Pony: Parts Three–Four

I have always endeavored to provide order to my memory, but it can be like trying to put lightning in a box.

“An old man named Enoch Farmer. He found me. Turns out he’s a U.S. marshal tracking some outlaws. I think they may be the same men who took Pa.” Mittenwool seemed dubious.

He smiled wanly. “I hope so.”

“Well, about time, sleepyhead!” Mr. Farmer groused.

It was the first time I was actually able to see the old man’s face clearly, in the dappled light of morning.

“Please,” I implored.

“Your pa told you to wait for him,” he answered brusquely, not looking up.

“All right, I’ve made note of his appearance,” said Marshal Farmer, tapping his forehead, “and I’ll be sure the deputies are apprised of it, too, so he doesn’t get hurt in any crossfire.”

It was bad enough having the marshal tell me I couldn’t go with him. I didn’t need Mittenwool hectoring me about it, too.

“I’ll take you as far as the birch copse. From there it’s just a short ride out.”

I could feel my fury rising in my bones, up through my legs, my spine, and culminating in my head, which was hurting.

He was trying to be conciliatory in tone, but this only aggravated me more.

The children had asked me who I was talking to, and I, being innocent of how people viewed these things, told them without any trepidation: “I am talking to my friend Mittenwool!”

A fly had attached itself to his cheek, and he tried to chase it away with the hat. But it kept alighting on the same spot as he spoke.

“I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to Mittenwool,” I said defiantly.

He was sorely chagrined, I could tell. He once again swatted at the stubborn fly hovering near his face as he contemplated what to answer.

And I won’t coddle you. If you get in my way, I’ll leave you behind. If you can’t keep up, I’ll leave you behind.

“Yes, sir,” I replied with humility.

“I don’t cotton to folderol like that,” he said hotly. “I’m a plain man and I speak plain English and I don’t have time for your flights of fancy. Maybe your pa put up with that kind of jibber-jabber, but I won’t. You hear me?”

He nodded approvingly at my change in demeanor, for I was sitting straighter in the saddle now, to impress him.

By then, however, word had spread that Martin Bird’s son was “addled” (that is what they called it), and when Widow Barnes heard those rumors, she confronted me one day in front of the class.

And then she rapped my hand with a yardstick for good measure, telling me she wouldn’t abide any newfangled spiritualists in her schoolhouse, whatever that meant.

People like that old Widow Barnes have no business teaching, he said quietly, seething as he rubbed almond oil liniment on my knuckles.

They have no imagination. No fire in their minds. So they try to limit the world to the paltry things they can understand, but the world cannot be limited. The world is infinite!

Of course, this was the best thing that could have happened to me, because Pa was a far better teacher than old Widow Barnes. I say this not to brag in any way, but to point out that because of Pa’s schooling, I know things a child my age has no business knowing. Conversely, there are things a child my age should know that I don’t.

I remembered Pa telling me that giant reptiles had walked the earth once, in the days of the primordial world, and this is what the Bog seemed to me.

Still, we had no recourse but to go in.

They were not crisply drawn in my vision, but blurs of people walking through the morass.

Whether Pony was acting of his own volition or reacting to my sudden distress, I don’t know, but he darted in front of the marshal’s mean brown mare and we raced ahead, at full speed like we did yesterday, to wherever before us was free of ghosts.

Then, to Mittenwool, “We should get back before he has another conniption.”

“I remember my pa telling me there were a lot of skirmishes in these parts. Between the settlers and the natives.”

“My pa says it’s repugnant what’s been done to the natives,” I answered.

He raised his chin at me, his eyes luminous, and I thought for sure he would rebuke me.

“Fifty dollars for a photograph of the moon?” I had remarked skeptically when Pa showed me the announcement over breakfast.

No, no, it’s a heap of work, son. That’s why no one’s been able to do it well since De la Rue. It’s a big, big undertaking.

He smiled and sighed at the same time and then, after a few seconds, said, “You’ll help me, aye? Do you remember what I taught you about the moon’s orbit? What does perigee mean?”

But that box housed a meticulous array of mirrored glass lenses that would, Pa said, bring the cosmos within our reach.

“Wow,” I whispered reverentially.

He poured his irontype solution over the glass plate to bring out the latent image of the moon. It has always been a wonder to me, and always will be, to see something invisible be made visible.

He whispered soothingly as he wiped away the little pinpricks of blood with tincture of iodine.