Secret Pony Society (4 page)

I could hear hoofbeats on the concrete. Tiffany was being skittish. She's always seeing shadows in the hedges and is suspicious of practically everything. Bluey, on the other hand, is as solid as a rock. He stood like a statue as Katy tightened her girth from the saddle, dropping her reins and pulling with both hands to force it into another hole around Bluey's ample tummy. He's a little chubby, but he looked less tubby than usual due to his handsome hunter clip—and the feather on his lower legs had been clipped off, leaving them slimmer than usual.

“Is that a new brow band?” I heard Katy ask Bean. Glancing over the door I could see pink and blue crystals twinkling in the autumn sunshine through Tiffany's white forelock. It drew attention away from the fact she wore no noseband due to her phobia about them.

“Wow, Bean, Tiff could be on
Dancing with the Stars
!” I cried.

“Isn't it fabulous?” asked Bean.

I nodded. “Where did you get it?”

“Don't get any ideas!” Drummer warned me gruffly. “I don't do bling.”

“Can you get purple ones?” asked Katy, all excited.

“Mmm, I think so, lots of colors.”

“Oh, wow, I so want one!” I said, imagining faux emeralds sparkling below Drummer's black-tipped ears.

“It's not happening!” said Drummer. “I don't do tiaras!”

“You don't do anything,” I said, leading him out of the stable and over to the mounting block. I passed Moth, and as usual, she shrank back shyly into her stall.

“Oh, that reminds me!” cried Bean, fishing out a hankie from her pocket as Tiffany shook her head and walked backward toward a tree. “Does anyone know the name of a type of martingale, apart from standing and running?”

“Hurry up, Drummer!” exclaimed Tiffany. “I've a tickle in my toes that won't get itched just standing around here.”

“
Just standing?
Are you joking?” I heard Drummer reply.

“Irish,” I answered Bean, fastening my riding helmet and pulling on my gloves.

Katy shook her head in disapproval as she watched Tiffany bouncing about. Her pony was still standing as though his feet were nailed to the floor.

“What a total waste of energy!” I heard Drummer sigh in bewilderment.

“What's Irish?” asked Bean, still fishing around in her pocket.

“Ahhh, something's got me!” wailed Tiffany as her tail got caught on the tree.

“The martingale. It's an
Irish
martingale,” I replied.

“What does it look like?” asked Bean, as Tiffany catapulted off the tree and started doing half rears, then stopped dead.

“Just a strip of leather with two rings—the reins go through the rings, and then they can't go over the horse's head if the rider comes off. Racehorses wear them,” I explained.

“How come you know that?” asked Katy.

“Someone at my old yard had an ex-racehorse, and she always rode him in an Irish martingale and a sheepskin noseband, to make certain everyone knew. Funny thing was, she never went faster than a canter.”

“Probably couldn't stop!” suggested Katy. “Ex-racehorses can be total psychos.”

“So can some palomino ponies,” remarked Drum, and he and Bluey snickered.

“Anyway, Bean,” continued Katy. “Why do you want to know about martingales?”

I had pulled down my stirrups and was about to mount Drum when I heard hoofbeats.

“Who's that?” asked Tiffany, curiosity making her motionless for once.

“Who's that?” asked Bean, matching her pony's stare. Katy and I followed her gaze, and I felt my mouth drop open with amazement.

A dark gray pony walked purposefully toward us, its black mane threaded with silver, its dark coat flecked with white. A wheat-colored dog padded silently beside the pony like a faithful servant and sitting easily on the pony's back was the raven-haired girl.

Falling Snow came to a halt feet from us all. Everyone was silent in amazement—no one knew what to say. The girl looked at Katy and Bean. When her gaze reached me, she nodded.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Just you.” Her ebony hair, without a riding helmet, was glossy like a raven's wing, her violet eyes like ice. Even though it was a chilly autumn day, she wore the same green sweater and frayed jeans I'd seen her in before. She made such a striking picture, sitting bareback on her strange-colored pony, like a Romany princess. With our waistcoats, hats, gloves, and fluorescent clothing, together with the ponies' saddles and gear, we all seemed suddenly overdressed. It was the oddest thing, like we'd got it totally, stupidly wrong.

Katy looked first at the girl, then at me. I could see her eyebrows rise under her purple silk hat in a questioning manner.

“Do you want us to stay?” she asked me.

I did, but it was clear the girl didn't. I shook my head. “It's all right,” I assured her, wondering whether it was.

“Come on, Bean, let's go. Pia can catch up with us later,” said Katy, turning Bluey away. Only he didn't want to go. Instead of instantly responding to his beloved Katy's request, the usually compliant Bluey stood gazing at the girl. I glanced at Tiffany. The palomino had abandoned her usual twitchy self to stare at the traveler, too. It was as though she had bewitched them both.

