The Hungry Place, page 1
Text copyright © 2020 by Jessie Haas
All rights reserved.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, please contact permissions@bmkbooks.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Boyds Mills Press
An imprint of Boyds Mills & Kane, a division of Astra Publishing House
boydsmillspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-68437-794-7 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-63592-383-4 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019953785
Ebook ISBN 9781635923834
Book design by Anahid Hamparian, adapted for ebook
a_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0
To my true love, my sweet pony, and all who’ve helped me with this story.
(You know who you are, Rebecca M. Davis!)
Many thanks.
Contents
chapter 1 the spell
chapter 2 spine of steel
chapter 3 a princess
chapter 4 fences
chapter 5 cherries and pits
chapter 6 a mind of her own
chapter 7 a million dollars
chapter 8 tides
chapter 9 gone
chapter 10 sam and tully
chapter 11 spring
chapter 12 rusty
chapter 13 open house
chapter 14 the tiger’s breath
chapter 15 eden
chapter 16 girls
chapter 17 plan b
chapter 18 field ponies
chapter 19 money
chapter 20 hungry
chapter 21 muffins
chapter 22 wild meat
chapter 23 hi, pony
chapter 24 a refuge
chapter 25 tithing
chapter 26 new world
chapter 27 dragon faces
chapter 28 registered
chapter 29 which?
chapter 30 the big day
chapter 31 do i know you?
chapter 32 the rae-girl
chapter 33 here we go!
chapter 34 pining
chapter 35 distractions
chapter 36 ribbons
chapter 37 a thin old man
chapter 38 partners
epilogue
chapter 1
the spell
SHE was born in a stall, on a bed of golden straw. Her mother’s warm tongue washed and kissed her. Her mother’s voice spoke to her in a deep chuckle that she understood perfectly: love, love, love.
There was another voice, too, rich like her mother’s, also speaking of love, but in a different way. “A filly? Perfect. You know what to do, Charlie.” The voice came from a large being standing close by, a being not of their kind, but one who belonged here.
But someone else crouched above her, restraining her, moving her, taking power over her. She looked up into the thin, sharp face of one of that other kind of being and stiffened. She would move when she chose, not because some other creature made her.
It was stronger than she was.
“Bend her legs,” the voice said. “Gently, gently. When she resists like that, just hold and wait till she gives in.”
But she must be free! She surged against the holding with all her might.
It made no difference. Her mother kept bathing her, saying All is well.
So all was well? It must be. Her mother said so.
“There!” The deep, kind voice. “She just submitted. They learn like lightning at this age. They have to, in the wild. Any-thing we can teach them now they never forget. It’s like a spell to protect her from fear and confusion. You’re the good fairy, Charlie, blessing the princess in her cradle.”
“Let’s hope there’s no wicked stepmother,” said a second voice, above her, so close it vibrated through her skin. Not as deep, not as kind. Already she knew which voice she preferred.
Both were blurred by the rumble of her mother saying Mine. Perfect. Get up!
It seemed important, so she arranged two legs in front of herself and heaved. Cool air beneath her belly, then thump! She was down again. Her mother’s tongue rubbed her vigorously. Get up!
Up, then. She scrabbled in the loose bedding around her, surging, spreading her four legs wide to stop from swaying.
“Oh my!” The kind voice was as joyous as her mother’s. “We have something very special here!”
“You can’t tell at this age.”
“This is the best age to tell, if you have the eye. And I do!”
Meanwhile, her mother, with nickers and nudges, was asking for more. More? She was up. What more was there to do? Her legs wobbled and buckled beneath her. She straightened the bendy parts in the middle and swung one long stem forward. Now the legs were uneven. That didn’t feel right. Push another one forward. Another. Another. They trembled. Her mother nickered. Come here.
She struggled on, step by step, until she bumped into her mother’s warm flank. The scent was sweet and well known, though this was the first time she had smelled it. Her mother’s big belly swelled above her. Her mother’s neck arched around her. Her mother’s warm tongue kissed and also pushed, still pushed, toward a place that smelled even sweeter and woke up a new feeling in her middle and on her tongue.
Hungry!
She reached up, bumping, searching—oh! Milk trickled down her throat and into the hungry place, and there was more, and there was more. Her short tail wiggled. The kind voice said, “I never get tired of seeing that. Makes it all worthwhile.”
When the hungry place was filled, her legs wanted to fold. She struggled to stay on top as they trembled and buckled and—whump! Safe in the bedding, full and warm and quite tired already—life was hard work!—her eyes closed.
* * *
Two men walked out of the barn side by side, one large and puffing slightly, the other slender and light-footed as a junkyard dog. They passed under the arched sign. Moonlight picked out the letters: Highover Farm, Champion Connemara Ponies. Roland McDermott, proprietor. Above them the big house stood tall as a castle, only one downstairs window shining yellow. Below them stretched a pale meadow, edged by dark trees that fell away, ridgetop beyond ridgetop, into the valley.
