Centaur Rising (4 page)

He grinned. “Won't happen again, Miss Martha. One surprise is all you get.”

“Didn't surprise me a bit.” She looked at Mom and Robbie and me. “This has got to be a secret, you know.”

“Already decided, Martha,” Mom said.

“Was anyone planning to tell
me
?”

“You were busy,” Mom told her.

“So were you.” Martha's voice was like a whip. Mom ignored her.

We all went back to the door to watch Dr. Herks look the foal over. He checked hooves, eyes, listened to the foal's heart, temperature, mouth, tail. Then he petted and praised Agora before standing up, black bag in hand.

“Sound little guy,” Dr. Herks said. “Ought to do well. Considering…”

“Considering what?” Martha's voice was tense.

“Considering we've no idea who his dad is or how big he's going to grow.”

“Like a horse,” said Martha. “We know how horses and ponies grow.”

“Horses,” Dr. Herks said carefully, “mature much faster than humans.”

A long silence filled the stall. None of us said that horses also don't live as long as humans. We didn't have to.

In the middle of the silence, Dr. Herks turned and reexamined the pony boy with his stethoscope, then cocked his head.

“Something else?” Mom asked.

He made a face, pursed his lips, took a deep breath. “He's got two hearts.”

“
Two
hearts?” Martha dismissed this with a snort.

“One in his boy chest,” Dr. Herks said, “and one down in the horse chest, where it ought to be.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means he's got twice as much love to give,” Robbie said and opened his short arms as wide as they would go, which startled the pony boy, who giggled and hid behind Agora before turning to nurse again.

We waited breathlessly for Dr. Herks' answer.

“Darned if I know,” he said, adding quickly, “Maybe Robbie's right and it's a good thing.”

“See?” Robbie crowed. “I'm right!”

We chewed on what Dr. Herks had said for a while, thinking about what might happen later, when the owners came to comb and curry their horses and the kids arrived for riding lessons. When George, who delivers the feed, came by in his old pickup.

And the mailman.

And the paper girl.

Our farm's surrounded by a small town on three sides and National Forest on the fourth. Everyone knows everything that happens here. As Martha often says, “Sneeze at this end of town, and when you reach the other end, someone's bound to say ‘Gesundheit!'”

So,
I thought,
what do we do about that?
But before I could say any such thing, the foal let out a strange sound, part whinny, part laugh, and I sighed quietly, thinking,
Magic! It has to be.

Agora nuzzled him, making small contented noises. She, at least, had no questions and—I was sure—no fears about the future.

 

4

Settling In

“W
E BETTER START BY MAKING A QUARANTINE STALL
and moving the other horses to stalls in the front barn,” Dr. Herks said to Mom, all business now. “Hang blankets on the bars over this stall's windows and door, so no one can see in. I'll arrange for some extra lighting so it's not too dark in here. You get out the word that the foal has…” He thought a minute, then shook himself like a dog after a bath. “He has
Puericentaurcephalitis.
Tell them we don't want it spreading. But that there's absolutely no danger as long as he and Agora are left alone. Oh—and also tell them you and Martha and Arianne will be in full quarantine outfits whenever attending them.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“
Puericentaurcephalitis
. I just made it up. Dog Latin for boy-centaur disease. It won't fool any actual vets, or any Latin teachers for that matter, but it'll do for now. I'll think of something better later. You know, we vets are always changing our diagnoses anyway. Should I write it down?”

“No, I meant quarantine outfits.”

“Oh,
that
.” He smiled. “Green jumpsuits, latex gloves, white masks over your nose and mouth.”

“Can I have an outfit, too?” asked Robbie.

“Nope, because if someone sees you, and wants to help push you, how can we explain that away?” Mom said.

“He can have my outfit,” Martha said. “I'm not going to dress in that. It'll scare the horses. It'll scare Old Aggie for sure.”

“Mom…” Robbie's face was full of hope.

“Nope,” she said in the way that was final.

“It will only be for show,” Dr. Herks said. “Take the kit off when you're in the stall, behind the curtains. And, Robbie—you can go in the evenings, after everyone is gone. That way no one will know.”

Robbie's face lit up again.

“And where do I get that … um … kit?” Mom asked, her voice softening.

“I've got plenty for when I do operations back at the clinic,” he said. “I'll bring a bunch over later this morning. As you don't actually have to be sterile, you can use them again and again. And if anyone sees me, it helps reinforce that this is an unusual situation.”

“Besides,” I said, “you're the only one who can say
Puericentaurwhatchmacallit.”

“Don't be a smart-hat,” Martha warned me.

“I can say it!” Robbie crowed, and proceeded to prove it, not once, but several times, and then sang it to the tune of “Frere Jacques” with additional words he made up on the spot.

Puericentaurcephalitis,

That's its name, that's its name.

Can you say it with me, can you say it with me?

What a shame. What a shame.

“
What a kid!” Dr. Herks said to Mom.

“Oh, he does that all the time. Mom calls it his party trick.”

As for Robbie, he was too busy singing loudly and banging his hands on the arms of his wheelchair to hear what I said.

*   *   *

After Dr. Herks left, Martha hand-lettered a sign that read
QUARITINE
and put it on Agora's stall. “Till we figure out what to do.”

“That's not spelled right,” I said.

Hands on hips, she glared at me. “People will understand.”

“It still doesn't make it right.” I was a champion speller in school. Won the all-school spelling bee three years in a row, which didn't help make me popular. Between the spelling and the fact that I always had to get back right after school to do my horse chores, and Mom not wanting kids over who might laugh at Robbie, I had no friends I could bring home. Most of them thought me weird anyway, so I didn't care. Well, maybe I did—a little. But not enough to do anything about it.

