Part 2

"Of course. He just wanted us to stop fussing over Misty. I'll race you, Maureen."

It was fun racing bareback across the marsh. The rising wind excited the horses, made them go faster, as if they wanted to be part of it. And it was fun to round up the mares and drive them down the spit of land, stopping just short of the sea. It was even fun arguing.

"Maureen, you got to do the pumping tonight."

"I don't either. I got to gather the eggs."

"All right, Miss Smarty, then you can just mend that chicken fence, too."

It ended by both of them repairing the fence and both taking turns pumping water. Afterward, they charged into the house, glowing and hungry.

Grandma promised an early supper of oyster pie. "And then," she said, "if you can trust me to keep watch on Misty, you can drive with yer Grandpa over to Deep Hole to the Reeds' house. Mrs. Reed's got a pattern I want to copy for our apron sale."

"_I'll_ take ye up on yer offer, Idy," Grandpa agreed quickly. "It'll give me a chance to see how my herd's doin' up there on winter pasture."

But about that time odd things began to happen. A lone marsh hen came bustling across the open field toward the house. Paul saw her first. He was at the table in the sitting room, painting a duck decoy.

"Look! Come quick!" he shouted to the household. "A marsh hen's coming to pay us a call!"

Maureen hurried into the room to see. Grandpa and Grandma almost collided, trying to get through the door at the same time.

"Jumpin' mullets!" Grandpa whistled. "In all my born days I never see a marsh hen walkin' on dry ground."

"Can't say I have either," Grandma agreed. "They're timid folk, ain't they?"

"Yup, only feel safe in a marsh, like a rabbit in a briar patch."

"I saw one, one day," Paul said, "walk right across the causeway."

"Pshaw!" Grandpa whittled him down to size. "_Everyone's_ seen 'em do that. They're just makin' a quick trip acrost, from one marsh to another. But _this_ little hen has made a journey. For her it's like travelin' to the moon."

Grandma nodded. "To my notion, she's a body with a purpose. She's tryin' to find a hidey-hole. Wonder what's frighted her?"

They all watched as the hen made her way to the high ground near the smokehouse and settled down on the doorstep as though she'd found a safe harbor.

Everybody went back to work except Grandpa. He crossed the room to the window that faced the channel. "Great guns!" he exclaimed. "Look at how our lone pine tree is bent! Why, the wind's switched clean around from sou'west to nor'east! And look at the sky--it's black as the inside of a cow." Suddenly he sucked in his breath. "The tide," he gasped, "it's almost up to our field!"

"Only nacherel," Grandma called from the kitchen. "We're in the time of the new moon, and a new moon allus means a fuller tide."

But Grandpa wasn't listening. He began pacing from one room to the other. "Any storm warnings on the radio today, Idy?" he asked.

"No," Grandma said thoughtfully, "except the Coast Guard gave out small-craft warnings this morning. But three outen five days in March, they hoist that red flag."

"Even so," Grandpa said, "me and Paul better light out and put the ponies in the hay house for safety."

Paul dropped his paintbrush and started for the door.

"Bring in more wood for the stove," Grandma called after them.

Darkness was coming on quickly and the wind had sharpened, bringing with it a fine whipping rain. The old man and the boy whistled the ponies in from the marsh. They came at a gallop, eager to get out of the weather. It wasn't often they were given all the hay they could eat, and warm shelter too.

Paul grabbed a bundle of hay and ran to Misty's stall. He found her stomping uneasily and biting at herself, but he blamed the little colt inside her, not the weather. The wind fluttered the cobwebs over the window at the back of her stall. He nailed a gunny sack to the frame to keep the cold out. Then, feeling satisfied, he gave Misty a gentle pat on the rump. As he went out, he bolted both the top and the bottom of her door.

He joined Grandpa, who was gathering up four fluffy black mallards, too young to fly, and putting them in a high cage in the hay house. The peacocks and banties were already roosting in the pine trees. Wherever Paul and Grandpa went, Skipper ran ahead, enjoying the wind and the feeling of danger and excitement. At the kitchen door he left them, jumping into his bed in the truck. Habit was stronger than the wind.

Inside the house, all was warmth and comfort--the fire crackling in the stove, the oyster pie sending forth rich fragrances, and from the radio in the sitting room a cowboy's voice was throbbing:

"Oh, give me a home Where the buffalo roam, And the deer and the antelope ..."

The word "play" never came. The music stopped as if someone had turned it off. At the same instant the kitchen went black as a foxhole.