The larger man paused, looking back at the barn. “You’ll get the vet in first thing in the morning, Charlie.”
“I always do.”
“Don’t mind my fussing. I’ve bred some fine ponies on this hill, but mark my words—that’s the one this farm will be remembered for.” The old man took a cautious breath, pressing his fist against his chest. “And not a moment too soon!” He walked slowly up the slope to the big house.
The smaller man watched him go. His teeth showed in the moonlight. “Careful, old boy,” he murmured. “You’re the meal ticket around here.” He waited, while the door of the big house opened and closed, and a bulky form passed the window.
Then he turned toward the trainer’s cottage. It was a normal-size house, in fact, but the barn and big house made it seem modest. Every window blazed with light. When the trainer walked in, his wife looked up from her embroidery, a dark-haired woman with a hard, handsome face.
“The old mare had a filly,” the trainer said. “He thinks she’s the one he’s been waiting for. Looks like just another pony to me—but he’s got the eye, he says.”
“He does have an eye,” the wife said. “For ponies. Lucky for us there’s a lot he doesn’t see.”
chapter 2
spine of steel
“RAE, what do you want for your birthday?” Gammer asked. She spoke from a computer screen on the kitchen table of a small house, across the ridgetops and many miles away from Highover.
Rae leaned close to her face on the screen. She could almost smell fresh lemons. This was the season for lemon pies in Florida. “A pony,” she said. “A real pony of my own.”
Gammer smiled. “Lovebug, you’ve hungered for a pony since you were old enough to say the word. You get that from your mama. What I meant was, what do you want that I can give you? I don’t get rich making pies, you know. I get by.”
Rae had heard this before, but tonight it seemed important. “What does getting by mean, exactly?”
“It means I have enough,” Gammer said. “I can keep myself fed, keep the lights on, live the life I picked out for myself, with a little surplus for emergencies. But not a pony-size surplus. Besides, taking on an animal is a big decision. Your daddy would need to agree.”
“But you asked what I wanted,” Rae said.
“That I did, lovebug!”
“Are we getting by? I mean, is Daddy?”
“Oh yes! Your daddy’s a smart man. He doesn’t need as much cash-money as other people do. Driving the garbage truck lets him be home when you get back from school, and gives him time for his sculptures. He’s doing what he loves, and yes, he’s getting by. He gives you a good life, doesn’t he?”
“It would be a good life if I had a pony.” Rae didn’t say this very loudly.
The computer barked. Gammer reached down out of view and picked up a small scruffy dog. “Look, Monkey, there’s Rae! Say hi to him, Rae.”
“Hi, Monkey!”
Monkey barked again. Outside on the porch Rae’s big dog, Thor, barked in response and scratched at the door to be let in.
“Look at the commotion you’ve caused!” Gammer told Monkey. “Hush now! We’ll be home in a couple of days. You can play with your friends then.”
Rae’s father came into the room. “Better wind things down,” he said. “It’s getting late.”
“We’re talking about my pony,” Rae said. “The one I’m going to have someday.”
“Are you? Well, five more minutes then.” He went out of the room. Gammer leaned forward so her face filled the computer screen. Monkey leaned in too, licking her cheek.
“Stop it, Monkey! Lovebug, we’ll talk more about this when I get home. It’s too important for a five-minute conversation. You wait for me, and please don’t bother your daddy about it.”
“I wasn’t going to bother him,” Rae said. “I was just going to ask.”
Gammer said, “And I’m asking you to wait. Now tell me, what do you want that I might be able to get for you? A model pony? You love your models.”
Rae understood what she’d just been told. Don’t ask. Not for that. Not now. Still, she was getting older—not too old for models, but she wanted something more serious. Something real. “A book,” she said finally. “One that tells how to take care of a pony.”
Gammer leaned back from the computer. “You have a spine of steel, lovebug! Well, I imagine I might be able to find something like that. Say good night, Monkey!”
Monkey barked. Thor rushed into the room, barking too, and reached up to lick the computer screen. “Yuck!” Rae said, laughing.
Later in her room, though, she didn’t feel like laughing. Rae didn’t sprinkle ponies on her lunchbox or her underwear. She had them here on her walls, real looking in posters and photos, real seeming in books on her shelf. Her walls were the color of a stall, and her curtains were the color of grass. Up here, she sometimes felt that she actually did have a pony, or perhaps several. Not tonight.
She looked out her bedroom window. The moon shone on the barn’s rusty roof and the grass beside it, the grass that Rae’s pony would someday eat. That barn and grass for the someday pony were the whole reason her parents had bought this house, so she’d always been told. She would have a pony now, if Mom hadn’t died.
Rae barely remembered Mom. She had Mom’s horse books, some riding pants that didn’t fit yet, a belt with a buckle that Dad made out of a real hoof pick—and a hunger in her heart, the same one Mom had had. It couldn’t be explained. “Why do you love ponies? Why do you love horses?” The true answer never satisfied anyone. I just do. It was too simple. Rae only knew one other person who understood, and they weren’t friends anymore.