There were two girls from another of the middle schools who occasionally took riding lessons from Mom, Patti and Maddi. They were both a year ahead of me, but we still got to talk some. Horse talk mostly. But, since we went to different schools, we didn't hang around together except at the barn.

I went into the house, printed out the right spelling of
quarantine
with markers on a piece of yellow poster board, and brought it back to the barn.

Begrudgingly, Martha put it next to the first sign, saying, “Let 'em choose.” Then she locked the stall door, stuck the key in her back pocket, and left to get Agora clean bedding straw.

Robbie was already back in the house doing his homework, so Mom and I began to move all the other horses to the near side of the barn, which shouldn't have been difficult, but they were all a bit spooked. I think they sensed the magic even if they hadn't seen it. We didn't want to move Agora and the foal. We didn't know how fragile he might be.

“And we don't want anyone seeing him by accident,” Mom added.

“Who could do that?” I asked.

“The milkman or encyclopedia salesmen knocking at the door at the worst time.”

“Like right when we're moving him?”

She touched her pointer finger to her nose and grinned. “Bingo!” It was something she hadn't said in a long time.

*   *   *

We started with Hera. She's the boss of all the other horses. If we could get her to move stalls quickly and without a fuss, the rest would be easy.

“Well,
easier
,” Mom said.

Hera stared at me with her deep brown eyes. She's a dainty Arabian mare with large nostrils. There was something different in her eyes that morning. Someone who didn't know her well might have said that it was a look of alarm. But really, she just looked confused.

Basically, Hera hates change. New straw, different food, a new rider—and she shows her displeasure, usually by gnawing on the side of the stall window. We have to make a new frame for that window at least once a year.

I rubbed her nose, especially where the halter strap crossed. She leaned into my hand, her nose soft and warm, while I made comforting noises. Quickly, I snapped on her lead. Then I rubbed her neck. “I know you like your own stall. But I promise, you'll like the new stall even more.”

She didn't look convinced. In a horse that could mean that the whites of her eyes showed or that her ears were lying flat. Or a dozen other little things. Hera looked longingly at the window, opening her mouth and grinding her teeth, but I held the lead tightly to keep her from gnawing on the frame.

As we headed out of the stall, she whickered and the other horses answered her. But even if she wasn't convinced that everything was all right, she trusted me.

“I think we're okay,” I called back in a loud whisper to Mom who was in the next stall, where Bor was stabled.

I spoke too soon.

I could see little runnels of fear, like worms under Hera's skin, skimming along her back and sides as she tried to look over her shoulder toward Agora's stall.

Without warning, she gave a loud whinny and planted all four feet on the ground, refusing to go a step farther. I tugged and tugged on the lead. It was like trying to move a mountain.

The barn erupted in whinnies and snorts and odd coughing sounds as the horses reacted to Hera's call.

Mom stuck her head out of Bor's stall and stared at me. “Not
all
right, then?”

I shrugged.

“Guess they know something's wrong.”

“There's nothing
wrong
!” I said. Magic wasn't wrong. It was just … strange. But horses don't like strange. A lot of
people
don't like it either.

That was when I remembered the Perseids, the light and the power flowing over the fence, the mares in the Suss field startled and kicking up their heels, making this same kind of snorting fuss. Remembering the scene was like a lightbulb clicking on over my head.

“I know how it happened!” I called to Mom.

Something in my voice made Hera look up. Her eyes and ears suddenly seemed a lot more natural. So I gave her a small tug, and then a harder one, clicked my tongue against the top of my mouth, and at last she started walking again.

I led her down the corridor, out the side door, then in again to the other corridor in the front of the barn, and from there into her new stall. I placed two fingers on the number on the stall door.

“See—Number One. That's you.”

She stuck her muzzle on the number. I couldn't tell whether it was because she understood what I was saying or because she wanted to taste the salt my fingers had left there.

We went in.

When I unsnapped the lead and came back out into the corridor alone, Mom was already hauling Bor along. “You know how
what
happened?”

“How Agora got pregnant. I bet it was at the Perseids shower last summer. When we were lying on the blanket, I saw something strange.”

“Stranger than falling stars?” Mom stopped in front of me, Bor's huge head nuzzling her ear.

“I saw a light leaping the fence and then Agora ran to greet it and…”

“You,” Mom said, pushing her finger in my chest, “
you
were fast asleep during the whole light show.”

“Was not.”

“Was,” she said, and Bor nodded his head in punctuation. “I finally had to wake you up so we could go back inside.” She pushed past me and led Bor into his stall.

I knew I hadn't been asleep. That couldn't be true. I vividly remembered what I'd seen. Even wrote about it in my journal the next day. I don't often write in my journal. Only if something interesting's happened. Like a spelling bee. Or a light show in the sky.

Or … a centaur.

Tonight's journal
, I thought,
is going to be a doozy.

“Then what's
your
explanation?” I called after her, sassier than I meant to, but not by much.

She stuck her head out of Bor's new stall. “I don't have one. Yet. When I do, it won't be about magic. It will be science-based.”

“But it has to be magic,” I said. “What else could it be?”

She didn't hear me because she was already back in the stall, and I could hear her murmuring to Bor. I suppose he was nuzzling her ear again, or making needy noises. Geldings are supposed to be these great big mountains of calm. But not Bor. Sometimes he acts like a big tough stallion, and other times just like a scared little kid.

This was one of the other times.

 

5

Eavesdropping

“W
E SETTLED THEM IN RECORD TIME
, despite their jitters,” Mom said to Martha.

In answer, Martha just huffed through her nose like one of the horses. She does that sometimes instead of making a cutting comment.

Mom chose to ignore her and went toward the tack room to phone all the riders and boarders. “Got to tell them we have a situation here,” she said.