ground, then straightened and stopped. Mary had beaten me by a dozen yards.
She laughed when I pulled up beside her. “You know where the stable is,” she said. “And if you see Uncle Simon, tell him there’s a special treat for supper. I made it this morning.”
The ponies seemed hardly troubled by their run. They trotted ahead to the stable door, anxious as dogs to be back at their home. And as I came up behind them, I heard Simon Mawgan’s voice from inside the building, so loud with anger that he could have been standing beside me.
“Damn your eyes!” he said. “I told you to watch that boy, didn’t I? Well, where did they go, then?”
I heard no answer. He might as well have been speaking to himself.
“Just show me!” he shouted.
One of the ponies thumped against the door. Something clattered inside, and Mawgan roared, “Who’s there?”
I opened the door. The stable smelled of hay. A dust of corn and oats floated in the light, and through this golden haze I saw Mawgan deep in the shadows with a crop in his raised hand. The other man was lying in a stall; I could see only his boots, and they pushed at the floor as he scrambled back.
The ponies crowded at me, pushing me in.
Mawgan lowered the riding crop and tapped it on his knee. “Where have you been?” he said.
“We went riding,” I told him.
“Where?” he barked.
“Across the moor,” said I.
“I’ll ask once more.” He took a step toward me. Theponies clomped through the stable and went each to its stall. “Where have you been?”
“The Tombstones,” I said.
“The Tombstones.” The crop tap-tapped against his leg. “I didn’t say you could go gallivanting across the countryside.”
I said, “I didn’t know I was a prisoner.”
Maybe my boldness surprised him. More likely, he saw through it to the fear inside. He laughed heartily. “A prisoner, you say? No, no, my lad. I was worried about you, is all. I suppose it was Mary’s idea, was it? ’Course it was. Headstrong girl, that one.”
Then, without turning, he spoke to the man in the stall. “Get up from there. Give the boy a hand with the ponies.”
It was Eli, the shriveled old man with no tongue. He came out cautiously, like a weasel from its den. But from the way he held his arms, I could see that the riding crop had done him no harm.
“You’ve run those ponies hard,” said Mawgan. “Put blankets on them, John, then come to the house.” He left without another word.
Eli fetched blankets and a comb, all the time watching the door. I held my hand out for a blanket, looking not at him but at the ponies. Mawgan was right; they were starting to tremble with cold sweats. And suddenly Eli clutched my arm.
There were bits of straw stuck in his hair, another piece lying aslant across his shoulder. His face was shrunkenand cracked like old mud. And the sounds he made, from deep in his throat, were the croakings of a frog.
I pulled away from him; I couldn’t bear his touch. But he came at me again, bent and shuffling, and grabbed my sleeve with a hand that was more like a claw, the skin stretched over talon fingers. He made the sounds again, the awful groans and warbles, and cast another frightened glance at the door.
I dropped to my knees and hauled him down beside me. I swept a bit of dirt clear of old straw and scratched words with my finger: “Show me.”
He yanked on my arm, and yanked again, until I looked up at his face. He shook his head so violently that bits of straw flew like arrows from his hair.
“You can’t read?” I said. “You can’t write?”
Again he shook his head. And then, as slowly and as carefully as he could, he spoke three words. But they were mere sounds, with no more sense than the grunting of a Pig.
I said, “I don’t know what you’re telling me.”
He nearly howled with frustration. Then he swept the dirt clear of my writing, and with a finger long and bony he drew a stick figure.
It was bent forward, running
She laughed when I pulled up beside her. “You know where the stable is,” she said. “And if you see Uncle Simon, tell him there’s a special treat for supper. I made it this morning.”
The ponies seemed hardly troubled by their run. They trotted ahead to the stable door, anxious as dogs to be back at their home. And as I came up behind them, I heard Simon Mawgan’s voice from inside the building, so loud with anger that he could have been standing beside me.
“Damn your eyes!” he said. “I told you to watch that boy, didn’t I? Well, where did they go, then?”
I heard no answer. He might as well have been speaking to himself.
“Just show me!” he shouted.
One of the ponies thumped against the door. Something clattered inside, and Mawgan roared, “Who’s there?”
I opened the door. The stable smelled of hay. A dust of corn and oats floated in the light, and through this golden haze I saw Mawgan deep in the shadows with a crop in his raised hand. The other man was lying in a stall; I could see only his boots, and they pushed at the floor as he scrambled back.
The ponies crowded at me, pushing me in.
Mawgan lowered the riding crop and tapped it on his knee. “Where have you been?” he said.
“We went riding,” I told him.
“Where?” he barked.
“Across the moor,” said I.
“I’ll ask once more.” He took a step toward me. Theponies clomped through the stable and went each to its stall. “Where have you been?”
“The Tombstones,” I said.
“The Tombstones.” The crop tap-tapped against his leg. “I didn’t say you could go gallivanting across the countryside.”
I said, “I didn’t know I was a prisoner.”
Maybe my boldness surprised him. More likely, he saw through it to the fear inside. He laughed heartily. “A prisoner, you say? No, no, my lad. I was worried about you, is all. I suppose it was Mary’s idea, was it? ’Course it was. Headstrong girl, that one.”
Then, without turning, he spoke to the man in the stall. “Get up from there. Give the boy a hand with the ponies.”
It was Eli, the shriveled old man with no tongue. He came out cautiously, like a weasel from its den. But from the way he held his arms, I could see that the riding crop had done him no harm.
“You’ve run those ponies hard,” said Mawgan. “Put blankets on them, John, then come to the house.” He left without another word.
Eli fetched blankets and a comb, all the time watching the door. I held my hand out for a blanket, looking not at him but at the ponies. Mawgan was right; they were starting to tremble with cold sweats. And suddenly Eli clutched my arm.
There were bits of straw stuck in his hair, another piece lying aslant across his shoulder. His face was shrunkenand cracked like old mud. And the sounds he made, from deep in his throat, were the croakings of a frog.
I pulled away from him; I couldn’t bear his touch. But he came at me again, bent and shuffling, and grabbed my sleeve with a hand that was more like a claw, the skin stretched over talon fingers. He made the sounds again, the awful groans and warbles, and cast another frightened glance at the door.
I dropped to my knees and hauled him down beside me. I swept a bit of dirt clear of old straw and scratched words with my finger: “Show me.”
He yanked on my arm, and yanked again, until I looked up at his face. He shook his head so violently that bits of straw flew like arrows from his hair.
“You can’t read?” I said. “You can’t write?”
Again he shook his head. And then, as slowly and as carefully as he could, he spoke three words. But they were mere sounds, with no more sense than the grunting of a Pig.
I said, “I don’t know what you’re telling me.”
He nearly howled with frustration. Then he swept the dirt clear of my writing, and with a finger long and bony he drew a stick figure.
It was bent forward, running
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