by Janet Rising
“See ya…” Bean told us as Tiffany leaped into the air and hit the ground at the gallop, totally oblivious to Bean’s wishes. James leaned forward to give Moth the go-ahead and Drummer pulled the reins out of my hands as he stuck his head down and went for it, neck and neck with Bambi. Only Bluey, well-mannered, polite Bluey, set off at a canter for Katy before easing gently into a gallop. James overtook Bean halfway up the field, and Bambi and Drummer reached the top in a dead heat because neither of them wanted to beat the other (see what I mean about nauseating?).
We all stood at the top of the field and looked around at the countryside while the ponies got their breath back. No wonder the Romans had settled here, I thought, drinking in the view. No wonder there had been large houses built around here for centuries after the invaders had sailed back home to the warmth of their native Italy. It seemed strange to think of so many generations of people all looking down from more or less where we all stood now, all seeing—give or take a few trees—the same view as ours on this beautiful May morning.
“Did anyone hear that?” asked Tiffany, lifting her head, her ears twitching.
All the other ponies groaned.
“You need to get the vet to look at your ears,” Bambi told her.
“It’s my nerves,” Tiffany explained.
“Your nerves get on my nerves,” Drummer told her, and he and Bambi put their heads together and sniggered.
“OK,” said James, loosening Moth’s reins so she could stretch her neck, “now we need to think about this other little concern we have, namely, the proposed development at Laurel Farm.”
“Sophie’s friend’s husband has confirmed that we can’t do anything legally,” sighed Katy.
“But we have to stop the development,” I said. The thought of moving to another stable now, when Drum and I had made friends at Laurel Farm, was too much to bear.
“How, exactly?” Cat asked, dropping Bambi’s reins and fiddling with the strap on her riding hat. “We can’t even come up with any workable ideas for the Keep Bambi Campaign.”
“Well, we’re the only people who will care enough to get it stopped,” I said, remembering Drummer’s words. “If we don’t do anything, we’ll lose Laurel Farm. No one else will bother.”
“S.O.S., that’s what it is,” said Katy. “Save Our Stables! There, that’s the name of our new campaign.”
“We’ll have more campaigns than Napoleon at this rate,” remarked James.
“Isn’t he dead?” asked Bean, confused.
“If he wasn’t, we could hit him up for some ideas,” mused Katy.
“Thank goodness Dee isn’t here,” I said. “She’d be all for calling up Napoleon on the Ouija board.”
“Oh, please no,” groaned Bean, “I can’t speak French!”
“Can you all do me a favor?” yelled Cat, her green eyes flashing. “Either fill me in on the séance story or just shut up about it!”
“Do you think anyone else will care?” asked Bean, changing the subject hastily. “About Laurel Farm, I mean, not the sé…”—she looked across at Cat and changed her mind— “the S word.”
“Not really,” said James. “Laurel Farm is just one of lots of stables in this area. I can’t see anyone bothering about it. They’ll just say we can take the ponies elsewhere. Besides, not many people know Laurel Farm even exists. It’s so well hidden from the road. They’re not likely to miss it.”
“Poor Mrs. Collins,” said Bean.
“Yeah,” agreed Cat. “I bet she’s feeling terrible. She won’t want to go into some home and lose the stables, not to mention her cats and Squish.”
“But it sounds like she doesn’t even know about her son’s plans,” Katy reminded us.
Drummer edged toward a bush and tried to eat it. “Let’s go into the woods,” I suggested. “We might find some inspiration there.”
We didn’t. It was nice though, all damp-smelling and mossy underfoot, dappled sunlight finding its way through the trees. A few weeks before, the ground had been smothered with bluebells.
“We need to get some media coverage,” said Katy, her purple hoodie swaying in time to Bluey’s footsteps.
“What, the papers and the TV?” asked Bean.
“Exactly!” Katy said.
“We need a friendly celebrity to be on our side,” said James.
“Like who?”
“No idea, but it would have to be someone sympathetic to ponies,” James continued. “I mean, most people think anyone with horses is so well-off, they can afford their own land. It’s not like our ponies are going to be put down or anything if the development goes through.”
“Shhhh,” hissed Bean, dropping her reins and leaning forward to cover Tiffany’s ears with her hands. Seized by panic, Tiffany put her head down and shook it so violently, Bean slid down her neck onto the ground.
“Whoops, my fault,” said Bean, rolling over and getting to her feet.
“Sorry,” said Tiffany, even though Bean couldn’t hear her. “I thought you were an ear-grabbing monster. Give me some warning next time.”
We all waited for Bean to remount. It took a bit of time because although she is tall and willowy in stature, she has virtually no spring.
“So what sort of story does the media like?” I asked, watching Bean haul herself up by Tiffany’s saddle. If my old riding instructor had seen her she’d have had a complete freak-out on the spot.
“Sensational sob stories,” said James, “with celebrity endorsement!”
“What, like the ponies would all die of broken hearts if they were split up, that sort of thing?” asked Cat.
“Well, they will,” I said, stroking Drummer’s neck. “Drum and Bambi should never be parted.”
“Absolutely!” snorted Drummer.
“Try telling other people that,” said James.