A strange, cold terror entered the house. For a long moment everyone stood frozen. Then Grandma spoke in her gayest voice, which somehow didn't sound gay at all. "We'll just eat our supper by candlelight. It'll be like a party."

She found the flashlight on the shelf over the sink, and pointed its beam inside a catch-all drawer. "I got some candles in here somewheres," she said, poking in among old party favors and odds and ends of Christmas wrappings.

Grandpa struck a match and held it ready. "Yer Grandma looks like Skipper diggin' up an old bone. Dag-bite-it!" he exclaimed. "I'm burnin' my fingers." The match sputtered and died of itself.

"I'm 'shamed to say," Grandma finally admitted, "but I recomember now, I gave my old candles to the family that moved in on Gravel Basket Road. They hadn't any electric in the house. What's more, I loaned 'em our lantern."

Grandpa's voice was quick and stern. "Paul! You drive my pickup over to Barrett's Store and get us a gallon of coal oil. Maureen, you crunch up some newspaper to--"

"Clarence!" Grandma was shocked. "Paul's not old enough to drive, and hark to that wind."

"Idy, this here's an emergency. I'm the onliest one knows jes' where in the attic to put my hand on the old ship's lantern off'n the _Alberta_. Besides, Barrett's is jes' up Rattlesnake Ridge, as fer as a hen can spit."

Paul was out the door in a flash and Grandpa was pulling down the ladder in the hall to the crawl-space in the attic. As he climbed up he muttered loud enough for Grandma to hear, "Wimmenfolk and worry, cups and saucers, wimmenfolk and worry!"

When he came back with the lantern, he handed it to Maureen. "Like I said, honey, you crunch up some newspaper and give this chimney a good cleaning, and then pick the black stuff off'n the wick. Here, ye can use my flashbeam to work by."

Seconds passed, and the minutes wore slowly on. It was past time for Paul to be back. Grandpa peered out the window, trying to pull car lights out of the dark. He wished Grandma would not just sit there, hands folded in prayer. He wished she'd sputter and scold. He wished she'd say something. Anything.

He even wished Maureen would say something. But she was intent on her work. "That's good enough, honey. Better shut the flashbeam off now. We may be needing it for trips to the barn," he added seriously.

When at last Paul burst into the house, he set the can of coal oil on the table without a word. Grandma quickly opened it and poured some in the base of the lantern.

"Wa-al?" Grandpa asked as he struck a match and lighted the wick. He turned it slowly up and watched the flame steady. "Where ye been? Yer Grandma's nigh crazy with worry over ye. What took ye so long?"

"I drove around to see how bad the storm is."

"And how bad is it?"

"Bad. _Real_ bad."

"What you lookin' so ashy about?"

"I got bogged down in the sand on Main Street. The bay water's coming right over the road and lots of cars are stuck. Fire Chief had to push me out."

"Oh...." Grandpa looked concerned. "Ye'd better run my truck up to that high place by the fence, Paul. If this wind keeps up, no tellin' how far she'll shove the tide."

_Chapter 4_

LET THE WIND SCREECH

The storm was sharpening as Paul moved the truck. If he hurried, he could look in on Misty once more. Skipper read his thoughts and leaped out with him, but he didn't dash ahead. He hugged close to Paul, his action saying, "Two creatures against the storm are better than one."

The wind swept down upon them and struck with an iron-cold blast. It took Paul's breath. He had to fight his way, reaching up, grasping for the clothesline. He might not be able to get out again. Suppose Misty'd already had her colt and was too frightened to take care of it? Suppose it suffocated in its birthing bag because no one was there to tear it open?

He stumbled over a tree root, and only the clothesline kept him from sprawling. But now he had to let go. He had reached the post where the line turned back to the house. He was almost to the corral. Now he was there. He squeezed through the bars. He reached the shed, crying out Misty's name.

She came to him, her breath warm on his face. He put both arms around her body. The colt was still safe inside her. A wave of love and relief washed over him as he leaned against her, enjoying the warmth of her body. He stood there, wondering what she would say to him if she could, wondering whether she was thinking at all, or just feeling content, rubbing up against a fellow-creature for comfort.

Skipper nosed in between them, nudging first one and then the other, wanting to be part of the kinship.

"You can stay in here tonight, feller," Paul said. "You'll keep each other warm." Reluctantly he left them and headed toward the house. The wind and rain were at his back now, pushing him along as if he were in the way.

