Chapter 6
For the next week, Mom and I put out hay every night, and every night the mustangs came back. Mom watched with me a couple of the nights, but then she started to be inspired – painting stylized horses in the moonlight – and worked late every night, watching for an hour or so, then going to bed exhausted. I was glad. I love my mom and I even like her most of the time, but I wanted to listen to the mustangs and I couldn’t do that when she was there.
At least Mom understood the enchantment of the mustang’s midnight visits and stopped caring if I slept late. She even gave me a break on my homework, thinking that the horses were giving me something unique that books never could. In a lot of ways, she’s totally awesome.
As the nights passed, I learned that once Twilight and Ice had eaten their fill, they liked to race a specific course – always the same – around the herd. Not just a circle, but half oval, half triangle, with lots of spinning and kicking along the way. I learned that Wind Dancer was much older than she appeared and Black Wing much younger. She must have been almost a baby herself when Dark Moon was born. I learned that just before the cold snap started, Night Hawk had been challenged by a rival stallion and had barely kept his herd. He had injuries that were just starting to heal now because of the food we were giving them. I learned that he was waiting for spring to make Dark Moon leave his family, just as I’d suspected, and that Dark Moon felt both scared about being on his own and eager to become a herd sire.
The only thing I never learned was what happened to Willow. She was in their memories, but apparently they didn’t like thinking about her leaving them. I was relieved. I really didn’t want to know the details of her death.
Every night, the desire to talk to them grew stronger and stronger. I felt I was getting to know them, and after a while, almost felt like part of their herd, so it seemed natural to talk to them. Again and again, I stuffed down the impulse. Night after night, I congratulated myself for withstanding temptation.
I got used to them being nervous as they came and went through the woods to the meadow, and even when they spooked one night – again at shadows it seemed – I wasn’t too unsettled.
Then one night, they didn’t come. I sat up well past midnight, waiting and staring out at the meadow and its dark lumps of hay. Even after I went to bed, I listened for what seemed hours. But no matter how long I waited, there was no sign of them.
“What is wrong with you this morning?” Mom asked at breakfast, staring at me over the top of her coffee cup. “You’re like a bear that hasn’t hibernated long enough.”
I scowled down at my oatmeal. I hate it when Mom calls me a bear. At almost thirteen, I should be treated with more respect. Next thing you know, she’s going to say I need to go to bed earlier.
“So what are you doing up early this morning anyway?” she asked instead, much to my relief. A kid can only take so much.
“They didn’t come last night.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, sweetie.” She took a sip of her coffee. “You knew they’d stop coming sometime though. They are feral animals.”
“But the cold snap isn’t over yet. They need the hay, so why didn’t they come?”
Mom considered this as she stared out the window. The morning light showed the dark circles under her eyes. She’d been working too hard lately.
“I don’t know, Evy,” she finally said.
“I want to go look for them.”
“You can’t go out alone, you know that.”
“Can you come with me?”
Mom glanced over to her work area. A partially finished painting waited on the easel, one of the adult horses with the two foals playing about her. I’m sure it was Snow Crystal with Twilight and Ice, because the big horse looked blue beneath the roughed-in moon. “I really need to paint. The mustangs have given me so many cool ideas; I don’t want to lose them.”
“Just for an hour?”
Mom sighed. “An hour? Okay. And this afternoon, not this morning.”
“Okay.” I agreed quickly, before she changed her mind.
“And you have to work on that report on the industrial revolution for four hours.”
“Okay.” This was said with much less enthusiasm.
Mom rose to her feet. “Well, we both have tons to do before then, so let’s get at it.” She carried her coffee cup with her to her work corner.
I meandered back into the bedroom and took my time getting dressed. Then I slowly washed up at the basin on the kitchen cupboard. Unfortunately my trip to the outhouse was quick – and I mean quick. It was screaming cold out there. All too soon, I was ready to do some more research for that stupid report. Four hours. I could stand that, couldn’t I? And then we’d be off to find the mustangs.
Six hours later, Mom finally left the painting of Snow Crystal and the foals. I looked up at her bleary-eyed with boredom. The stupid report lay unfinished in front of me, and the textbook taunted me with irritating facts that I still had to read, organize, and write in my own words. I hate that saying, in your own words. The textbook usually says it best and so immediately the students are at a disadvantage because they’re forced to write their reports the second best way. It makes no sense.
Mom stretched and looked down at me with something like sympathy and another thing like exasperation in her eyes. “How many weeks is it going to take you to finish this report, Evy?”
“It’s almost done,” I said, trying my best to sound wounded.
“That’s what you said last week.” She smiled though – to let me know she wasn’t really mad, I guess. “So you want to see the finished product or what?” She’d turned the painting away from me that morning to put on the finishing touches. She’s never been able to work with someone behind her, even if they aren’t watching what she’s doing.
“Yes, I do want.”
Mom smiled again.
The painting was amazing. Snow Crystal was perfection, all long flowing mane and tail and elegant lines – much classier than she looked in real life actually – yet it was obvious that was who was portrayed. Mom had somehow shown the basic essence of who Snow Crystal was, her maturity, her elegance, her wisdom. The two young horses were pure joy as they leapt around her. Dark trees ringed the trio, and the horses seemed to sparkle in the silver cloud of snow glitter. Mom actually had managed to catch the magic of the moonlit nights.
“It’s… it’s… Wow, Mom,” I finally said. “What’s it called?”
“Ice Dances.”
“Can we keep it?”
“I don’t know, honey. I’d love to, but we need the money. If Edward can sell it, we should probably let it go.”
“But if he can’t sell it, maybe he can bring it back on his next visit.”
“Maybe,” Mom said. “But remember, we have something even better. We saw the real thing.”
“Yeah, but this would be a great reminder.”
She gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “I know. So how about some lunch?”
“And then we go for our ride?”
“Sure. It’ll be fun. It’s been ages since I took Cocoa out. This cold is just so numbing.”
“I’m going to miss it, in some ways.” If it hadn’t been for the cold, the horses would never have come near our house. My gaze shifted from Ice Dances to the uneaten hay in the meadow. Why hadn’t they come back?
Was there a chance it was my fault? The last night they’d come, they’d been so relaxed. So trusting. Had I relaxed too much too and let a thought slip out without realizing it? If I had, that would explain their absence. Maybe they’d finally tied me to that day last summer, tied me to Willow’s death.
Aargh. I guess since I keep bringing up that horrible day, I should tell what happened.
One word, that’s all I’d said. One word too many. On a hot July day, I’d crept up on the mustangs to watch them graze. After an hour or so, I couldn’t resist greeting the pretty sorrel mare. She jumped as if a thousand bees had stung her at once – and land
ed in a jumble of branches from a fallen tree. A thick broken branch impaled her shoulder.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think of anything other than returning every chance I could to quietly watch her, silently praying all the while that she’d be okay. The broken stick was there for days, as she bled and limped about. Finally it fell out or was knocked away by another horse. But Willow never recovered. She lost weight, then more weight, and then more weight still. All that fall I watched her, hoping to see an improvement that never came. And then winter came – our harshest winter in a decade – and I didn’t see the mustangs for a long time. Not until they came to our meadow and Willow wasn’t with them. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what must’ve happened to her.
Had I done it again, let some stray thought slip that would lead to a death, maybe this time of a starving foal? Regret and sorrow made my throat thick; I couldn’t blame the mustangs for not returning if they heard me. They had every reason to be afraid. Mine was the voice that murdered mustangs.