GROWING UP

"Come on, I'll race you!"

"No fair, Eleanor, you got a head start!"

"You'll never beat me by whining, Rodger!"

Eleanor, as fleet-footed as a young deer, her long hair streaming out behind her, ran through the tall grass of the meadow toward the orchard at the edge of Locksley village. Rodger followed close on her heels, but she reached the orchard first.

"Beat you again!"

"Only because you cheated!"

"No, I'm faster than you. I've always been faster than you!"

"Not for long, Eleanor. I'm going to be bigger than you very soon, you just wait."

She only grinned at him, picked up a fallen apple, and lobbed it at his head. A year ago she might have hit him with it, but not now. Father had finally consented to give him lessons in swordsmanship, and they practiced nearly every day. He'd learned how to swing a sword, but just as importantly, he'd learned how to duck out of the way.

"Missed me!" he laughed. He picked up an apple and threw it at her. It missed her by a mile, and it was Eleanor's turn to laugh. Okay, so he needed to work on his aim. Eleanor had better aim, there was no denying it. She could still beat him shooting targets with her bow. So what? Swordfighting was more fun anyway.

Mother didn't entirely approve of Father's training sessions. She said Father was too hard on him, but he liked the challenge. If it meant he went to bed at night with calloused hands and aching muscles and bruises all over him, so be it. Someday he'd be strong enough to handle Father's long, heavy sword. That day was coming closer all the time, because in a couple of weeks he would be twelve years old.

Twelve! That number seemed magical somehow. Eleanor was already twelve, going on thirteen. Their birthdays were one year and ten days apart. Eleanor would always be older than him, of course, but Mother had just measured him against the door frame of his bedroom at home, and he'd grown two inches in the last year.

"You're outgrowing all your clothes again, Rodger," Mother had said proudly. "You'll be as tall as your father someday."

Those words had thrilled him! There was nothing he wanted more than to be like Father. People were forever telling him that he looked like his father. He wanted to be as tall and strong as him, too.

Eleanor reached for another apple just as Rodger did, and their heads nearly bumped. They stood up and faced each other.

For as long as Eleanor could remember she'd been taller than Rodger, but with a sudden and startling realization she saw that they were now the same height. The curls of his childhood had relaxed into waves, thick and dark, that swept back from his face and fell nearly to his shoulders. His strong features were no longer those of a young boy. And he was looking her squarely in the eye.

A gust of wind blew a lock of hair across his forehead, and as he brushed it aside she saw the flash of blue from under the dark brows. When he was angry, his eyes were pale as ice, but now, as his scowl softened to a smile, they were as warm and brilliant as the autumn sky over their heads. She decided then and there that she liked Rodger's eyes. Rodger was like Uncle Guy—he didn't smile much. But when he did, he had a nice smile, and she decided she liked that about him, too.

In recent weeks she had begun to experience a new self-consciousness around boys. Her onetime companions, Matthew and Roddy and Gregory, the smith's sons, acted differently around her now. They didn't rough-house with her anymore. Instead, they labeled her the "little lady of the manor", and teased her about her torn dresses and wild hair. They no longer wanted to play "Sheriff and outlaws". They were more interested in apprenticing in their father's blacksmith business than in running about Locksley playing games.

Only Rodger had stuck with her. He'd been her companion as well as the one she picked on and argued with, and she was glad he was still her friend. She didn't feel funny around him, at least. Rodger was just Rodger. He was like a brother to her, the brother she'd always wanted. Mama had been an only child, and Papa, too. Was that why she didn't have a brother or sister like Rodger did? No, that made no sense. But still, for some reason she was the only child of her parents, and no one would explain why.

Rodger bent over, picked up more apples, and stuffed them into his coat.

"You're supposed to throw those at me, numbwit, not put them in your pockets!"

"I'm bringing some to Prancer," he told her.

"If you give him too many he'll get a bellyache," she warned.

"I'm only giving him two or three," he replied. "The rest are for us."

"You do know that Prancer's way too small for you now."