“Come
on
, Bluey!” exclaimed Katy, and Bluey seemed to shake himself, turning as bidden to walk away along the drive toward the bridle path. Bean and Tiffany followed, and I could see Bean looking anxiously over her shoulder at us as Tiffany, back to her old self now the girl's spell had been broken, pranced and danced next to steady Bluey. Drummer gazed after them wistfully, but I could tell he was curious about the mystery girl's appearance. Tiffany, Bluey, and Drummer had all been stunned into silence. That was a first.

I turned to my visitor, my heart pounding. I couldn't think why she wanted to talk to me. Did this mean trouble? I didn't know what to say. Luckily, the girl did.

“I need to talk to you,” she repeated, sliding off her pony's back to stand and face me. Her dog moved to her side. “I need…” She hesitated as though reluctant to say her next words. “Your help.”

This was unexpected. I blinked in confusion.
What could I possibly do to help her?
I wondered. I was completely thrown. But then Drummer took a step toward her, and she reached out and stroked his face. He stood as though mesmerized, and I heard him sigh. I felt myself draw a breath. This girl really did have a way with horses.

“What do you want?” I said, anxious to break the spell she seemed to have over my pony; that Drummer felt an affinity with her was obvious.

The girl stopped stroking Drum and returned her attention to me. I wasn't expecting her question.

“How did you know Snow's name?”

How was I going to squirm my way out of this? I thought hard, but no bright idea struck me. The girl spoke again.

“I can remember exactly what you said the last time we met. It was obvious that you weren't talking to me.”

Uh-oh
, I thought. But what she said next completely surprised me.

“I think you have the power.”

I held my breath. She couldn't know. There was no way she could know.

“I think you can communicate with ponies,” the girl continued. “You may be
chovexani
, but I'm not afraid of you.”

Well, this is a first
, I thought. She was ahead of me already. I wondered what
chovexani
was—and whether I was one. I asked her.

“A witch,” she said matter-of-factly, as though she knew one or two. I would have laughed, only suddenly, I didn't think it was very funny—especially as she seemed to be the one with powers. I lifted my head and didn't feel afraid to tell her.

“Look,” I said, “I know it sounds weird, but I can actually hear what horses and ponies are saying. I'm known as—”

“I need you to talk to Falling Snow,” the girl interrupted.

I'd never had such an easy time of explaining away my equine communication skills. Usually I was met with disbelief, with scorn. More often than not, I was accused of lying. This girl not only believed me, she'd believed me even before I'd admitted to it. It was all very strange. And her request sounded like something I could easily do. I'd have a cozy chat with Falling Snow, and the girl would be on her way before anyone saw her. I was getting a bit uneasy about anyone else—Cat or James specifically—seeing us having a little meeting. That would be much harder to explain.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, looking at Falling Snow. The pony seemed different somehow. When we had seen her before, she had been spirited, full of fire, and keen to be off. Now she stood tired and dejected. She held her head lower, and she didn't fidget. Her eyes were dull. She was a shadow of how she had been before.

“I want you to tell her it wasn't my idea. I need you to explain that my dad was—is—to blame and that I hate him for it. Tell her…tell her I'm sorry…” The girl gulped, suddenly upset and unable to go on. The dog leaned against her.

I was totally confused. What was the girl talking about? I was about to ask her when I heard Snow sigh.

“I know it's not her fault,” she said quietly. “I know it is her dad. He said I belonged to Jazz, but he still makes her do what he wants. I don't blame her.”

I turned to the girl. “Are you Jazz?” I asked.

She nodded, her eyes wide. “Jasmine,” she explained. “I knew you could hear her. You can hear your own pony, can't you? I thought and thought about what you had said the other day—that you were talking to your pony was the only possible explanation.”

She didn't question it. She said it like it was perfectly natural.

“Falling Snow can hear and understand you,” I explained. “She says she knows you can't fight your father, that he is to blame.”

Jazz ran her hand up and down her pony's mane. “Oh, Snow, I'm so sorry.” She brushed the back of her hand across her cheek.

“What did they do to you?” Drummer asked Falling Snow.

“I had to trot, to go faster and faster until I would drop, until I thought I couldn't draw enough breath into my lungs. My back and neck ached, and my legs were on fire. He forced me to go fast, up and down the hill, with my head tied up, to stop me from breaking into a canter. It went on and on, faster and faster, faster still. Today, I can't take a step without every muscle hurting.”

“What happened?” I asked. I couldn't help it. I was talking to Falling Snow, but her owner answered me.

