At two o’clock and at four the alarm went off, and each time Tom found the Queen comfortable and regretted that he had awakened her again. Perhaps he was doing more harm than good, visiting her so often during the night. He didn’t know. But he couldn’t take any chances.
No alarm awakened him at five o’clock, for he had set it for six. He looked at the clock to make sure of the time, then his head fell back on the pillow. But he found he could not close his eyes. He remembered very well that he had been dreaming. It had been more of a nightmare than a dream. He had lost Jimmy Creech’s letter, and the Queen was having her foal. He couldn’t remember what to do. He had run, looking for Uncle Wilmer, but Uncle Wilmer had refused to come because he said the mare couldn’t have her foal for another month. So he had run to town to get a veterinary, but none of them could come. They were too busy and appointments must be made a year in advance, they’d told him. He’d been running through the woods, shouting for help, when he had awakened.
And now he couldn’t get back to sleep again.
The sky outside his window to the east was a somber gray, and the sun wouldn’t be up for another hour. Tom tried keeping his eyes closed, but it was of no use. He sat up in bed and turned on the light. Perhaps if he just took another look at Jimmy Creech’s letter telling him what to do when the foal came, he’d be able to get to sleep again. Just one look to make sure he hadn’t lost it.
The letter was in the top drawer of his bureau, and he sat down on the side of his bed and read it again. Everything was there. He knew exactly what to do, without the aid of Uncle Wilmer, without a veterinary. He had it down pat now.
He put the letter away, thinking, Even if I’d lost the letter, I’d remember Jimmy’s instructions. I’ve read it over enough times to know them by heart. Wipe the foal dry—that’s the first thing I do. Make sure his nostrils are clear, so he can breathe well. Then make sure he nurses right away. He’ll need all the nourishment he can get at that time. And feed the mare very light the first two days, giving her a hot bran mash right after she’s had the foal. There’s really not so much to remember. I can do it.
Tom let his head fall back on the pillow, figuring he could sleep until six o’clock. But sleep didn’t come, nor was he able to keep his eyes closed. Instead he found himself gazing out the window to the west, toward the barn. It wasn’t like him not to be able to sleep. Usually he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. There must be something wrong with him; perhaps getting up so often during the night was responsible for it; perhaps—
Tom felt the pounding of his heart, the swift surge of blood within his veins. He was out of bed and pulling on his overalls. He plummeted down the stairs, rushing out into the gray light of early morning. As he ran across the lawn, his gaze never left the stall door. But the Queen’s head couldn’t be seen.
He flung himself through the rails of the paddock fence and ran to the stall door. The light was dim, but he had no trouble seeing inside. And Tom’s body slumped hard against the door at the sight of the foal lying in the straw beside the Queen.
WIPE THE FOAL DRY!
4
The Queen, her dark coat wet and matted with straw and manure, turned to Tom, and he saw the wildness in her eyes. He stepped back from the door, frightened, as she came swiftly to him.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, just staring at her disheveled head, trying to remember what he should do. But nothing came. His mind was a blank. He was dazed, bewildered.
He found himself running along the corridor that led to the rear of the Queen’s stall. He heard himself saying, “It’s here. It’s here.” He repeated it over and over again, all the while knowing there were things to do, things to remember.
He stood before the grain box, his hands plunged into the oats. The mare whinnied and, quickly, he turned to her. She was watching his every nove.
Feed her lightly the first two days.
His mind was working better now. He wasn’t calm yet, but things were starting to come. Jimmy had said—What else had Jimmy said?
Bran mash. Give the mare a bran mash right after she’s foaled.
His eyes left the mare for the pail beside him. Picking it up, he went over to a sack of bran. The pail was half-filled when he set it down and turned again to the mare.
It would take time to prepare the mash. He needed hot water and salt. He’d have to get the stove going.
But the foal. What about the foal? The foal should come first.