"Of course I do! I'm not going to ride him! He's too old to be ridden anymore. He's out in the pasture with Starlight and Father's horse. I promised him I'd bring him some apples as soon as they were ripe, and I keep my promises."

He strode off toward the pasture beyond the orchard. Eleanor followed him.

"You fuss more over that silly old pony," she teased. "Making a promise to him as if he understands you."

"He does understand me."

Rodger climbed over the fence and made his way toward the part of the pasture where Prancer liked to graze.

"There he is," he said to Eleanor. He laughed. "Look, he's lying down. We caught him sleeping, old lazybones!"

The mound of Prancer's stomach stuck up out of the grass. It wasn't until they were nearly upon him that they could see the rest of him. His head lay flat on the ground, and his stubby legs were curled against his body.

"Hey, Prancer, wake up, old boy! Come on, I've got some apples for you!"

The pony didn't move.

"He must be really fast asleep," said Eleanor. "Don't scare him."

"I won't. Come on, Prancer, wake up, or Starlight will get all your apples!"

He gave the pony a nudge with his foot.

"Rodger—"

Eleanor saw that Prancer's eyes were slightly open. There was a strange, dull film over them. The tip of his tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth. He lay very still.

"Rodger—I think he'd dead."

Rodger's head whipped around, and the blue eyes were like ice once again. He shouted at her. "Shut up, Eleanor! Don't even say that, it's not funny! No, he's just asleep! Come on, Prancer, get up!"

He knelt down next to the pony and shook his mane.

"Rodger, he's dead, I'm telling you. Look, his sides aren't moving."

"He can't be! He was fine this morning. I took him out here early this morning and he was fine!" He screamed the words at her.

Eleanor bent down over the pony and peered carefully at him. The pony looked so small, and pitifully frail and old lying there in the tall grass. Despite Rodger's denial, she knew he was dead. She'd seen dead animals before.

"Rodger, come on, let's go home. We'll get your father, or Reggie—"

"No, he can't be! No, not Prancer!"

She looked around for help, and saw Reggie and a couple of other farmhands some distance away.

"Oi! Reggie! Come here, quick!"

He saw them and waved, and walked across the field toward them.

"What'ya doin' out here, children?" he asked, his face alight with his friendly smile. Then he saw the motionless pony and the distraught face of his owner. "What's this? Oh—"

He bent down and looked the pony over, and then slowly stood up.

"What's wrong with him?" cried Rodger. "He's okay, isn't he? He'll be okay, right, Reggie?"

Reggie ran his hand over his face. Oh, dear God, why do I have to be the one? But the lad has to be told, there's no way 'round it.

"Rodger, Prancer's dead," he said as gently as he could. "Looks like he died in his sleep," he added, half to himself. "He must've just went off to sleep and didn't wake up."

Rodger's cry strangled in his throat. His wide open eyes stared at Reggie and Eleanor. Then he abruptly turned from them and ran across the field toward the village.

"Should I go with him?" Eleanor asked in a low voice.

"No, best to leave him be, lass. Would you be a good girl and stay here? I'll go and find Sir Guy."

Reggie was halfway to Gisborne Hall when Guy met him. Rodger had already told his father. Then he had collapsed, sobbing, into his mother's arms.

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"How old do you suppose he was, Reg?"

"Oh, I'd say well over twenty, sir, closer to thirty, maybe. He'd been goin' downhill for a while, off his feed, you know. Just slept away at the end."

Guy smiled faintly. "We should all meet such a peaceful end."

"What do you want done with him, sir?"

Reggie knew what would become of Prancer if he were the pony of one of the villagers. He'd be cut up for dog meat. Some might even feed the meat to their families, though there was little left on the pony's shrunken frame that was appetizing or even edible. Hungry peasants couldn't afford to be sentimental about their animals, however, or too particular about their tastes.

But somehow the idea of cutting into the little pony's body, lifeless though it was, troubled Reggie. Prancer had been Rodger's beloved childhood pet as well as his mount. He hoped Sir Guy wouldn't ask him to do it. When Guy didn't reply, but just continued to stare down silently at the dead pony, he spoke again.

"Would you like me to have him hauled into the woods, sir? The foxes and crows would clean him up in no time at all."