“Do you think that would work?” asked Bambi—but I was the only one who could hear her.
“Some people will care,” snapped Cat. She and James were still not quite back to being totally civil to each other since they’d been out together. It hadn’t ended well. James had dumped Cat, so the atmosphere was still a bit tense between them.
“How about telling them about Mrs. Collins?” asked Bean, back in the saddle again. “She shouldn’t be made homeless because of some development.”
“It’s not like her son is throwing her out on the street,” I said. “She’s going into a home. Lots of people go into a home.”
“Even if they don’t want to,” Bean mumbled.
“I can’t see a story, then,” Katy sighed. “If only we knew someone in TV or who worked on the papers, they might be able to see an angle.”
“Pia’s been on TV,” Bean reminded everyone.
“I don’t know anyone though,” I said. I’d been on TV twice: once on an afternoon talk show with some bigwig horse experts and the second time in a one-time special with just me called Pony Whispering Live! It wasn’t exactly popular with the Hollywood set.
We set off for home, the ponies quickening pace as they knew they’d get fed and turned out in the field once we got back to the yard. All of us were in a somber mood—the ride had produced absolutely no ideas, no solutions. It was mega depressing.
“I can’t bear the thought of all these lovely old farm buildings being torn down for new houses,” Bean wailed as we rode along the drive.
“They’ll probably convert them. People go crazy for converted farm buildings, especially barns,” James told her. “There’ll be a trendy couple living in the stables now inhabited by Dolly, Tiff, Bluey, and Moth. Bambi and Drum’s row will be converted into a garage for their SUVs and sporty little convertibles.”
“Stop it, James!” squealed Bean, putting her hands over her own ears this time.
We all fed
, brushed off, and turned out the ponies before going our separate ways. I biked home part of the way with Bean, peeling off at the crossroads toward the tiny cottage that is home for me and my mom. A shiny red motorcycle was parked outside, which could only mean one thing…
“Anybody home?” I yelled, banging the front door. I so didn’t want my mom and her motorcycle-riding boyfriend not to know I was about to barge in on them. But it was all right—they were sitting entwined around each other on the sofa, eating chocolates in front of a blazing fire and watching the TV. Mom had been going out with Mike-the-bike for almost seven months now. A record. I was relieved. Mike-the-bike was fairly normal compared to most of my mom’s dates—some of them had been really weird and definitely, definitely not sticking-around-material. After stealing a chocolate, I flopped down on the chair and made a face.
“It’s warm outside,” I said. “Why the fire?”
“It’s romantic,” said Mike, giving Mom a look that plainly said that was how she saw it. He looked a bit hot.
My mom slapped his arm and made a face at him. “No brainwaves about how to stop the development yet?” she asked, sucking the chocolate off a Brazil nut before spitting it out into the palm of her hand and throwing it into the fire where it shriveled up with a hiss.
“What a waste!” I exclaimed.
“You could have had it!” joked Mike, aiming a grin in my direction.
“That’s gross!” I replied, totally taking the bait. Mom just shrugged her shoulders and flicked back her blond hair. I could remember a time when she was always putting on airs to impress boyfriends. Thank goodness she was over that phase with Mike.
“No sense wasting good chocolate,” she said, “and I hate Brazil nuts.”
I decided to ignore her. “No, we can’t think of a single way to initiate our Save Our Stables campaign,” I told them miserably.
“You want to get someone famous to help you,” said Mike, yawning.
“That’s what James said,” I told him.
“Something will come up,” said Mike, rather optimistically, I thought.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked, suddenly starving.
“Omelet and salad,” Mom told me.
“What a cop-out,” I moaned.
“You can get it yourself if you have that attitude,” Mom replied, digging out another chocolate and throwing it into her mouth. “Oh yuck,” she said, making a face. “Coffee crème. I’d rather eat a Brazil nut!”
“That’s karma!” I replied, dodging the cushion she threw at me.
I went upstairs to change. As I threw my vest onto the bed, Epona fell out onto the floor and I bent down to pick her up. The tiny stone statue of the goddess sitting sideways on her tiny horse felt rough to the touch.
“It’s hard to imagine you’re so old,” I told her, rubbing my thumb across her face where her nose used to be. It was her only damage, apart from two thousand years’ worth of (not much) wear and tear. I wondered who she had belonged to and how he or she had worshipped her. It was a strange thought. Epona was the Celtic goddess of horses, I remembered, my mind working overtime. Well, it couldn’t hurt, I thought.
After placing Epona on my dressing table, I sat solemnly in front of her, wondering if I had lost all my marbles. I decided it was still worth a try, if only for Drummer’s sake. I was getting desperate.
“Epona,” I said, in my most humble voice, “we need your help. The ponies need your help. You’re supposed to look after them.” (That sounds a bit accusing, I thought, but it was too late to take it back.) “So please, please can you help us save Bambi and Laurel Farm? We’ve tried to think of something ourselves, but we just can’t. Please help us.”