He walked to where he could get a better view of the stall, and the mare followed him. He could see the foal now, and his eyes became as liquid as those of the Queen as he watched.
The small, dark bundle in the corner of the stall moved. With great effort, the foal raised its heavy head from the straw, only to let it fall back again. Its long legs, half-buried in the bedding, were straight and rigid. Slight ribs showed plainly beneath the wet coat, and there was a slow but regular expansion and contraction of the tiny body as the foal took the first breaths of life into its lungs.
Filly or colt? Tom did not know or care. Nothing mattered but that the foal was alive.
Wipe the foal dry, if the mare doesn’t take care of that. Wipe his nostrils clean, so he can breathe good.
He was thinking now. He was remembering Jimmy’s instructions. But there was still the frantic pounding of his heart, the uncertainty, the lack of coordination between mind and body.
Close to the wall there was a narrow entrance to the box stall from the rear. Tom went to it, one hand reaching for the clean handkerchief in the pocket of his overalls.
The Queen moved with him. And when he set a foot inside the stall, she bared her teeth and came between him and her foal.
Frightened, Tom withdrew his foot. There was nothing docile about his Queen now. She was a protective mother, fearful that he meant harm to her first foal. And she wouldn’t let him near it.
No one, not even Jimmy Creech, had told him that this might happen.
He heard the rustling in the straw behind the Queen. The foal must be trying to get to its feet. Tom’s fist closed tightly about the handkerchief he held in his hand.
And as he continued standing there, he suddenly realized that his heart was no longer pounding, that his mind was clearing of the dazedness and bewilderment that had beclouded it. There were no instructions to follow now, nothing to remember. He had but one thing to do, to get to the foal. He was on his own.
When Tom moved finally, he went to the grain box again. And there was a resoluteness to his face and step that hadn’t been there before.
The Queen had followed to the other side of the stall, her head thrust over her manger, waiting.
Tom came back to her, his lips moving, his voice soft. But the Queen had eyes only for the container of mixed oats and bran he carried in his hand. He dumped the contents of the tin into her box and stole a glance in the direction of the foal that was struggling to its feet.
Tom moved quickly toward the narrow entrance to the stall, then stopped abruptly and hurried back to the grain box. Quickly he filled his pockets with bran and went back to the entrance to the stall again.
The mare was eating ravenously and paid no attention to him as he stepped inside. Tom’s eyes widened as he watched the foal.
It was on its feet, wobbling unsteadily on long, thin legs. Its head seemed much too large for so small a body.
The foal’s gaze was upon him, and as Tom looked into the soft, seeking, bewildered eyes, he knew that nothing in the world would ever equal this moment for him. He wanted to love, to cherish, to protect this foal.
He sprang forward as the foal’s legs gave way and it fell heavily to the straw. He had reached it, had touched the wet, limp body, when the mare came at him with bared teeth and ears flat against her head.
Quickly he rose from his stooped position beside the foal. The mare stopped before his raised hand, blinking and uncertain. Tom brought his hand down softly on the Queen’s muzzle.
“
I wouldn’t hurt your foal. You know that. I want to help.” As Tom continued talking to the mare, he fed her the bran from his pocket.
The foal had risen to its trembling legs again and was looking at them. Tom’s eyes devoured it. Its legs were straight. It wasn’t deformed. It was—yes, it was a colt! Jimmy Creech had wanted a colt.
Stilt-legged, the foal moved toward them, shuffling, pushing his feet through the straw. He had gone only a short distance when the straw became entwined about his legs, causing him to fall. He lay still for a few minutes, then struggled to his feet again.
Tom was beside him now. The Queen shoved her head down, seeking the bran the boy had been feeding her. Tom’s eyes took in the foal’s wet, sticky coat; then, taking a handful of bran from his pocket, he sprinkled it over the colt.
The Queen turned to her foal and began licking the bran off him.
Smiling, Tom said, “Lick him dry, Queen. That’s your job as well as mine.”
