Stables S.O.S. (4 page)

“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.

“That feels so much better,” she said, her teeth chattering.

“You're bonkers,” I told her. “Why didn't you wash it at home?”

“Everyone had used all the hot water,” Bean said, running her fingers through her hair to get it to dry.

“Do you want to think about that for a moment?” I asked her, unable to fathom her logic. “You really are bonkers, you know!”

James walked by with Moth's halter, headed for the field. Looking at Bean combing her wet hair, then at me, he shook his head. He'd given up trying to understand Bean.

“Wait for me,” I said, running back to get Drummer's halter. “I'll come with you and get Drummer in.”

We walked side-by-side to the field, going through the gate and past Pippin, who was grazing nearby, over to the far side of the field where the rest of the ponies were trying to make out they weren't there.

“Hey, Drummer!” I called.

Drummer looked over to me and yawned. No way was he going to make an effort and meet me halfway. He was going to make me walk all the way over to catch him. Moth at least seemed willing, taking a step or two forward for James.

Thanks
for
showing
me
up, Drum
, I thought.
You're a pal.
I
threw
my
Brookdale
sash
in
the
fire
for
you, and you can't even be bothered to wander over.

“You know, Pia, I think what you are doing for Cat totally rocks,” James said.

I suddenly felt a bit hot. “Er, how do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, everybody knows how Cat has always been mean to you,” James continued. “She even tried to get Drummer stolen once, didn't she?”

“Yeah, well,” I mumbled, unwilling to revisit that episode.

“The way you're so determined to help Cat keep Bambi and got everyone to think up ideas as well—I'm a bit in awe of you, to tell the truth,” James went on, making it worse.

“Um, well, I just know how I would feel if it was happening to Drummer and me,” I mumbled.

“I think it's noble,” said James, offering Moth a carrot and putting on her halter. “You're bigger than I would be if I were in your shoes,” he continued. “Lend me you-know-who for a while, will you? I haven't spoken to Moth for ages.”

I dug Epona out of my pocket and handed her over. James borrowed her now and again to keep up to speed with his pony. She was the only pony who refused to talk to me, due to her mistrust of humans in general, but she did talk to James, via our goddess interpreter, of course. It seemed a fair trade for James's silence about Epona. Who was I kidding? It was great to share a secret together. It was the only relationship we did have, after all.

My feelings of elation following James's glowing words were gradually replaced by the knowledge that I was a real phony. I was taking the credit for something that simply wasn't true.

“To tell the truth,” James had said. The phrase rattled around my brain. I had felt pretty giddy when James had complimented me—but for something I didn't deserve and that he'd totally misinterpreted? I didn't think so. Noble, he'd said. I didn't feel noble. Luckily, without Epona, I was spared Drummer's take on our conversation. He was bound to have something to say about it, and it wouldn't be good.

My conscience bothered me. I'd had an opportunity to come clean with James, but I'd passed that opportunity by. I'd let him think my motives for helping Cat keep Bambi were unselfish. I'd allowed him to give me credit for something that wasn't true.

I wasn't helping Catriona for Catriona's sake. I'd often thought about how I would feel if she and Bambi were no longer at Laurel Farm. How peaceful it would be for me, how I would no longer have to worry about her snide remarks and name-calling, and I had to admit, it had sounded like more than a good idea from my point of view. OK, she had been better since the activity ride, but who knew how long that would last? We weren't exactly friends. Our relationship was one of mutual tolerance, rather than any real warmth.

The real and only reason I was desperate to find a solution to Cat's problem was because of Drummer's love for Bambi.

And now I had let James think it was because I was noble. I was anything but.

I brushed Drummer over and saddled him up. We hadn't had a schooling session in forever and now seemed as good a time as any. James gave me Epona back as I rode Drummer to the outdoor school. Immediately, I wished he hadn't.

“Boring!” moaned Drum, dragging his hooves.

“Oh be fair!” I replied. “We haven't been out here in absolutely forever!”

“I'd hoped you'd given up schooling for the summer.”

“No.”

We walked and trotted around to warm up and then I asked Drum for some transitions, trying to get them absolutely perfect as we passed the markers. The first few were just OK, then we got a bit better, but then worse again, which was annoying. I decided to try some shallow loops and a few serpentines. These didn't go so well, either.

OK
, I thought,
I'll work on perfecting our halts
. It was something we weren't very good at—Drummer always seemed to take another step or two and leave a hind leg behind rather than standing square, and I was horrible at correcting him.

Steering Drummer down the centerline I asked him to halt at X, at the very center, concentrating on feeling my seat bones and hips. Were they level? My right hip felt slightly lower than my left, which meant Drummer had left his off hind behind. I nudged him with my right leg, but instead of bringing his off hind up underneath him, Drummer sighed and felt like a deflated balloon.

“What's the matter?” I asked him, leaning forward.

Drummer's ears went out sideways. “Oh, well, I think I'm depressed,” he mumbled.

I jumped off and went to his head. “It's only a bit of schooling,” I told him.

“Oh, it's not that,” Drummer replied, hanging his head. “It's the Bambi thing. I don't know what I'll do if I lose her.”

“Oh, Drummer,” I said, shocked. This wasn't like Drum. Usually he helped me whenever I was feeling down. Now I felt like I had nothing to say to him. No words of comfort. To make it worse, he lifted his head onto my shoulder and sighed again.

“Don't let her go,” I heard him whisper.

I gulped and put my arms around his neck.

“I won't,” I whispered back. “I promise.” We stayed like that for a while, and I had never felt so close to my pony—or so helpless. I was saying the right thing, but could I fulfill my promise?

“Can we go back in?” Drummer asked. “I really don't feel up to this.”

“You don't usually let things get to you,” I said gently.

“Yeah, well, I'm a look-on-the-bright-side sort of pony,” Drummer mumbled.

Really?
I thought, saying nothing.

We walked back to the stables.

“That was quick!” exclaimed Bean.

I didn't feel I could explain so I just shrugged my shoulders and unsaddled Drummer, washing his bit under the tap before putting it away. I felt a bit depressed, too.
It
was
contagious
, I thought, turning Drummer out again so he could be with Bambi. If he was feeling down, there was no point in doing anything else. I watched him canter over to her, and they nuzzled each other before settling down to graze side by side.

I wandered back to the yard. I could see Katy rummaging around in the tack room, and Cat was in the barn. I decided I would weed the yard—it was looking a bit ratty.

Suddenly, James burst on to the scene from around the corner like some kind of comic book hero—without the stupid costume, obviously.

“Where is everyone?” he yelled, like we were hiding them.

“Er, well, Katy's grooming Bluey and…” Bean began.

“I've got it!” shouted James, punching the air so that his slightly too long blond hair fell over his eyes.

“Got what?” I asked him, trying not to notice his hair. It always does things to me so I try not to think about it. It's virtually impossible.

“The Stables S.O.S.!” he said. “I know how we're going to save Laurel Farm!”