The kitchen felt cozy and warm by contrast, and the acrid smell of the coal oil seemed pleasant. The light, though feeble, didn't hide the worry on Grandma's and Grandpa's faces. But Maureen was humming and happy, her head bent over small squares of paper. Wait-a-Minute was perched on her shoulder, purring noisily.

Paul picked up the cat, warming his fingers in her fur. "What you doing, Maureen?" he asked.

She folded one of the squares and held it up in triumph. "Isn't it exciting, Paul?"

"What's it supposed to be?"

"Why, a birth announcement, of course."

"Gee willikers! Horsemen don't send out announcements!"

"I know that. But Misty's different. Everybody's heard how she came from the wild ones on Assateague and chose to live with us 'stead of her own kin."

Paul held the folder close to the light. He studied it curiously and in surprise. On the top sheet were three sketches of horses' heads. The one on the left was unmistakably Misty, and the one on the right could have been any horse-creature except that it was carefully labeled "_Wings_." Between the two, in a small oval, there was a whiskery colt's face and underneath it a dash where the name could be printed in later.

"Right purty, eh, Paul?" Grandpa asked.

"Look at the inside," Grandma urged.

Paul opened it and read aloud: "_Little No-Name out of Misty by Wings. Misty out of The Phantom by The Pied Piper. Wings out of a wild mare by a wild stallion._" He pulled at his forelock, thinking and studying the pedigree.

"One thing wrong," he said with authority.

Maureen's lips quivered. "Oh, Paul, I can't help it if I can't draw good as you."

"It's not that, Maureen. The pictures are nice. Better than I could do," he admitted honestly. "But in pedigrees the stallion's name and _his_ family always come first."

"But, Paul, remember how Misty's mother outsmarted the roundup men every Pony Penning until she birthed Misty? The Pied Piper was penned up every year, and if it hadn't been for Misty, likely The Phantom never, ever would of been captured. Remember?"

"'Course I remember! I brought her in, didn't I?" He stopped and thought a moment. "But I reckon you're right, Maureen. This pedigree _is_ different. Misty and The Phantom should come first."

"These children got real hoss sense, Idy," Grandpa bragged. "I'm so dang proud o' them I could go around with my chest stickin' out like a penguin." He strutted across the room, trying to stamp out his worry.

Suddenly the lights flashed on and a voice blared over the radio: "... is in the grip of the worst blizzard of the winter. Twelve inches of snow have fallen in central Virginia and still more to come. At Atlantic City battering seas have undercut the famous board walk. Great sections of it have collap...." The voice was cut off between syllables as if the announcer had been strangled. Again the house went dark, except for the flame in the lantern and a rim of yellow around the stove lids.

"Supper's ready," Grandma sang out in forced cheerfulness. "Guess we can all find our mouths in the dark. These oysters," she said as she ladled the gravy over each plate, "is real plump, and the batter bread is light as a ... as a...."

"As a moth?" Paul prompted.

"Well, mebbe not that light," Grandma replied.

They all sat down in silence, listening to the sound of the wind spiralling around the house. Suddenly Grandpa pushed his chair back. "I can't eat a thing, Idy," he said. "But you all eat. I just now thought 'bout something."

"'Bout what, Clarence?"

"'Bout Mr. Terry."

Grandma put down her fork. "That's the man who moved here to Chincoteague last fall, ain't it?"

As Grandpa nodded his head, Paul broke in. "He's the man who has to live in a kind of electric cradle."

"That's the one. His bed has to rock, Idy, or he dies. And now with the electric off, he may be gaspin' for air like a fish out o' water. Me and Paul could go over and pump that bed by hand."

He hurried into the sitting room, to the telephone on the little table by the window. "Lucy," he told the operator, "please to get me Miz' Terry. She could be needin' help."

Grandma put Grandpa's plate back on the stove. Everyone stopped eating to listen.

"That you, Miz' Terry?" Grandpa's voice boomed above wind and storm.

Pause.

"You don't know me, but this here's Clarence Beebe over to Pony Ranch, and I was jes' a-wonderin' how ye'd like four mighty strong arms to pump yer husband's bed by hand."

There was a long pause.

"Ye don't say! Wal now, ain't that jes' fine. But ye'll call me if ye need hand-help, eh?"

Grandpa strode back to the table, sat down and stuffed his napkin under his chin.

"What did Miz' Terry say?" asked Grandma, setting his plate in front of him.

