.

  We walk along in silence now and it seems to be taking forever. I’m thinking that maybe I was wrong, and wouldn’t Cid just love that. But the farm finally comes into sight. I know it’s the right one because it has a small red barn with hay up to the rafters, just like the woman described over the phone. The house is bright yellow and as neat as a daffodil. There is a clean white picket fence around the perimeter. It looks like it would bemore comfortable in the city. In fact, it looks as out of place here in the country as Dorothy’s house looked after it dropped out of the sky in the land of Oz. There is a split-rail paddock to the right. A boy and a girl are sitting side by side on the top rail. They are as clean and orderly as the picket fence. They look as though they never fight. The boy is holding a Luke Skywalker action figure—the same one I want—twelve inches tall with the Tatooine desert outfit, grappling hook and light-sabre. Removable tunic, pants and boots. Fully articulated at the shoulders, legs and hips. The stores have been sold out for weeks. I can’t help but feel jealous. I bet he’s lost all the accessories already. For a second I consider taking it from the kid….

  And then I see the pony. He’s standing in the middle of the paddock, sniffing the air. He is a pure white stallion with a black muzzle. His mane and tail are long and flowing. His eyes are dark and his coat is shaggy. He has three black hooves and one white one at the front. He’s wearing a worn red webbing halter. And he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

  Queenie starts to run towards the paddock. Suddenly, I can’t help myself and I start to run too. Then all three of us are running. The boyyells to his mother that we are here. I don’t even tell them my name as I skid up to the fence. I can’t take my eyes off the pony. The mother comes out of the daffodil house, the screen door slapping shut behind her.

  “Hello,” she says cheerfully.

  She has smooth blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Her hands are delicate and soft, not at all like the farm wives I know. She’s perfect in every way. She looks like a movie star.

  “There he is,” she says, pointing at the pony.

  “He’s beautiful,” I say at last. “We’d like to take him.”

  “Don’t you want to get a closer look?”

  I shake my head.

  Queenie is staring at the pony, not saying a thing. I know she’s getting thoughtful.

  “Don’t your kids like to ride him?” she asks in a soft, faraway voice.

  “Oh, they’re kind of afraid of him,” the woman admits. “He’s a little bit wild. We only bought him because we thought the children would like a pony. But they never really took to him. Better to give him away to someone who will pay more attention to him.”

  “He’s green,” I say knowingly.

  The woman looks at me. She smiles, brushing a lock of silky blonde hair from her eyes. “Yes, I suppose that’s what you call it.”

  I guess I’m showing off a bit here but I can’t help it. Like I said before, we didn’t always live in town. We used to live in a big yellow house nicer than the daffodil. We practically grew up on horseback. “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “Smokey.”

  “Smokey.” Queenie repeats the name in a whisper.

  “He was all black when he was little,” the woman explains. “It seems kind of funny to call him that, now that he’s all white.”

  “I like it,” Queenie says.

  “Do you have a place to keep him?” the woman asks.

  Queenie looks at me. Cid stares at the ground. I look the woman in the face and do something I know is wrong. I lie. “Yes, ma’am, we do.”

  I know it’s not right to lie. Ma would be so disappointed if she knew. But I just couldn’t go home without that pony. Not now. Not after coming all this way. I couldn’t do that to Queenie.

  Cid doesn’t even protest like she normally would. That’s because she knows I have to lie in this case. And then the lie gets bigger. I tell the woman that our mom would have come with usbut she was busy working. She gave us permission to go ahead and get the pony ourselves. I tell her we would have borrowed a trailer from one of our friends, but they were all busy too. I say that we are just going to walk him home and that will be all right because it isn’t that far, really.

  The woman looks at me kind of funny but she doesn’t question me.

  “You can keep the halter. We have a lead to match and some brushes. You can take those too.” She disappears into the barn, then reappears with a bag that holds the lead rope and some brushes and things. She hands the bag to Cid.