Guy slowly raised his head and looked at Reggie.

"No. I want him buried, Reg."

Reggie raised his brows in surprise. No one buried horses. Even nobles didn't bury horses.

"Bury him. You and a couple of the other men. Dig a good deep hole. Right here, where he died."

He turned away and started for the village. Reggie followed him. He dreaded the back-breaking work ahead. Prancer was small, but they'd still need to dig quite a big hole. But Sir Guy was his lord and employer. He sighed, and considered the men he could ask to help him. They'd probably laugh at the request, behind Gisborne's back. As long as they didn't laugh in front of Rodger, he didn't care.

Guy suddenly stopped, and looked back at Reggie.

"I'll help you," Guy said. "Let's get another man and some shovels."

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"Did he suffer, Mother? I could almost bear it if I knew he didn't suffer."

Rodger lay on his bed and looked up at his mother with eyes that were swollen and dry from crying.

"I'm sure he didn't, darling. Reggie told you and your father that Prancer just fell asleep. He didn't feel any pain."

"I didn't think when I brought him out to the pasture this morning that he'd be—" Rodger couldn't bring himself to say the word.

"I know, Rodger. But he was a very old pony."

"I guess I never thought about him dying."

"It's hard, I know, but some day it won't hurt as much as it does right now. Prancer had a good long life, Rodger. Think about that. He was happy. When he died he was out in the pasture in his favourite spot, out there with the other horses on a beautiful day. Isn't that a good thing to remember?"

Rodger thought about this, and despite the terrible ache in his heart, it did make him feel a little better. Mother understood. She understood everything.

"Rodger, your father and Reggie buried Prancer, right where he died, did you know that?"

He was silent for a moment. "I should have helped him," he murmured.

"He didn't want you to, Rodger. He wanted to do that for you. He loves you very much. Don't ever forget that, no matter what happens."

No matter what happens? He didn't know what she meant by that, but he looked back up at her and slowly nodded.

Yes, she thought, as she smoothed her son's tousled black hair off his brow, he'll need to remember that and hang on to it in the years ahead, to remember how much we both love him. There will be more, much more that he'll have to face very soon. There's so much he doesn't know yet, about the past, about his father….

"Do Aunt Marian and Uncle Robin know?"

"Yes, Eleanor told them. They were both very sorry. And Eleanor's been back here since to see you."

"Mother, I don't want to see her. She'll just laugh at me."

"She's gone home, dear. She said she'd see you tomorrow."

She bent down and kissed him. "And she won't laugh at you, you'll see."

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Rodger walked out to the pasture the next morning, to Prancer's favourite place near the stream and a stand of trees. A low pile of freshly turned dirt was all that was left to see.

He still had Prancer's apples. He reached into his pockets and pulled them out. One by one he dropped them on the grave.

He turned when he heard someone walking toward him. It was Eleanor. She held a handful of flowers picked from the meadow.

"Hello, Rodger. I thought you might be here. Are you okay?"

"I guess so."

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"Thanks."

She stepped forward and placed the flowers on the grave. Rodger smiled. "Thank you," he said again.

After a moment, Eleanor put her arm around Rodger's shoulder and gave him a hug. It wasn't like her, because she wasn't affectionate, especially not with him. The other boys would tease him if they saw it. But he didn't mind. It felt good, and no one else was around to see, anyway. Maybe she wasn't going to laugh at him after all.

A gentle autumn breeze rippled over the grass and the leaves of the trees, and the nearby stream gurgled and splashed over its pebbly bed. It was a tranquil place, that corner of the pasture, and it comforted him when he thought of Prancer lying there, at rest after a long and contented life. Next spring the grass and flowers would grow on the mound of dirt and cover it and hide it from sight. Someday he might even forget where his old pony was buried. But he knew he would keep the good and happy memories of Prancer with him always.

Rodger and Eleanor stood side by side at the little pony's grave. His hand reached for hers, and she didn't pull away. She took his hand and held it tight. He looked over at her gratefully. Mother and Father understood, but he saw that Eleanor did, too, and he felt at peace.