Nothing happened, of course. I didn’t get a blinding burst of inspiration. No grand plan slammed into my head. Epona just sat there silently in her familiar, ancient, stone way, and I felt rather stupid. But then an idea did whoosh into my brain (and who could say that Epona hadn’t put it there?). Didn’t ancient cultures make sacrifices to their gods? I wondered what sort of sacrifice I could make. Slaughtering some animal was way, way out, of course, and I couldn’t think of anything I owned that might be worth something. I had no jewelry, no antique furniture. I couldn’t even think of anything I owned that I particularly valued, even if it wasn’t actually worth money. That was what sacrifices were all about, weren’t they? What did I have that I most valued?
Looking around my room my eyes zoomed immediately to my most treasured possessions—the ribbons and sash I’d won at Brookdale in the Sublime Equine Challenge, my beautiful blue sash that I had always, always dreamed of winning. I remembered how I’d felt when it had been presented to me and Drummer, how proud I had been, how elated I had felt galloping around the famous arena wearing it, just like the top show jumpers.
I felt my heart beating in my chest—it was as though my whole body was throbbing. I felt as though my heart was in my ears, thumping away like a drum.
Drum.
Drummer.
Which was more important to me, some ribbons or my pony? No contest. Besides, it was Drum who had won the sash for me and, whatever happened, I would always remember the day when we’d won it. No one could ever take the memory away, my feeling of pride, my absolute joy. Those feelings could never be lost, never be sacrificed.
Without allowing myself time to think about it, I leaped onto my bed, ripped my beautiful blue sash with its silver writing from the wall, and pausing only to throw Epona a pleading glance and show her what I held in my arms, I ran downstairs, bursting through the living room door to see Mom and Mike turn toward me in surprise. Without meeting their eyes or pausing to give myself a chance to think again, I hurled my prized Brookdale sash into the fire where it immediately burst into flames with a crackle and hiss.
Mom was on her feet in a second, looking at me in bewilderment. “What on earth are you doing?” she shrieked, seizing the fire tongs and lifting the shrinking and spitting sash already engulfed by orange and red flames. “That’s your Brookdale sash, Pia!” she cried, like I didn’t know.
“Leave it. Let it burn!” I implored her. “And please, please don’t ask me why!” I added, turning to gallop back up to my room, failing to fight back the tears.
It’s only a piece of old ribbon, I told myself, throwing myself onto my bed and sobbing. It’s not a sacrifice if it doesn’t mean anything. That’s what a sacrifice is all about.
“Pia, are you all right, love?” It was Mom, tapping on my door.
“I’m OK, Mom, honest,” I managed to say, between gulps. “I just want to be left alone.”
I heard her go back downstairs. She was great at giving me space. After Dad had run off with Skinny Lynny, she knew the value of working through things alone. I rolled over, and even though I didn’t want to, I looked up at the wall. Even with the three beautiful ribbons still hanging there it looked empty. The hole where my beautiful sash had, until moments ago, been hanging seemed vast. After rummaging around in the closet, I pulled out a poster of a beautiful black horse and stuck it in the gaping hole. It didn’t look right. It didn’t look right at all. Nothing could ever replace a Brookdale sash, so desperately coveted, so hard won.
Through my tears I could see Epona still sitting on my dressing table where I’d left her and I stared at her for signs that my sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. There were none. Reminding myself of why I had done something so reckless, I gazed at the pictures of Drummer littered around my bedroom. His happiness was worth so much more than a sash, I knew that. As was staying with our new friends. I had to keep remembering that, too.
Eventually the tears dried up, leaving me with bloodshot eyes and a face that looked like a balloon. Poo. I’d have to face the inevitable questions downstairs at some point, and I didn’t even have a credible story to tell—the truth sounded so ridiculous. Even Mom doesn’t know
about Epona. Sighing, I put my stone statue back in my vest pocket and went downstairs for dinner.
When I got to the yard the next day the first thing I saw was a trail of water from where Lester, Pippin, and Henry’s stables were, oozing around the corner onto Drummer’s part of the yard like a silvery, shimmering, growing snake. Cursing whoever had left the hose on, I pedaled my bike around the corner only to find Bean bending over the tap, her blond hair soaked and dripping.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
Bean did a really good Tiffany impersonation, leaping in the air and gasping.
“Oh, don’t just appear like that!” she gasped, clutching her chest.
“What am I supposed to do,” I asked, “send you a letter?”
Bean stuck her head under the hose again.
“What,” I repeated, “are you doing?”
Inclining her head sideways, Bean dropped the hose and reached for the bottle of shampoo resting on an upturned bucket.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied, like I was the strange one. “I’m washing my hair.”
“With Tiffany’s shampoo?” I asked, recognizing the bottle.
“It’s for palominos,” said Bean, like that explained it. “I’m a palomino.”
“Isn’t the water, like, freezing?”
“Yeah, it is, but the sun’s warm, and it’ll dry really quickly.”
“Want some of Drummer’s conditioner?” I asked her. “It makes his tail silky soft.”
“Oooh yeah, thanks,” Bean replied, rinsing soapy water all over the grass.
I fetched the conditioner from Drum’s tack box and watched as Bean massaged it into her hair. Once it was rinsed out (with a gasp at the temperature of the water), Bean rubbed her head in one of Tiffany’s towels before combing her hair through with a mane comb.
