“Kay wouldn’t like it,” says Ed.
“You tell her, and see what you get.”
“Okay, Charley, I’m coming.”
“Get those ropes out of the bin. Come on, get a move on!”
Soon they are in the truck and moving across a little back road between the hills.
Sarah Paddyfoot stands knee-deep in a patch of bright orange day lilies, gazing about her with a little sigh. She looks up, hoping that not even the crow will disturb her this morning.
The meadow is no bigger than a good-sized yard, surrounded by hillocks and trees, so that it is sheltered from passing eyes. The lilies are thick as garden flowers. Sarah leans down and begins to dig the bulbs, putting the long-stemmed blooms in a basket. Quickly she works, humming a little, finally sitting down among the lilies so that only the top of her head, like a great white moth, can be seen above the flowers. The day is still, and butterflies come to hover over her. The sea murmurs to itself, and the crickets hum. The crow does not appear, and all is peaceful. No one watches her.
No one. No one but the old tramp, standing silently at the edge of the woods, blending with the trees. He stands for a long time, smiling a little. Another lily-gatherer!
Sarah hums softly. Finally, looking up to brush away a gnat, she sees the tramp. She sits quite still, looking at him.
“Are they good to eat raw, or only cooked?” he asks her.
“Both,” she says. “How long have you been standing there spying on me?”
He laughs. “Not long. Was drinking at the stream. Heard a rustle, thought it was a bear.”
“Bear! Ha! Do I look like a bear? Bear in the lily bed!”
“Well, Sand Pony, maybe.”
“Ah. Could be that. But it’s not. It’s just me, old lady in rags.”
This is an exaggeration, but he lets it pass. “Well, how do you eat them raw? Salad? I’ve seen them cooked, but never tasted either.”
“Perhaps you’ll come to dinner and find out.”
“But you don’t know me. I might be a tramp.”
“Thought you were!” says Sarah. “Look like one!”
“So I do. Well. And so I am.”
“We eat ‘bout six o’clock. That’s on account of the twins get hungry so early.”
“Yours?”
“No, more’s the blessing. Family I work for.”
“Won’t they mind!”
“Mind? Be delighted.”
“The missus won’t care?”
“No missus. Just a father. Young man. Needs a wife. Kids no good without a mother. I can handle ‘em though, till something better comes along. Come now, let me show you where. Six o’clock sharp, you remember.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, stepping out of the grove and going with Sarah to where he can see the barn in the distance. “Six o’clock sharp.” He leaves her, thanking her again and melting away into the grove.
“Hmph,” says Sarah Paddyfoot. “Bears indeed! Never heard a tramp speak that well before; nice fellow. Feed him day lilies, I will.”
CHAPTER 14
On the cliff by the ocean Karen is leaning against a twisted tree, chewing a blade of grass and gazing at the breakers. She is halfway to the village with saw blades to be sharpened, and an order for baby chicks and for feed. There is a grocery list in the rope bag she carries, and measurements of windows for the glazier.
The day is foggy and cool. Bo rushes in and out of the waves, and the twins are far ahead, racing through grass as tall as they are. Above, the crow keeps pace, screaming. Karen smiles. Ahead is a small grove of pines, and beyond that she can see the roofs of the village, surrounded by low hills. As she nears the trees and begins to turn away from the sea she calls to Bo.
The twins run through the grass like hidden animals and tear into the pine grove, shouting. There is a loud crash ahead of them, and the little girls stop perfectly still, staring, big-eyed, as the Sand Ponies leap through the grove away from them and out into the meadow, running hard.
The twins are silent as they watch the last running ponies, hear the last sounds of crashing in the grove.
Karen, too, is still. She is making a wish.
Quickly, wishes made, the children hurry through the grove. The ponies are far away, crossing the hills, still running. No one says a word. They join hands and go on toward the village, slowly, gazing still at the hills.
The hardware store is dim and smells of strange, exotic things. The twins disappear like elves, to touch and smell in silent delight, as Karen hands over the saw blades in their little envelopes.
The proprietor is a grizzled, sour-looking old man, hut with a twinkle hidden somewhere underneath. “Spook’ll getcha hack there,” he says to the twins as they disappear into the storeroom, where most customers do not go.
“Not us!” shouts Lisa. “We’re magic! We’ve wished, this morning!”
There is a loud screaming of the grinder as the old man starts to sharpen the blades. “Saw the Sand Ponies, didja’?” he asks of Karen as he stops for a minute. “You make a wish, too?”
“Oh, yes!” She hopes he will not ask what. “It puzzles me, how they can run free where so many people live. Are they really magic?” she asks, smiling at him.
“Likely,” he says shortly, starting on another blade; then, “Devils, some say.” He goes on with the grinding.
Then later, “Devils. Curse on ‘em, some say! You feed ‘em, good luck, but harm those ponies, that’s the end of luck for you, girl. Happened more than once. Old man Greeb, he lost his whole flock, nine hundred sheep, he lost. Got the sickness. Shot a Sand Pony, fed it to his dogs. Lost ‘em all, all nine hundred.” He turns to finish the blades, leaving Karen to pet Bo and wonder.
“Another time,” he continues, finished with the blades, “man came down from the city, brought trucks, said those were wild ponies and no season on ‘em, was gonna catch ‘em up and sell ‘em, no one could stop him, all legal, he said. Well, legal it may have been, but catch ‘em, he didn’t. Ran right over him, the whole great stampeding bunch of ‘em, right down in Middle Canyon, there. Folks around here, they let those ponies alone. Less it’s to feed ‘em in the winter. Brings good luck, that does. Larry Crail, he had twins and a record litter of hogs and a whole full dozen good speckled pointers, all in one year. And cleared a cool twenty thousand, besides,” he adds. “Fed ‘em all winter, Larry did.” He spits onto the sawdust floor and turns to make Karen’s change, giving her a bill and putting the blades back into their envelopes. “Get your wish, likely,” he says. “You don’t look a mean one to me, miss!”
She gives him the order for glass, for feed and a batch of chicks—“Need a brooder for ‘em now, deliver ‘em in a couple of weeks, be all right,” he says-collects the twins, and goes out into the street.
The village is small, huddled together comfortably at the base of the hills, its streets crooked and its roofs climbing between the hills on one side and dropping down to a meadow on the other. There is a stream running through town, and Karen wonders if the Sand Ponies ever come here to drink. She guesses not.
“There’s the schoolhouse,” says Lisa as they pass a small white box of a building with a bell on the top. “We’ll go there this year,” she says, “but we can already read. First grade’s for babies!” Karen laughs at her.
Karen looks up. Someone is looking at her, staring. He is a white-bearded man, with very blue eyes. A tramp? He looks like one. He goes on by, and she turns to watch as he makes his way down the street and around the corner, out of sight. Hmm, wonder what he was staring for, Karen thinks, then puts him out of her mind as the grocery appears before her. She digs for the list and goes in.
Mary McCamley looks too slight, too city-bred, to be driving her old brown jeep down the village street, too neat and lady-like. Abbey sits on the back of the seat with a paw on Mary’s shoulder, purring and looking around as if she likes what she sees of the village.