  I take the bridle from Queenie and place the shiny silver bit gently against Smokey’s teeth. He smells wonderful, like newly mown hay and rolled oats. He may be green, but I can tell from his eyes that he’s really gentle. He snorts softly, then opens his mouth to take the bit. I pull the bridle up, fumbling with his ears because I’m nervous about spooking him, and then I fasten the chinstrap.

  Once I have all the straps done up properly I cluck softly to get him to come along. Smokey hangs back for a bit, then walks on. I cluck again and lead him from the paddock. I don’t take the time to admire him or check his feet or anything, because I’m afraid those kids will change their minds and want him back. But they just sit on the fence rail saying nothing. I can’t believe they would let total strangers walk away with their pony. I know that Queenie is thinking the same thing, and secretly, we don’t care. If those kids didn’t take to Smokey, they should give him to some kids who will. And that’s us.

  “Thank you,” I say to the woman.

  She smiles and nods. “Take care.”

  And that’s that. I can’t believe how easy it was.

  chapter 3

  the ride home

  I take the reins and walk Smokey through the gate and down the lane. Queenie is skipping along next to me. We haven’t even hit the road when Cid starts in about how she wants to ride him.

  “You have to wait. I don’t want them to see us riding him in case Smokey kicks up and one of us falls off.”

  “You’re not the boss of everything,” Cid says.

  At this point I want to hit her with the reins because I know it would hurt a lot. “Just wait until they can’t see us,” I hiss at her, my eyes squinting. She can see that I’m serious and backs off.

  Queenie is walking with one hand on Smokey’s neck. She hasn’t said a thing but her eyes are wide as saucers. I run my hand along the pony’s neck. I can feel his muscles moving in an easy rhythm as he walks. His eyes are dark and kind, and his nostrils are bright pink and dewy on the inside.

  When we can’t see the farm any more, I tell Cid she can ride him. “I’ll hold the reins while you get on.”

  She hands me the bag of brushes, then swings her leg up. Smokey quickly steps to one side. Cid hops on one foot like a pogo stick, her other leg still slung halfway over Smokey’s back.

  “Hold him still!” she says angrily.

  “Just hurry up and get on!” I tell her, and then I talk to Smokey the way cowboys do in the movies. “Whoa now, easy, boy.” I stroke his muzzle for extra assurance. He snorts and tosses his head. He doesn’t know what to think. I scrub his forelock and talk softly in his ear until Cid slings herself up. Smokey’s back legs buckle slightly as he considers her weight. I hold the reins near the bit and hand the rest over Smokey’s head to Cid. When I let go, Smokey lays his ears flat. I can tell he doesn’t like the idea. Cid taps his sides with her heels
—and the ride is on!

  Smokey springs forward, then steps quickly to one side. His back legs compress and then he prances like a Lippizaner. Queenie watches with her big eyes. Cid holds the reins tightly with one hand and clutches a handful of Smokey’s mane with the other. She keeps her legs pressed to Smokey’s sides. Her teeth are clenched and her face is serious. I have to admit I’m impressed with her guts—really impressed—but I would never tell her that.

  “Give him another little kick,” I say, when Smokey stops. Cid kicks him and he lunges forward again.

  Despite all the snorting and stamping, Smokey never goes really wild. I can tell by his eyes that he feels obliged to put up a bit of a fuss—for dignity’s sake—but that his heart isn’t mean at all. He soon settles and gets used to the idea of the weight on his back. He walks quickly, blowing through flared nostrils and swinging his head from side to side. His mane dances up and down and his tail streams out behind him like a comet. Queenie trots beside him, her hand against his neck like she’s afraid to let go in case he disappears into the summer air like a mirage.

  By the time Cid lets me on him, Smokey is pretty much broke. He doesn’t try to step away when I get on, but stands and waits for me to gather the reins. He whinnies loudly while he waits, and I can feel the air pushing through him, his sides quivering against my legs. His coat is soft and warm, and I fit comfortably behind his withers like he was made for me. I give him a nudge with my heels, and he lurches forward, picking along the gravel road with quick, even steps.

