Chapter One

Merry Fields

And, though she be but little, she is fierce.
-- Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream, III, ii

It was hot. Muggy and hot. Abby's skinny legs sweated in her jeans, and she squirmed in an effort to get comfortable. The supply teacher, Miss Smithers, droned on in a monotone punctuated with peevish sighs about English grammar, and how few people bothered with the finer points any more. No one in the class had any idea what she was talking about because her subject had been off the curriculum for years. She'd been going on for hours, it seemed to Abby, as the classroom baked in the heat of this Thursday afternoon in June.

Abby had a difficult time tuning in.

'And so the categorizing of subject and predicate is not only ... blah blah blah ... when parsing a sentence, but ... blah blah blah ... between the topic of the phrase and what is being observed about it ...' Blah, blah, blah. Abby's mind continued to drift. She idly observed her fellow grade-eight classmates.

Her best friend, Leslie Morris, looked almost bug-eyed in her effort to appear interested. Abby smiled affectionately. She knew Leslie wouldn't want to hurt anybody's feelings, however boring the person was. Her golden-brown skin glowed with sweat and her black hair was even curlier than usual from the humidity. Leslie was sensitive and kind, the only kid in the class who didn't ridicule Abby about her father.

Leo Rodrigues, the self-declared class bully, slept on his desk and occasionally uttered a short snort that sounded very much like a hog, the animal that Abby thought he most resembled. His sidekick, Larry Lloyd, was carving something for Pam's amusement on the inside of his desk. Pam Masters, sitting next to him, was more interested in her nails and whether Tommy Singh was watching her. Tommy couldn't care less about Pam's nails, and was finishing off a sketch of what he thought Annie Payne would look like in the nude. Abby turned her head to assess Annie, and decided that Tommy had a vivid imagination. All this time the teacher's voice drifted in and out of Abby's consciousness.

'Most educational institutions today are returning to the complete parsing of the sentence after experimenting unsuccessfully with other ... blah blah blah. May I have your attention, now, while I ... blah blah ... the various usages of the Subjunctive ... blah blah blah....'

Abby gazed out the window of the one-level yellow brick school and sighed. There were so many things in her life that were troubling her. So many things she was confused about. So many things more important than this interminable grammar lesson. She studied the day outside.

The sky over the fresh green pastures was a Mediterranean blue, and the little wisps of cirrus clouds flitting over the tree-tops made Abby think of ocean spray at sea. New corn was growing in the field next to the school, and wild spring flowers shot vivid colour into unexpected places along the fence line. Past the fence Mr Pierson's Hereford cows grazed calmly, watched over by the huge chestnut-and-white bull.

Their farm was called 'Merry Fields' in honour of Maryfield, Saskatchewan, the town where Mr Pierson grew up. Mr and Mrs Pierson, both in their mid-seventies, were her friends. Ever since she was small, they had always been glad to see her whenever she dropped in to ask advice about keeping little homeless animals alive. They'd remained stalwart supporters of her family throughout the long and very public trial. The view of Merry Fields out her classroom window comforted and cheered her.

Abby's eyes travelled hopefully across the road. There she was, the most beautiful horse that Abby could imagine. The little mare was silky and fine-boned, with long legs and an intelligent, pretty little face. Her mane, tail and legs were jet black and her healthy, glossy coat was dark brown; a true bay. Abby often watched her from her desk by the window, wishing more than anything to have a chance to ride her someday.

She could picture herself on the mare's back. Racing over fields, splashing through rivers, jumping huge hurdles effortlessly. This horse, with her elegant action and smooth gaits, would feel as if she was gliding instead of trotting. Abby was sure they'd be a great team, maybe almost as good as Hilary James on the famous Dancer, who'd won countless competitions and was the toast of Caledon. Abby sighed, imagining herself winning the Caledon steeplechase, and having the red ribbon pinned on the bay mare's bridle by Hilary James herself. Hilary, exclaiming what a brilliant rider Abby was. Hilary, smiling in admiration. Dancer bowing his famous bow, nose touching the ground, just for her. Abby was happy now, deep in her favourite daydream.

From the time she was little, she'd loved horses. Her Irish father, Liam, was an experienced horseman who'd been raised just south of Galway, the home of the Galway Blazers. Over the years, he'd entertained Abby with countless stories of the famous hunt and the courage of the Irish horses. He'd ridden ponies before he could walk, and had won many prizes for his riding skills. His most treasured memory was winning the first-place ribbon in the Limerick steeplechase when he was just her age.