Grandpa ate with gusto. He slurped one oyster, then another, before he would talk. "Why, ye'd never believe it, Idy, how quick people think! First, Charlie Saunders, who's in charge of the hull Public Service--he calls Miz' Terry and warns her 'bout the wind bein' high and the electric liable to go out, so she calls Henry Leonard down to the hardware store, and almost afore she hung up there was a boy knockin' at her door with a generator and some gasoline to run it."

Grandpa sighed in satisfaction. "So let the wind screech," he said, "and let the rain slap down, and let the tide rip. We're all here together under our snug little roof."

A good feeling came into the room. The lantern flame seemed suddenly to shine brighter and the homely kitchen with its red-checkered cloth became a thing of beauty.

_Chapter 5_

NINETY HEAD

Before second helpings the storm struck in full fury. It came whipping down the open sea like some angry, flailing giant. It shook the house, rattled the shutters, clawed at the shingles.

The kitchen, so snug and secure a moment ago, suddenly seemed fragile as an eggshell.

Grandpa and the children rushed to the sitting-room window. They could not see beyond the windowpane itself. Only wind-driven rain, streams of rain, slithering down the glass, bubbling at its edges. Every few moments one ghostly beam from the lighthouse over on Assateague sliced through the downpour--then all was blackness again.

Maureen tugged at Grandpa's sleeve. "Grandpa! What if Misty's baby is being born? Right now? Will it die?"

Paul, too, felt panic. "Grandpa!" he yelled. "Let's go out there."

But Grandpa stood mesmerized. He wasn't seeing this storm. He was in another storm long ago, and he was thinking: "'Twas the wind and waves that wrecked the Spanish ship and brought the ponies here. What if the wind and waves should swaller 'em and take 'em back again!" In his darkened thoughts he could see the ponies fighting the wreckage, fighting for air, fighting to live.

And suddenly he began to pray for all the wild things out on a night like this. Then he thought to himself, "Sakes alive! I'm taking over Idy's work." He turned around and saw her at the sink washing the dishes as if storms were nothing to fret about. A flash of understanding shuttled between them. They would both hide their fears from the children.

Paul's voice was now at the breaking point. And Grandpa knew the questions without actually hearing the words. But he had no answer. He, too, was worried about Misty. He put one arm around Paul and another around Maureen, drawing them away from the window, pulling them down beside him on the lumpy couch.

"There, there, children, hold on," he soothed. "Buckle on your blinders and let's think of Fun Days. I'll think first. I'm a-thinkin'...."

In the dark room it was almost like being in a theater, waiting for the play to begin. And now Grandpa was drawing the curtain aside.

"I'm a-thinkin'," he began again, "back on Armed Forces Day, and I'm a-ridin' little Misty in the big parade 'cause you two both got the chickenpox. Recomember?"

"Yes," they agreed politely. And for Grandpa's sake, Paul added, "Tell us about it."

"Why, I can hear the high-school band a-tootlin' and a-blastin' as plain as if 'twas yesterday. And all of 'em in blue uniforms with Chincoteague ponies 'broidered in gold on their sleeves. And now comes the Coast Guard, carryin' flags on long poles, marchin' to the music, and right behind 'em comes me and the firemen a-ridin'."

Now the children were caught up in the drama, reliving the familiar story.

"Misty, she weren't paradin' like the big hosses the firemen rode. She come a-skylarkin' along, and ever'where a little rife of applause as she goes by. But all to once she seen a snake--'twas one of them hog-nose vipers--and 'twas right plumb in the middle of the street, and she r'ared up and come down on it and kilt it whilst all the cars in the rear was a-honkin' 'cause she's holdin' up the parade."

Grandpa stopped for breath. He gave the children a squeeze of mingled pride and joy. "Why, she was so riled up over that snake she like to o' dumped me off in the killin'. But I hung on, tight as a tick, and I give her a loose rein so's she could finish the job, and...."

Maureen interrupted. "Grandpa! You forgot all about our pup."

Grandpa winked at Grandma. His trick had worked. He had lifted the children out of their worry. "Gosh all fish-hawks," he chuckled, "I eenamost did. What was that little feller's name?"

"Why, Whiskers!" Maureen prompted.

"'Course," Grandpa said, scratching his own whiskers as he remembered. "Well, that pup was a-ridin' bareback behind me, and when Misty r'ared, he went skallyhootin' in the air. But you know what? He picked himself up and jumped right back on, after the snake-killin' was done. And Misty won a beautiful gold cup for bein' the purtiest and bravest pony in the hull parade."