  The sunlight is fading now. We move in and out of the shadows, the trees casting long darkbands across the road. I am so happy, I feel like I could ride forever. I want to keep following the sun until we reach the ocean. I would ride through the waves that foam and crash against the sand….

  Then I remember Queenie. She’s been waiting so patiently for her turn, her small hand still resting against the pony’s neck as she trots alongside him. “You get on now, Queenie,” I say, reining Smokey to a stop. I jump off and hold him by the bridle. I grab Queenie and push her up, then hand her the reins. I give a cluck, cluck with my tongue, and Smokey gets up, moving smoothly forward. I stay close, just in case, and I watch Queenie. “How do you like it up there, Queenie?”

  Queenie’s whole face smiles. Her eyes glow as she watches Smokey. I think she looks like an angel riding that white pony, the sunlight shining behind her, the little tendrils from her wheat-coloured braids shimmering around her face.

  I’m watching Queenie like this when something awful happens. From out of nowhere, we are attacked by a big, stupid dog. It charges out of the woods and hits us like a freight train. A Bouvier, I think. I don’t know what a dog like that is doing out in the middle of the country. It must have broken off its leash or its owners let it outand forgot about it, but at this point it doesn’t matter. The dog is snapping and growling like it’s rabid or possessed, and suddenly there’s a mess of fangs and black fur all over Smokey. I grab the reins as Smokey rears into the air to get away. He spins around squealing, Queenie holding on to his mane with both hands, her face frozen in fear. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Cid is yelling and lashing at the dog with the chain on the end of the lead rope. I’m kicking at the dog. Smokey is kicking too, his back legs thumping on the dog again and again. It’s yelping and snarling like crazy. I feel a sharp pain in my left leg but I keep kicking anyway. Before I know it, the reins break free from my hand with a jerk that almost pulls my arm from its socket. Smokey bolts down the road, the reins whipping in front of his legs, the dog tearing after him like the devil.

  “Hold on, Queenie!” I shout.

  But it’s too late. She hits the ground like a rag doll. Smokey and the dog disappear over a hump in the road and are gone.

  Cid and I run to where Queenie is lying on the road. Her eyes are closed and she’s struggling to breathe. “Queenie, are you hurt?” I ask her. My mind is racing. I can see blood on the side of her face, and I’m scared.

  “Do something!” Cid screams at me.

  “Queenie, get up,” I say, pushing on her shoulder.

  Queenie moans and her eyes flutter. “The pony….”

  “Sit up, Queenie,” I tell her, trying to sound strong even though my voice is cracking. “The pony is fine. We’ll get him in a bit.”

  “Ma’s gonna kill us….” Cid says.

  “Shut up!” I snap.

  Queenie’s eyes flutter some more. I put my arm around her waist and pull her up. Her face twists in pain. Her lip is cut and bleeding. When I finally get her to stand, I see that there is something seriously wrong. There is a lump at her collarbone and the skin has already turned blue—from the blood underneath, I think. I’m not a doctor but I can tell this isn’t good.

  “Oh God,” Cid whispers.

  I scowl at her, and she knows enough to be quiet. She hugs the brushes to her chest, tears welling up in her eyes. I give her another look because I don’t want her to start crying and make everything worse.

  “That was some good riding, Queenie,” I say, trying to take her mind off the pain.

  “Where’s the pony?” Queenie murmurs.

  “He’s just over the hill,” I lie, for the second time in one day. It seems lying gets easier the more you do it. Or maybe there are no half measures when it comes to lies—either you’re a liar or you’re not….

  We weave drunkenly down the road, me supporting Queenie, Cid clutching at her stomach, trying to keep the tears from coming. We’re in a real mess now, that’s for sure. I try to imagine what Luke Skywalker would do in a situation like this but I can’t think of a single thing. Han Solo was better at tight situations anyway, but that doesn’t help matters. For some reason I have KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Keep It Comin’ Love” playing in a loop through my head.