A spine of steel. Did she really have that?
She hoped so. She felt like she was going to need one.
chapter 3
a princess
SHE blinked her eyes open in a golden sunbeam—another new thing.
Hungry!
Her mother stood nearby, crunching something. She turned her head and invited. Come.
She’d gotten up and eaten five times overnight, and each time had been easier. Now she organized her legs, told them firmly what to do, and in a moment she was up, braced and ready, and in another moment she was having another meal. So good!
The half door opened, letting in the large round shape of the old man. He had two legs, not four, but otherwise looked not so different from her mother. A warm hand rested on her back. She wasn’t afraid. Hands were among her earliest memories, and this hand loved her as much as her mother did. Her tail wiggled. Her mother nickered and the old man made a sound that was like a nicker and meant the same thing.
As she finished her meal, someone else came in, on a cloud of pungent smells. “So you got one more foal out of the old lady, Roland,” he said.
“Best foal of my life!” the old man answered. He gently guided her forward.
The newcomer stared and nodded. “You may be right.”
The man, Roland, swelled even larger than normal. “I’m absolutely right! I have the eye. Look at that slope of shoulder! And the neck. Long and refined—but she’s sturdy, too. Look at the depth. Look at the legs!”
“Structurally perfect,” the newcomer said. “But there’s more. I don’t know how to say it—”
“An aura of quality. Her mother gave her that. The charisma, that electric shock when you look at her—that comes from her father.”
The newcomer said, “Of course she may outgrow it.”
“No. What you can see now, they never outgrow, in my experience—and I have a lot of experience.”
“She’ll turn gray, of course, like her mother,” said the newcomer. “A pity. I do like a black pony.”
“I prefer the grays. Though the best color for toughness is dun.”
“This one won’t need to be tough, not with the life you’ll give her,” the newcomer said. “All right, let’s get to work.”
Another person came in. She remembered him also, from the night before—the one who had controlled her. He held her still again, as one more set of gentle hands rubbed her all over, pressed things against her, slid something sharp and slim and cold into her neck, and paused, and slid it out again. That almost hurt—but it almost didn’t and her mother stayed calm, so she did too.
The newcomer capped the vial of blood and put it in his pocket. “Congratulations, Roland. A happy day for you.”
“A happy day indeed.”
He remained behind when the others left. “Congratulations, old lady,” he said to the mare. “You’ve done us all proud. Now your little girl needs a name. Hmmm…” The voice paused, and when it came again, it was pointed at the filly. Busy as she was, nosing, tasting, sniffing her way along the walls of the stall, she could hear that.
“Your mama is a queen, and you’re her youngest. The youngest princess is always the most beautiful, the kind one, the wise one. Well, why not? Banphrionsa.” It sounded like BON-frince-a. “The Irish word for princess. Highover Banphrionsa. But that’s only for registration papers and show rings. Here we’ll call you Princess.”
“Princess?” said the trainer’s wife, behind him. “That sounds about right!”
“What do you mean?” Roland asked, with an edge to his voice.
The wife was quick to hear it. She smiled at him, making her eyes seem warm and mischievous. It was a trick she had. “Lovely! She’s lovely! That’s what a princess is—pretty and pampered.”
“A make-believe princess, maybe! A real princess could become queen at any moment. She needs to be brave and wise, so she can protect her people. That’s how I see it, anyhow. But maybe you think I’m an old fool?”
The wife twinkled her eyes at him. “Oh no! But I grew up poor, you know. I’ve had to work for everything I got. So I never really understood the whole princess thing.”
“I see.” Roland’s voice softened, exactly as she had intended. She grinned a bad girl grin at him.
“I see myself more as the wicked stepmother type,” she said. “Or the bad fairy who doesn’t get asked to the christening and comes anyway.”
The trainer, returning just then, caught his wife’s eye and made a zipping motion along his lips. She shook her head as if to say, Don’t worry! I know what I’m doing, and opened the stall door, uninvited. Roland made a gesture to stop her. He got a Don’t worry head shake as well, as she came toward Princess.
Princess was learning fast, and she was born knowing some old things, deep down. What she heard in the woman’s voice made her move closer to her mother.
“No, no, little one! You need my blessing too.” Hands closed around her chest. That was familiar enough, but these hands had long painted nails, and when Princess kept moving, they pressed into her.
Truthfully it wasn’t the woman digging, it was Princess pushing against her hands. Had she softened her grip even for a moment, Princess would have softened too. Instead the nails pressed harder, and Princess recoiled, throwing up her head. She struck something, hard.
“Aaagh!” The hands released. Princess whisked behind the old mare, who swung her body around protectively between her foal and the people. The woman stood pressing both hands to her mouth.
“Are you all right?” her husband asked. “Let me see.” He gently pulled her hands away, and she gasped, staring at her palms.
“Blood!”
He looked closely at her mouth. “Just a split lip. She bumped you with her head.”