“You're
gadjikane—
not one of us,” she explained, “but you've helped me. So I'll tell you. Falling Snow's
dya
, her dam, belonged to my mother, and Falling Snow was only a foal when my mother gave her to me. But then my mother died. My dad filled his days with the horse races, and I filled mine with Falling Snow. My dad sold Snow's
dya
on the strength of her speed. He said he could no longer bear to look at her with my mother gone.” Jazz took a deep breath and put her hand on her pony's mane.

“In six days, at midday, my dad will race Snow. Snow is fast, like her
dya
. If she wins, she'll be raced again and again and sold on for a high price. I shall lose her. I can see the future as clearly as I see you, if Falling Snow wins the race.”

I listened, horrified and unable to put myself in Jazz's place. Her mother dead, her hateful father obsessed with racing the horses—including his daughter's beloved pony. No wonder Jazz went off riding around the countryside. Falling Snow had to lose. Winning the race meant losing her. I could barely believe what I was hearing.

“Snow is too young to race—she's not yet four, but that doesn't matter to my dad. He trains hard, and he trains quickly,” continued Jazz. “Yesterday, despite my protests, he harnessed Snow, and he trotted her up and down the field, for a long time. For too long. I shouted, I cried, I threw myself at him. In the end, my dad lost his temper with me. He won't have his
chey
, his daughter, defy him. He put me in my place. Now I know how things stand.”

I listened, horrified. I took a step toward her, but the dog growled menacingly, clearly his mistress's guard. It seemed he was the only one allowed to comfort her.

Jazz silenced his growls with a single word, “
Kesali!
” Then she turned back to me. “I need you to tell Snow one more thing,” she said.

“What's that?” I asked, wanting to help her.

“Tell Snow to lose. She has to slow down at the end, near our encampment. If she is slow, if she loses, my dad will stop the training and things will return to how they were before. If she wins…” Jazz faltered and stopped. I didn't want to think about what would happen if Falling Snow won.

“I understand,” Snow said, so quietly I hardly heard her.

It sounded easy, but I didn't think it would be. Not with Jazz's father getting after Falling Snow like the boys I'd seen racing their poor horses along the lane. It would be impossible for Snow not to try her hardest, being terrorized to race as fast as her legs were capable of taking her—even faster. For a second I imagined how it would feel to be a horse encased in harness, to have a sulky on my tail, the wheels swishing, the driver behind me shouting and beating me along, pushing me until my legs turned to jelly, my breath hammering against my lungs as I struggled to draw in more air, to smell my own sweat and fear as I stumbled onward, desperate to be allowed to stop, unable to protest.

“Snow understands,” I told Jazz.

She nodded. “I'm grateful to you,” she said curtly. “I shan't trouble you further.”

She turned to mount her pony, but then she stopped. Dropping the reins, Jazz turned back to me, looking beyond me toward Moth.

Moth was in her stable, looking out at us, her eyes on either side of her wide, white blaze, nervously staring. Leaving Falling Snow standing with her dog, Jazz walked past me toward the chestnut mare. For a second, I thought she was going say something about her having belonged to the travelers, but she didn't. She walked up to the stable and put her hand on Moth's neck.

I stared in amazement. Moth never let anyone touch her if she could help it—she always backed away, hiding in her stable whenever anyone put out a hand or talked to her, anyone except James.

But not with Jazz. With Jazz, Moth stood steady and strong, her ears forward, her white muzzle pressed into the girl's hand as something special passed between them. I stood openmouthed, witnessing something I didn't understand. Then Jazz walked back, nodded at me, and vaulted onto her pony's dark back. Falling Snow turned without any obvious cues from her rider and carried the girl along the drive away from us—the dog, as ever, padding silently by her side—leaving my mind in turmoil.

What special power did Jazz herself possess? I'd never known anyone apart from James be able to get so close to Moth before. And Drummer loved her, too. He had wanted to be with her.

I was suddenly filled with envy. Even with Epona I hadn't been able to get close to Moth, yet she had wanted to be with Jazz. In that single, shared moment Moth had looked calm. I had never seen her look like that before. Jazz had a true gift that had nothing to do with borrowed magic, the sort I relied on.

Drum was strangely quiet as I mounted, took up my reins, and headed out to find Katy and Bean. As we cantered along the paths to catch up with our friends, envious thoughts were pushed aside as my mind returned to the reason behind Jazz's visit. Poor Falling Snow was a slave to Jazz's father, and Jazz was powerless to intervene. The image of Snow, exhausted, betrayed, and dejected, so different from the proud, spirited pony I had first seen, haunted me.

I knew one thing: I had to see for myself how Falling Snow fared in the race. I had to see with my own eyes whether she had the strength to resist the power and will of Jazz's dad, or whether she would be forced against her own will to go faster than she'd ever gone before and seal her own fate.

Whatever that fate would be.