Icicle and blaze.
The Virginia winter clouds hang frozen in the sky over Assateague Island as Granddaddy and I climb from his four-wheel-drive truck."Where are the wild horses?" I ask, shivering.
"Trying to keep warm by the sand dunes and the loblolly pines," Granddaddy says, handing me his fire axe. Granddaddy is chief of the Chincoteague Volunteer Fire Company.
"What are we doing with the axe?" I ask as Granddaddy pulls two feed sacks filled with hay from the truck.
"Chopping holes in the ice," Granddaddy says, his words a floating cold cloud before his face. "Horses need to drink from the freshwater ponds."
I nod and follow Granddaddy over crackling cordgrass and across the ice marsh. It's silent on the island, and I take a deep breath, smelling ocean and horses and snow.
"Lookee here," says Granddaddy, stopping to run his glove over the bark of a gnarled old tree. "It's one of the scratching trees." I touch it, too, imagining the strong horses scratching their backs on the tree.
"Do you think I'll have enough money to buy a wild horse at the auction?" I ask, and Granddaddy laughs.
"You have six months to save," he says with a wink. We move on, passing wild grapevines and straggly wire grass. Suddenly, a snort breaks the silence, and I jump, startled.
"The wild horses," I whisper, and Granddaddy nods. We stop at the pond, looking down upon the thick and rippled ice. "Chop it open," Granddaddy says, and I do, swinging the axe hard and watching the dark water seep through. Another snort, a whinny, some nickers, and the entire island seems to shake. A band of eight wild horses gallops past, graceful and fast, and I catch my breath, watching them run.
Granddaddy opens a sack of hay and dumps it on the ground near the pond. "Eat up, horses," he calls into the quietness and shoves the empty feed sack into his pocket.
We walk on and on, the frosty air chilling our cheeks and noses, until Granddaddy freezes in his tracks, gazing down at the ground. "What is it?" I ask.
"Frozen horse," Granddaddy says, a sad look crossing his face. Stiff and still, the golden horse lies on its side, silky mane falling over closed eyes. Granddaddy bends slowly over the horse. "A mare," he says softly.
"Is she ... dead?" I whisper, shuddering. Granddaddy nods, and tears burn my eyes. "Poor horse," I say, reaching over to touch the white blaze on her face. The horse's nostrils flare and my heart gallops.
"She's alive!" I say.
"Just barely," Granddaddy says, and I see that his hands are shaking. He opens the second bag of hay and dumps it on the ground; then he shoves the feed sack into his pocket. "Leave the axe," he says. "We have a horse to carry."
My eyes fly wide open, and I place the fire axe in the nook of some tree branches. Granddaddy takes a big breath and bends over the horse, heaving the front of her body into his arms. I grab the back legs, and we half-carry, half-drag the horse past the pond, past wild grapevines and straggly wire grass, past the scratching tree.
We stop to rest, catching our breath and rubbing our arms, and then we gather together all the strength we have left and lift. We lug the frozen horse across the crackling cordgrass and over icy marshland, until, finally, we arrive at Granddaddy's truck.
Huffing and puffing, Granddaddy opens the door on the back, and we heave the horse into the truck. Granddaddy and I look at each other, gasping.
"That's one heavy little horse," Granddaddy says. I nod, then climb into the back, and sit beside the horse for the ride home. I cover her with an old blanket and stroke her nose and talk to her.
"You're going to be OK, Frozen Horse," I say. "We'll take good care of you, Granddaddy and me." Frozen Horse just looks at me with dull brown eyes, not moving.
By the time we get to the firehouse, Frozen Horse seems to know me. Her eyes sparkle and her heart beats hard against my palm when I talk soft and low into her ear. The truck door swings open, and the firemen lift Frozen Horse and carry her to the firehouse.
"Why, I believe she's going to birth a foal," says one fireman as they all gather around her.
And she does, in the firehouse in the springtime. By this time, her name is no longer Frozen Horse, but Blaze because of the white blaze on her forehead. Blaze's baby has a white blaze, too, dropping long and spiked like an icicle. "Let's name the foal Icicle," I say, hugging both Blaze and Icicle.
Three months later, the Virginia summer clouds float soft in the sky over Assateague Island as Granddaddy and I climb from his truck. We go to the back and open the trailer door for Blaze and Icicle.
"Goodbye, Blaze," I say, kissing her blaze. "Goodbye, Icicle," I say, kissing his icicle.
They both look at me, warm brown eyes full of love, and then they gallop off together, past Granddaddy and me. My eyes burn with tears and my heart hurts, watching them run. Granddaddy watches, too, until we can no longer see them, and then he turns to me with a smile. "We've got a fire axe to find," he says.
We walk together over cordgrass and across the marsh, past the scratching tree and the wild grapevines and the wire grass, past the pond, sparkling in the sunlight.
I take a deep breath, smelling the ocean and horses and summertime. "Do you think I'll have enough money to buy a wild horse at the auction?" I ask, and Granddaddy laughs.
"You have six days to save," he says with a wink.
We go to the tree where the fire axe is rusting in the branches, and I look at the spot where we found Frozen Horse. "Remember?" I ask, shuddering, and Granddaddy nods.
We're both quiet for a minute, and then a snort breaks the silence. "The wild horses," I whisper. Another snort, a whinny, some nickers, and the entire island seems to shake.
A band of ten wild horses gallops past, graceful and fast, and I catch my breath, seeing Icicle and Blaze. They look at me, I look at them, and then they run on, with the other wild horses of Assateague.
To learn more about wild horses, visit www.corollawildhorses.com.
 Printer friendly
 Cite/link
 Email
 Feedback
| |
| Author: | High, Linda Oatman |
|---|---|
| Publication: | Children's Digest |
| Article Type: | Short story |
| Date: | Jan 1, 2005 |
| Words: | 1092 |
| Previous Article: | Body-Part Nonsense. |
| Next Article: | Jokes & riddles. |
| Topics: | |
| Icicle and blaze. |
| Icicle waves go with the flow. (Physics). |
| Fire hits city home; Firefighters battle ice too. |