Tugboat, Charlotte's Web and Black Beauty

Really now, who will be able to resist a spirited pony named Tugboat, who has a personality like Wilbur the pig, and can tell a story like Black Beauty?

Happy New Year!

Inspiration for writing can come from many places. Here is a perfect example. The seed for this story was planted when I found a poster of a pony mare and her foal in a store in Jackson, WY last summer. I knew when I bought it I would write something about it someday, just had to wait for "the right time."

The right time happened one October morning when I returned from a visit with my parents. I had spent four days taking my father to his treatments at Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York City, and thinking about the huge void I knew would come someday when he was gone. The following story is what came from these two, completely separate experiences working together in concert in my head. Enjoy.

SILENT NIGHTS

By Nanci Turner Steveson

With three great heaves the filly was born, slipping silently onto the snow. The mare lay on her side, half hearted whinnies stuck in her throat. She knew the foal had been born too soon, and would be weak. But she also knew she should move quickly if they were going to find shelter before the next snowstorm raged across the sagebrush flats.

The mare lifted her head and looked back. The filly’s wet neck bobbled as she tried to muster the strength to hold her head up. A white diamond, perfectly centered on her forehead, danced in the moonlight. She coughed once, took two sharp breaths and squeaked out a whinny.

Satisfied the foal was alive, the mare gave herself a few moments to rest before pushing her body up, leaving a red and white form packed into the snow. It was hard to move with only three good legs. The fourth, her front right, dangled uselessly beneath her. Fresh blood dripped from just below her shoulder and turned the snow the color of a holly berry. Jumping on three legs, the mare turned and began licking the filly’s warm, wet body. She had no idea where the rest of her herd was, but she could smell the fury of a storm that had stalled just beyond the mountains, and heard the cry of the wolves following the scent of her blood.

Inside a lodgepole pine cabin, an old man lay alone in his bed. Thick blue blankets were pulled up to his chin, his eyes turned toward the window. The other side of his bed lay undisturbed, the pillow fluffed, blankets and sheets still tucked neatly into the side. Sleep eluded him again, so Clayton did what he always did on sleepless nights. He stared at the stars out the window and began to count. It didn’t help him sleep; in fact it didn’t even make him feel any better. It just passed the time until the rooster crowed and he could get up and start another silent day.

The mare pushed the filly along in front of her, stopping every few yards to rest and allow her to nurse. The foal’s curly tail flipped from side to side as she bumped her nose against the bottom of her mother’s belly and found the swollen teats. Steam rose from her tiny, damp back and disappeared into the frigid night air as she drank ferociously, until her mother began to hobble forward again.

Clayton kicked the covers off and sat up on the edge of his bed. It would be hours before the rooster crowed, but he couldn’t lay still one minute more. Grabbing a red and green quilt from the chair, he paused briefly when his fingertips touched the soft fabric. Every stitch had been sewn by the hands of his beloved wife as she lay dying in their bed. It was her last gift to him.

Clayton shuffled to the easy chair in front of the fireplace, wrapping the Christmas quilt around his shoulders. The embers glowed bright orange under the grate, but there wasn’t enough fire to generate any heat. Hoping for sleep, he let it die out instead of going outside for more wood. He would do that tomorrow. There was another storm coming and he would want firewood stacked inside. It was the only thing he did differently since Maggie had passed.

Looking at the scrawny evergreen he had cut still laying on its side by the door, he knew he wouldn’t put it in the stand before Christmas. He had intended to, he had even retrieved the box of ornaments from the attic. But it sat, unopened, on the table next to the tree. Christmas had come too soon after Maggie’s death. Pulling the quilt tighter around his body, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking in the corner behind him.

The smell of sage and clean snow filled their nostrils as mare and foal made their way slowly across the flats toward a stand of trees, leaving a trail of blood behind them. The mare heard the wolves and knew they were following. The filly hugged her mother’s side as they started down a slight hill, the moonlight fading in and out as storm clouds moved across the sky.