As he steadied the wobbling body with one hand, Tom reached for his handkerchief and then wiped the foal’s face, beginning with his nostrils.
The small colt stood still amidst all this attention, yet his soft muzzle moved searchingly about Tom’s face and chest.
“You’re hungry,” Tom said softly. “There’s your mom.”
He pushed the foal gently to the side of the mare, helping him to find his mother. While the colt nursed, Tom fed the Queen from his hand.
“You’re supposed to be having a bran mash, Queen,” he said to the mare, “and in a little while you’ll have it. I don’t know whether I’m doing the right thing or not. Things just happened this way. But the worst is over now. Everything is going to work out all right. I know it is. And you have a beautiful colt. Just as beautiful as we knew he’d be.”
When Tom left the stall a few minutes later, the sun was just coming up. It was a wonderful, wonderful morning, and he knew what he had to do in the hours to come. It was as if he’d always known.
In the kitchen, he set the pall of bran on the floor, got the stove going and put the kettle up. Soon it was steaming. Lifting it carefully, he carried it over to the pail.
Wet it good, then put a sack over the pail and let it steam until it’s cool enough for the mare to eat.
He poured the water over the bran. There was something else. Salt. Yes, that was it, a handful of salt.
After adding the salt, Tom gazed about the room until he saw his aunt’s dishtowels folded neatly on the shelf above the sink. Quickly he went over and, removing one, placed it over the pail.
He was leaving the kitchen, carrying the pail of steaming mash, when he stopped and looked again at the dishtowels piled high on the shelf.
They were soft, very soft. He would find nothing better to use on the foal’s soft body.
He hesitated but a moment, then removed another towel from the pile and hurried out the door.
Arriving at the barn, he set the pail down once more and went inside.
The Queen was licking the last bit of bran off the foal. She looked at him, and again there were fear and uncertainty in her eyes.
But he belonged here. She had to accept it. And knowing this, Tom walked straight ahead to the foal and placed his hands upon the soft and still trembling body. The liquid, luminous eyes were turned on him. There was neither fear nor timidity in the foal’s gaze, only wonder.
The mare snorted as Tom drew the towel across the foal’s back. The boy spoke to the Queen without turning around, for he was concentrating on the teetering body before him. He brought the cloth gently down over the velvet-soft, furry coat and the thin legs.
The foal stood very still, as though grateful for Tom’s steadying hands.
When he had finished, Tom stepped back and watched while the colt nursed again. The mare looked at Tom, the fear gone from her eyes. She had learned he would do no harm to her foal.
Tom left the stall but returned very soon, carrying the pail of mash. He held it for the mare and hungrily she shoved her muzzle into the mash.
Tom looked out at the paddock and the bright sun rising over the eastern hills. He would put the mare and foal outside, he decided. No one had said they shouldn’t go out, and it would be much better for the colt. The sun would dry him well, and there would be no straw to become entwined about his slim legs, causing him to fall.
When the mare had finished the mash Tom left the stall, leaving the door open behind him. The Queen followed him quickly into the bright sun, then stopped, turned abruptly and neighed.
From the semi-darkness of the stall the foal emerged, standing just within the doorway, his large eyes blinking in the light of day.
The Queen neighed again, then dropped her head to graze.
Tom moved back to the door as the foal shuffled his way forward with rigid legs. Suddenly the foal stopped, teetering precariously. And Tom remembered the slight step in the doorway which the foal’s forefeet must have encountered.
He stooped beside the foal, steadying him, while his hand went to the small hoof. “You’ll have to lift it,” he said, smiling “Everyone lifts them.”
Slowly, cautiously, the foal picked up his feet and moved out into the sun. He stood there, still trembling and unsure of himself. He moved his head seldom, having learned that the heaviness of it could easily offset his balance. But his eyes were wide and incredulous at the world before him. With forelegs spread far apart to steady his weaving body, he watched the chickens crossing the paddock. He watched the mare. He watched Tom. And all the time his eyes blinked rapidly in the light of his first day.