When she was seven years old, he'd given her a little Welsh palomino pony named Goldie. Abby had ridden her all over the countryside, sometimes spending all day in the saddle. Often, she'd simply catch Goldie in the field, hop on her back and off they'd go. She loved that pony. They jumped fences, raced down the back roads, and won ribbons jumping at county fairs. Liam often said that Goldie was her best teacher. Abby had thought of her more as a friend, but she'd learned how to understand the animal's emotions as well as how to master the required technical skill.

When they had needed the money to pay the lawyers, her mother had sold Goldie. Abby's legs were starting to hang too low to the ground anyway, but the loss of Goldie had left her feeling empty, especially so soon after her father's departure to jail. She hadn't had a chance to ride since then, and she missed it. Right now she yearned for school to let out so she could give the carrot in her pocket to that little mare across the road. Abby could daydream and watch this particular horse forever.

A little wren sitting on the branch beside the open window suddenly chirped his cheerful message and startled her. Abby gasped out loud, jolting the sleepy classroom.

'Miss! With the blond ponytail and red shirt. Stand up.'

Abby turned quickly to the front. Did the supply teacher mean her? What was she wearing today? Oh. A red shirt. She rose slowly.

'Do you have a comment to make on the subject matter, or do you have something to share with the class?'

'Abby doesn't have anything,' Larry snickered, 'so how could she share it?' The class started to rouse itself from its sleepiness. Some of the kids joined in laughing.

'Is your name Abby?' the teacher asked.

'Yes.'

'Abby, what is your last name?'

'Malone.'

'Maloney baloney, your daddy's a phoney!' Larry hooted, made confident by the class reaction to his previous remark.

Not stopping to think of the consequences, Abby spun around and threw her pen directly at Larry. It hit him squarely on the forehead. Larry leapt to his feet howling with rage, and lunged for her. The loyal Leslie stuck out her foot and tripped him, and he fell hard onto the floor in the aisle.

'Class! Class! Enough!' Miss Smithers, knowing things were already out of control, rang the bell frantically. She was hoping to get the attention of the principal, Mr Edwards. The classroom erupted into a full-scale battleground, everyone out of their seats and happy to be relieved of their boredom. The noise level rose to playground pitch.

The only one not screaming and laughing was Abby. She felt mortified. What Larry had said about her father was a low blow. Abby turned her face to the window to hide her deep crimson colour.

What was this? With unbelieving eyes, she saw that Mr Pierson's Herefords had broken down their fence to eat the young corn in the next field. She blinked and stared.

Probably thirty head or more were devouring corn. They had to be put back. They'd get sick from eating too much corn, and the crop would be ruined. And Mr and Mrs Pierson were always doing nice things for her. She wanted to help, and it had to be now. Abby quickly thought of a plan.

Unnoticed in the commotion of the classroom, Abby quietly opened the window just enough to slip out, and dropped down onto the grass a few feet below.

She ran as fast as she could to the field across the road where the pretty young quarter-horse mare was grazing. Abby'd been told that the breed had been named 'quarter' horse because they can run the quarter mile faster than any other breed of horse, even beating out thoroughbreds for that distance. They tend to run in bursts of speed, tire, then speed again.

As she ran, she pulled the piece of binder twine that she used as a belt from her jeans belt loops. She grabbed the fence post with both hands and vaulted over the fence. She always had carrots in her pocket to give the mare a treat on the way to and from school, and now she was very glad she did. Normally this habit only caused problems in the laundry.

Abby gently called to the mare, trying to disguise her urgency. 'Come on. Come on, pretty thing.' She held out her hand, offering the carrot as she walked closer, repeating soothingly: 'Come on, come on, pretty thing.'

The little mare looked up from the business of munching grass and watched the girl approach. She was pleased to see her. This person brought her treats. She tilted her ears toward Abby and came to meet her and take the carrot.

'Good girl.' Abby was beside her now, and the young mare snatched carefully at the carrot with her teeth. Abby held the binder twine ready in her left hand. As the mare stretched her neck to get the carrot, Abby grabbed her leather halter, popped the middle point of the twine into the horse's mouth and threaded it through the halter on both sides for reins. She'd ridden this way on Goldie.