Hours later Clayton heard three chimes of the clock and opened his eyes. His breath floated before him like a vision. Shaking his head, he got up, dropping the quilt on the chair. Opening the front door, a rush of icy air slapped him in the face.

“Damn!” he said, slamming the door closed. “Why the hell didn’t I bring the wood up earlier?”

No wood on the porch meant he’d have to go to the shed behind the barn. And it was so damn cold! Before putting on his jacket, he stopped in the kitchen and measured out three scoops of coffee. No sense trying to sleep. He’d get a hot fire going and try to figure out how to wrap a present. His son would be bringing the grandchildren in three days, and children expected Christmas to go on no matter who died.

The mare leaned her body against a cold, wooden post. The loss of blood left her disoriented and weak. She could feel the filly’s tiny head pushing under her belly in search of food, just as her body started to slip. The foal pushed harder and stamped her tiny hooves on the snow.

Clayton’s boots crunched as he made his way across the yard to the shed. The light from the house didn’t shine far enough, but he had walked the path a million times over the fifty years he and Maggie had owned this ranch. Coming around the back side of the shed, his feet slipped from underneath him and he fell, breaking the fall with his hands. His leather gloves came up sticky and red. Putting his hand to his nose he smelled blood; he had slipped on blood. Even in the dark he could see a figure at the base of the fence. A dead pony mare lay silently in the snow.

“Holy shit….” he mumbled. Crawling on his hands and knees toward the mare, he could see the leg cut open just below the shoulder. Damn near cut in half! She must have bled to death. The eerie sound of wolves howling floated across the prairie. Better pull her into the shed, Clayton thought. She was small enough; he figured he could manage alone. He didn’t want a pack of wolves hanging around. He’d have to get rid of the pony’s body before his grandchildren came, anyway. They were city kids, although damned if he knew how that had happened.

After dragging the pony into the shed and locking the door, Clayton went back for the wood, stepping carefully around the bloody snow. Reaching down for a log, he came face to face with the little bay filly who lay upright behind the wood pile, looking at him as if she’d known all along Clayton would be coming for her.

“Whoa, look at you, little one.” He saw the stub of the filly’s umbilical cord, still attached to her belly. “You can’t be more than a few hours old.” The filly shivered, too young to know to be frightened. Clayton took off his jacket and lay it over her body, looking around for some way to carry her.

“Stay here, don’t move,” he said, holding his hand out in front of her face.

Jogging gingerly across the yard, he laughed to himself and repeated the words again. “Don’t move? Ha! Clayton just where do you think she’d be going?” Once inside he grabbed the Christmas quilt Maggie had sewn for him and ran back out the door.

“Here you go, little girl, let’s get you fixed up,” he said, crouching in front of the filly. Clayton hesitated, holding the quilt up close to his face. Maggie’s gentle perfume still clung to the fibers. It was the last thing he had that made him feel he could still touch her. The newborn foal’s scent would take that from him forever.

The filly nickered, her head bobbing on her neck, large dark eyes looking at Clayton with both innocence and confidence at the same time. It was the same way Maggie had looked at him everyday for the last fifty-two years. Unfolding the quilt, Clayton wrapped it around the tiny body like a sling, then carried her across the yard to the house.

By the time the rooster crowed hours later, snow had started to fall. A fire snapped in the fireplace, and the filly slept on a braided rug, still wrapped in the quilt. The only sound she made was soft sighs of contentment. Clayton had spoon fed her warm goats milk before she fell asleep. It was all he had to offer. Now he sat in the chair watching the fire, his own cheeks red from the heat.

When the rooster broke the silence, Clayton looked over at the forgotten tree by the door, and the box of ornaments on the table. Raising himself up, he lifted the stand from the box and, grabbing the tree by the top, began to slide the dried trunk in between the rings that would hold it upright when he set it in front of the window. Maggie had always insisted they string hundreds of white lights on their tree, and place it in front of the window, “Just in case someone’s lost their way in the dark.”