"And that was even afore she became famous in the movie," Paul added.

Grandpa stopped, groping in desperation for another story. In the short moment of silence a gust of wind twanged the telephone wires and wailed eerily under the eaves.

Maureen's face went white. "Oh, Grandpa!" she whimpered. "Is Misty's baby going to die?"

"No, child. How often do I got to tell you I'm the oldest pony raiser on this-here island, and if I know anything at all about ponies, Misty'll hold off 'til the storm's over and the sun's shinin' bright as a Christmas-tree ball."

Paul leaped from the couch. "Grandma!" he challenged. "Do _you_ believe that?"

Grandma was putting away the last of the dishes, and did not reply. The question was so simple, so probing. She wanted to tell the truth and she wanted to calm the children. "As ye know," she said at last, "I had ten head o' children, and it seemed like _they_ did the deciding when was the time to appear. But from what yer Grandpa says, ponies is smarter'n people. They kin hold off 'til things is more auspicious."

Grandpa brushed the talk aside. "I got another worriment asides Misty," he said. "She's safe enough on high ground and in a snug shed. But what about all my ponies up to Deep Hole?" He jerked up from the couch. "I got to call Tom Reed."

"Clarence," Grandma reproached, "Tom Reed's an early-to-bedder. Time we bedded down, too. It's past nine."

"I don't keer if it's past midnight," he cried in a sudden burst. "I _got_ to call him!" But he didn't go to the phone. He suddenly stood still, his hands clenched into fists. "Somethin' I been meanin' to tell ye," he said with a kind of urgency.

No one helped him with a question. Everyone was too bewildered.

"All I know in this world is ponies. Ponies is my life," he went on. "And ever' Pony Penning I buy me some uncommon purty ones." Now the words poured from him. "Some fellers salt their money in insurance and such, but I been saltin' mine in ponies. And right now I got ninety head. And they're up to Deep Hole in Tom Reed's woods. I _got_ to know how they are!"

"Ninety head!" Grandma gasped. "I had no idea 'twas so many."

"Well, 'tis." Grandpa's voice was tight and strained. "If the ocean swallers 'em, we're licked and done." He looked at the children. "And there'll be no schoolin' for this second brood o' ours." He rubbed the bristles in his ears, the worry in his face deepening. "One of the ponies is Wings."

"Oh ... oh...." Maureen's lips trembled as if she had lost a friend. "Not Wings!"

"Not Wings!" Paul repeated.

"Who's Wings?" Grandma demanded.

"Why, Grandma," Paul said, "he's the red stallion who stole Misty away for two weeks last spring. Don't you remember? He's the father of Misty's unborned colt."

Maureen went over to Grandpa and took his gnarled old hand into hers and pressed it against her cheek. "Tonight I'm going to send up my best prayer for Wings. And for all ninety head," she added quickly. "But, Grandpa, we don't mind about school. Honest we don't."

"'Course not," Paul said. "We'll just raise more ponies from Misty."

_Chapter 6_

OCEANUS

"Try oncet more, Lucy! Just oncet more!" Grandpa was imploring the operator.

Paul and Maureen were on the floor at Grandpa's feet, listening anxiously. Grandma brought in the lantern and set it on the organ near him as if somehow it would help them all hear better.

After an unbearable wait Grandpa bellowed, "Tom! That you, Tom? How are my ponies?"

A pause.

"What's that? You're worried about your son's _chickens_!" Grandpa clamped his hand over the mouthpiece and snorted in disgust. He summoned all of his patience. "All right, tell me 'bout the chickens, but make it quick." He held the receiver slightly away from his ear so that everyone could listen in.

"My son," Tom Reed was shouting as loud as Grandpa, "raises chickens up to my house, you know."

"Yup, yup, I know."

"He's got four chicken houses here, and he comes up about eight o'clock tonight, and wind's a-screeching and a-blowing, and the stoves burn more coal when the wind blows hard."

"I know!" Grandpa burst forth in annoyance. "But what about...."

"He puts more coal on and he asks me to help, and tide wasn't too far in then. But when we'd done coaling, he goes on back to his house. And an hour or so later he calls me up all outa breath. 'Tide's risin' fast,' he says. 'Storm's worsening. I can't get back up there. Will you coal the stoves for me?' So I goes out...."

Grandpa stiffened. "What'd ye find, Tom? Any o' my ponies?"

"All drowned."