Pony: Parts One–Two

A country boy of ten living near Boneville was, recently, walking to his house in the vicinity of a large oak tree, when a violent storm arose.

The child remained unaltered by the experience afterward but for one peculiar souvenir—an image of the tree had become emblazoned upon his back!

It was my bout with lightning that inspired Pa to become immersed in the photographic sciences, which is how this all began.

Pa’s irontypes, as he called them, had none of the exactitude of daguerreotypes, but were imbued with subtle shadings that made them look like charcoal art.

Pa’s irontypes, as he called them, had none of the exactitude of daguerreotypes, but were imbued with subtle shadings that made them look like charcoal art.

Pa’s irontypes, as he called them, had none of the exactitude of daguerreotypes, but were imbued with subtle shadings that made them look like charcoal art.

He used his own proprietary formula for the sensitizer, which is where the bromine came in, and applied for a patent before opening a studio in Boneville, down the road from the courthouse.

Adding even more to their allure, and for an extra charge, Pa would tint them with a mix of egg wash and colored pigment, which gave them a lifelike semblance most extraordinary to behold.

A few times Pa even let me polish the new brass portrait lens, which had been a major investment in the business and required delicacy in its handling.

The horsemen slowed down as they approached the house, in deference to Pa’s rifle.

We even brought you horses to ride! A nice big one for you, and a fetching little one for your boy. Mr. Ollerenshaw is something of a horse collector, so you should consider it an honor that he’s letting you ride his fine steeds.

The singsong lilt returned to his voice.

“You and your boy will have a nice jolly ride with us on those fine horses. And we’ll have you both back here in a week. That’s a solemn promise from the big man himself. He told me to tell you that exactly, by the way. To use the word solemn. Come on, this is a good business proposition for you, Mac Boat! What do you say?”

He looked forlorn, for all he tried not to show it.

And then I looked back at Mittenwool, his eyebrows raised, trying to instill confidence in me.

I have already mentioned that Mittenwool is a ghost, but I’m not entirely sure that’s the right word for him. Spirit. Apparition. Fact is, I don’t know what the right word for him is, exactly. Pa thinks he is an imaginary friend or some such thing, but I know that’s not what he is.

I gingerly reached over to check inside, afraid to startle the pony.

And this pony needs water. So, first things first, let’s bring him to the trough, feed him some oats, and then go pack you some provisions.

And this pony needs water. So, first things first, let’s bring him to the trough, feed him some oats, and then go pack you some provisions.

Mama’s eyes and her smile, tired as she was, aggrieved that she could not pass more time with me in this world.

The pony ambled slow enough through the tall grassy fields that Mittenwool could walk at an unhurried pace right next to us, but Argos was not interested in keeping up.

No matter how much I pleaded for him to hurry, nor how many times I clicked my tongue for him to come, my one-eared dog followed us indifferently in that droopy-legged way of his.

This is what makes this particular tract of land so inhospitable for farming, and why these environs are so desolate, why you could walk for hours and not see another soul.

This is what makes this particular tract of land so inhospitable for farming, and why these environs are so desolate, why you could walk for hours and not see another soul.

“I know who Bucephalus was!” he interrupted indignantly. “And that’s far too grand a name for him. Pony is much better. Suits him more.”

He’s going to be livid that you didn’t listen to him—and don’t say I didn’t warn you!

But after a spell he’s going to be proud that you did this, that you had the gumption to get on this strange-looking beast to go searching for him all by yourself.

“He is a brilliant man,” I concurred softly.

People recognize wondrous things when they see them. And with Pa, they don’t even know the half of it! If they had an inkling of the other wonders in our home Pa had invented? The mechanical ice machine? The hot-air furnace? The glass bulb that lights the air? There’d be a stampede of people wanting all those things for their houses, too!

“I’m not thinking anything you’re not thinking,” he answered sullenly, and then he pulled his hat out of his back pocket, put it on, and walked ahead of me.

I knew he could tell I was getting anxious, just like I could tell he was no longer miffed at me.

He hummed the next verse, so softly it melded with the sound of Pony’s hoofbeats and the din of the Woods.

The air was so thick with words, I felt like I could choke on them. Like they would pour into my throat and into my nostrils. Deluge my ears. Liquefy my bones.

He was panting fitfully, and so was I, and I could feel his heart beating under my left leg.

He simply flicked his tail, not deigning any further reply, as I tied him a few feet away.

He rubbed his hands together, watching me warily, and then showed me how to make a fire, how to stack the wood, where to light the tinder.

“So,” he said once I was sated, “I think it’s time you tell me your story, Silas Bird. How the hellabaloo did you end up here in the middle of these Woods?”
The fire warmed me. The food softened me.

I had not had a chance to think too much about my situation until now, so absorbed was I by the tasks at hand, so when he engaged me with something like camaraderie, I felt my emotions untether.

Billowy gusts of smoke came out of his nostrils, like tendrils.

He narrowed his eyes and scrunched up his face as he scrutinized me.