Tom sat down on the side of the water trough, his elbows upon his knees and his long, angular face resting heavily between the palms of his hands. Never once did his intent gaze leave the foal. He watched the stilt legs move carefully upon tiny, fawnlike hoofs. He watched the bushy stump of a tail swish ridiculously from side to side, slowly at first, then ever faster like the swift movement of an automobile’s windshield wiper. It was as though the colt had just discovered his tail. There were so many things for him to discover, and Tom sat there watching, content to do only that.
It was difficult to explain the emotions he felt within him nor did he try. He knew only that something beautiful and fine and wonderful was happening. Never once did he think of the years ahead, when this colt would race. Neither did he ask himself, “Will he be a champion?” Nor did he think of Jimmy Creech or George Snedecker or anyone else, even the Queen. His mind, his eyes, his whole being were concentrated on the foal who stood on trembling legs before him—the foal who was looking at life for the first time. It was enough that Tom was there, sharing the experience with him.
An hour passed and Tom still sat there without moving. He watched as much of the unsteadiness left the colt’s legs and the first confident steps were taken. He saw him lose his balance repeatedly and fall to the ground. But the colt always struggled to his feet to try once more. And when he strayed too far away from his mother, the Queen would neigh a shrill reprimand, then go back to her grazing. The foal would watch her as she cropped the grass; then he too would lower his head cautiously until his short neck could stretch no more.
But finally the colt grew weary of activity and carefully lowered himself to the grass, stretching out in the sun.
It was only then that Tom moved away from the water trough. Quietly he walked over to the foal and knelt beside him. The large eyes were closed, the breathing regular. The colt was asleep.
For several minutes Tom kept looking at him; then he got to his feet and walked toward the barn. There was work to be done, for the stall had to be thoroughly cleaned. This would be a good time to do it, now that the foal was asleep. I won’t miss anything if I hurry, Tom thought.
Half an hour later, when he had finished his work, Tom sat down once more on the side of the water trough. The foal still slept in the sun.
For some time Tom sat there as before, just watching the colt, but then the sound of a car caused him to turn his head in th
e direction of the lane. And even though the trees concealed the approaching vehicle, he knew from the sputtering of the motor and the rattling of the loose body that it could be no other car but his uncle’s.
The Queen turned toward the lane, her head alert. And the foal, too, aroused by the noise of the car, struggled to his feet and stood close beside his mother.
The car moved out of the woods and, crossing the brook with undiminished speed, drew up before the paddock fence.
Tom rose to greet his uncle and aunt.
“So it came,” Aunt Emma said quietly. And then she turned to her husband, who was leaning heavily upon the fence. “It came after all you said!” she shouted to him.
The man’s gaze never left the foal, and if he heard his wife’s sharp criticism he ignored it, for all he said in his slowest drawl was, “It’s all right.”
“It’s a colt,” Tom said, his eyes shining. “Jimmy Creech wanted a colt.”
Aunt Emma nodded while Uncle Wilmer asked, “What’d you say?”
“He said it’s a colt!” the woman shouted.
“I know that, all right,” Uncle Wilmer said.
The colt encircled the mare, then swept beneath her belly and came up to gaze at the three onlookers with his large curious eyes.
Aunt Emma, glancing around, saw the wet dishtowels hanging on the fence. She recognized the green border stitching and her eyes lost their warmth as she bustled her way toward the towels. Sweeping them off the fence, she waved them vigorously in the air. “Thomas!” she bellowed. “What have you been doing with my new Miracle dishtowels!”
“I-I dried th-the foal with them,” Tom stammered. “They’re soft,” he added feebly.
They looked at each other for several seconds while Uncle Wilmer’s gaze shifted uneasily from one to the other.
“I had to have something soft,” Tom said again. “I’m going to give them a good washing.”