  As we reach the top of the road, I am thankful to see Smokey standing at the bottom of the hill, just like I promised Queenie. His eyes are wild. The dog is nowhere to be seen, and I’m glad. I hope Smokey managed to kick it senseless.

  “Look, Queenie,” I say brightly. “Smokey’s right there waiting for us, just like I said.”

  This seems to make her feel better. We shuffle towards the pony, and all I can think is, Thank you, Smokey, for not trying to run back home. How would I have explained that to the lady? He doesn’t bolt when I walk up to him, but leans hishead against my chest as though he’s known me since he was a colt. I run my hand along his neck and down his legs, one after the other. There are some scratches and marks, but mostly he’s fine.

  “Do you think you can get back on him?” I ask Queenie. “I’ll lead him this time. It will be fine. You have to get back on a horse if you’ve been thrown, so he knows you aren’t afraid.” That’s the truth, but it isn’t why I said it. I’m really hoping that Queenie isn’t as hurt as she seems and that she’ll just get on the pony like before. If I can convince her to get back on Smokey, maybe everything will be okay.

  But she doesn’t need convincing. Like I said, of the three of us, Queenie wants the pony most of all. Cid holds the reins while I help Queenie up. Queenie cries out because of her collarbone but she doesn’t make a big deal of it, and soon we’re moving along the road at a good pace.

  chapter 4

  ghosts

  Despite the trouble we’re in, we all start thinking about what we’re going to do with Smokey.

  “Where are we going to keep him, Nathaniel?” Cid asks.

  I don’t say a thing. There’s a long, loud silence.

  “How about the shed out back?” Queenie mumbles.

  “We can’t keep him in the backyard,” Cid says in frustration. “It’s not legal. We don’t have anywhere to keep him, Nathaniel. We’re screwed.”

  “No, we’re not,” I finally say. “I was thinking up at Forest Road.”

  “Clem’s barn?” Cid gasps. “Oh, Nathaniel, no! I don’t want to see that awful pig man ever again!”

  The pig man. He was awful. We knew him from when w
e were little kids living in the big stone house up on Forest Road. When we first moved to Eastview we rented that house. Dad was around then. Clem lived in the barn down the lane. He lived no better than an animal out there with those pigs. He used to chase us with abullwhip when he caught us playing in the hay. We never told Ma that.

  “He’s dead and you know it. He fell off a beam and broke his neck.”

  “What if his ghost is there?” Cid asks. “That’s what everybody says. People hear him in there, and someone even said they heard his pigs squealing.”

  “His ghost is not there. If he had a soul at all, it’s suffering in hell. Nothing as nice as a horse barn. Besides, we have no choice. It’s the cheapest place around. Clem is dead and gone. Ted Henry owns the barn. If we pay board, no one can stop us from being there. Not Clem’s ghost or anyone else.”

  We all think about this for a while, walking for a very long time without saying anything. As we’re walking, I look over my shoulder from time to time. Queenie’s face is pinched and white as milk, and this reminds me that we’re in big trouble. I don’t even know if Ted Henry will let us keep Smokey in his barn, but I can’t afford to think like that now. I remember the pain in my leg and look down to see that my pants are torn below the knee. My leg looks all scraped and it stings, but that’s the least of my worries. It’s getting darker and darker and the trees are startingto blur into big blobs at the side of the road. I can see stars poking through the sky and a sliver of moon pushing up through the branches.

  “My feet hurt,” Cid groans.

  I want to be mad at her for being selfish, but for some reason I can’t. I look up at Queenie, who sits hunched over the pony. Smokey is walking with his eyes half closed, his soft breath a warm pulse against my hand. “We’re almost there.”

  Sure enough, the gravel road soon becomes asphalt and we are on the edge of town.