The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(51)

Simon pointed toward the apple grove, and I could see nothing at first. But when he whistled, a horse emerged from the trees.

He was tall—as tall as Tse. And you could tell he must have been beautiful once.

Now, though, his gray hide stretched across sharp hip bones and jutting ribs. His broad back swayed as if it carried an oppressive weight.

“Mind if I take a look?” said Olin.

“He’s gun-shy,” Simon cautioned as Olin headed toward the grove. Then he turned to me. “Well,” he asked quietly, “what do you think?”

I didn’t know how to answer him. Certainly Jim had proven just how wretchedly an animal could be abused, but I’d never seen neglect like this. Still, I knew Simon wasn’t fishing for compliments.

“He looks awful,” I said. “What happened?”

“He was a racehorse once. Not a good one, I guess. Or his owner didn’t think so. He was sold for dog food to some outfit down in Florida. Since he wasn’t worth the cost of feed, they let him starve. He was just skin and bones when I got him.”

“Worse than this?”

“He’s improved quite a bit. And he’ll get better still. Watch.”

He whistled again and gave a call. The horse broke into a canter along the tree line, apparently unwilling to get too close. He pulled up and shook his big head, then finished his circuit across the field.

“There, now. See?” said Simon. “They didn’t break him.”

It pleased me to hear him say it. Most people wouldn’t see much worth in salvaging an abused creature like this.

“He’ll make a good trail horse one day,” I said.

“No—thoroughbreds don’t do well out here for trails or cattle. Their legs are too fragile; the country’s too rugged.”

“So you’ll race him?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then what on earth will you do with him?”

Simon hesitated, watching the horse turn and bolt back toward the grove.

Then he shrugged. “Let him run.”

The horse was moving at a speed that seemed wholly unsupportable for his gaunt frame and gangly legs. But he tore up the distance with little effort, disappearing again in the apple trees.

“Almost like he has wings,” said a voice behind us. “Like Pegasus.”

We turned to see the boy, Davey, a few yards away in dungarees and a damp T-shirt, his cowboy hat shading most of his face.

“Pegasus, huh?” said Simon. “Could be a fine name. What do you think?” He was asking me.

What I thought was that even if that horse had actual wings sprouting from his withers, he looked barely fit enough to carry a child, much less Zeus’s thunderbolts. But I had to admit he had spirit.

“I like it,” I said. “Some names you just have to grow into.”

Simon made the introductions, and Davey stepped forward to shake my hand. The boy pulled off his hat, and for the first time I could see his face clearly . . .

The slight arc to the bridge of his nose . . . the squared-off chin . . . and the hair—a deep mahogany brown.

The resemblance to Jim was uncanny.

I snatched my hand from his. It was then that I noticed the eyes looking up at me from that eerie, familiar, terrible face were the same quartz green as Laurel’s. As mine.

“Joanna . . . ?” Simon sounded concerned.

I was staring at the boy with open revulsion. I couldn’t help myself. I stared as he flushed a deep red, then ducked his head in confusion. He took a step back . . . recoiling from me.

The rational part of my brain was struggling to intervene. This is only a child, it said. We don’t choose the features we’re born with. And yet . . .

“I—I’m sorry,” I managed to say. “I thought . . . we’d met before.”

“No, ma’am,” said the boy.

“No,” I said. “I’d have remembered.”

I dragged my eyes away from that face and turned toward the apple grove. I cleared my throat.

“How’d you come up with a name like Pegasus?” I asked finally. “Do you like Greek mythology?”

“Sure, I like stories about the old gods,” Davey said. “Olympus and the Underworld.”

“I did, too, when I was a kid,” I said. “I discovered them when I was eleven. How old are you?”

“I turned nine in June.”