The Thunderbolt Pony. Stacy Gregg
even though we were best friends at school. I told Moana once about how I’d wet the bed on school camp and she told Juanita Wanakore and she teased me about it all term. If I was going to tell someone, I had to know I could trust them to never tell another soul.
I remember when I told Gus, he just held me with his eyes. I sat on the five-bar gate and I stroked his neck as I spoke and I told him everything. I knew he was really listening because the whole time his ears swivelled back and forth and his dark, liquid brown eyes were soft and sad and sometimes he wrinkled his muzzle. And as we sat there together, I very carefully did two tiny braids into his mane at the base of his neck by the wither. And that was when I knew that Gus was a part of my OCD too, and that I needed to do these two braids to make sure that Gus was safe. They would protect him, and even Jock and Moxy too.
When I first got Gus, he came from a farm where he was in a big herd of horses. I thought maybe he’d miss having a herd, but when he came to live in Parnassus, it was like me and Jock and Moxy became his herd. With Gus and Jock, they have this real respectful relationship. Like, when we go for rides across the farm, Jock will always fall in at Gus’s heels and keep in time with his strides. Border collies are smart like that and Jock is super well-trained. He used to be a working dog until he got too old, and I can give him instructions and he does whatever I tell him.
Moxy is the wild one of the group – she always runs ahead, being our trailblazer, sniffing and scouting the way. She’s intrepid for a cat. It’s in her breeding. Cornish Rex are real explorers. If you don’t know what they look like, well, they are almost bald because they have this crinkled-up fur like they’ve been shaved and the skin stretches taut so you can see the bones of her skull through it and she’s super-skinny with a long, ropey tail like a rat. I’m not making her sound very beautiful and I guess she’s not, but she is kind of amazing-looking, like the sort of pet an Egyptian princess would own.
We paid almost a thousand dollars for Moxy, and Dad was furious when he found out because he said he could buy a good working dog for that and you can get kittens for free around here because people are always giving them away. You shouldn’t have to pay for them. But Mum said Cornish Rex weren’t like ordinary cats – they were explorers, more like dogs than cats in their way, and loyal like a dog is loyal, choosing just one master. Also she knew this lady in Christchurch who was a “cat fancier” who bred them and did us a cheap deal. She was a really odd woman – she kept her cats in cages and washed them in special shampoo and wouldn’t let you play with them and when you went round to her house it smelt of cat poo and all her furniture was covered in plastic.
Dad soon changed his mind about paying for a fancy cat once Moxy chalked up the highest kill rate of any ratter we’ve ever had. She’s an amazing huntress. And she eats the rats too. Lots of cats will eat mice but not rats because rats taste gross, I guess, but Moxy swallows them down – she crunches up everything except for the fangs at the front and the tail at the back.
Moxy is supposed to be my cat, but if she’s loyal to anyone it’s Gus. She thinks she belongs to him. Or maybe it’s the other way round and she thinks Gus is her horse. If I’m looking for her then I’ll find her out there in the paddock with him, curled up on top of his rump, purring contentedly.
Gus was the only one I told about my OCD for a long time. In fact, I never would have told Mum at all. I was going to keep it a secret forever. The problem was, the OCD got worse. It got so bad I began to lie about stuff. Like, I would pretend to be sick and just stay in bed all day because I figured if I didn’t move, if I did nothing at all, then I didn’t need to do any of my rituals and I wouldn’t have to try to fight the urges inside me.
Only Mum wouldn’t leave me alone. She kept insisting that if I wasn’t actually sick, I needed to go to school and do my chores. But the OCD made it impossible because I’d developed this complex world of chaos in my bedroom. It looked like a big mess, but it was all part of my plan and I’d lie in the middle of the floor like a statue with the lights as bright as heaven above, unable to switch them off and trying not to think as the bees made my head fuzzy.
One morning Mum came into my room. I’d had the lights on all night and when she left my door open and touched the light switch I started shouting. It all suddenly burst out of me like pus from a swollen wound.
“Mum!” I began sobbing. “There’s something wrong with me!”
It was Mum who looked up my symptoms on the internet and discovered I was OCD. The initials stand for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
“Evie,” she said, “it’s going to be OK. We’ll find someone who can help.”
That was what led us back to the hospital, following the blue line this time instead of the red. Once a week every Tuesday at four.
We come here, to these familiar corridors with their weird, tainted smell that is a mix of antiseptic and blood, and every time I catch sight of that sign in the lift that says “Level 8: Oncology” I feel the tears well up and I get so mad at myself, and I tell myself not to cry. I tell myself all sorts of things. And I count my footsteps. One-two. Even steps between each floor tile, an even number of buttons that must be pressed when I enter the lift, and two whole glasses of water from the cooler in the waiting room before I enter Willard Fox’s rooms to begin our session.
I still can’t believe Gus is gone. I stand beneath the bough of the tree where I tied him last night before I went to bed and then I walk round the tree again until I have done a full circle, as if this is some insane game of hide-and-seek.
I shove my torch under my armpit to free up my hands so I can untie the remaining length of rope that he left behind. When I touch the frayed ends where the rope has been broken off, it makes me feel sick. Poor Gus! He must have been terrified to rip it apart like that. It would have taken such force! He must have pulled back like mad when the quake struck. Terrified and alone, desperate to escape.
I work the rope free, prising it off with my shaky fingers, and all the while Jock stays with me and squashes so hard against my thigh I can feel his heart pounding through his bony ribcage. I lower my hand to his head and stroke his ears to soothe him with my own trembling fingers. He gazes up at me and gives this desperate whimper and we look each other in the eye and I know what he’s thinking because I’m thinking it too.
“It’s OK,” I say. “We’re in this together and we will find him.”
Anyway there’s no way we can make it to Kaikoura where the rescue boat will be waiting without him. And it won’t wait forever. Time is already running out. So we have to find him, and soon.
But I don’t even know where to start, here in the dark in this paddock somewhere between Hawkswood and Ferniehurst, the remotest hill country of the South Island coast. No people for miles, no houses, no lights.
I desperately want to go back into the tent and curl up in a ball and cling on to Moxy and stay in the tent with her and Jock. Then we could look for Gus when the dawn comes. But I can’t do that. I think of my pony out there on his own and I know he’s scared and he’s in trouble and I can’t abandon him to survive the night alone. Darkness or not, I’m going to find him.
One thing on my side is that Gus is a smart horse. Back at home in Parnassus, when I fetch him from the paddock, I don’t need to go far because I can call him to me. So even out here in the middle of nowhere, I know that if he can hear me, he’ll come to me.
And so I call him.
“Gus!” My voice breaks in the night air and it sounds so frail I hardly recognise it.
“Gus!” I try to be stronger this time. I need the sound to travel as far as it can for him to hear me.
I don’t keep shouting. I pause for a minute and wait to see if he will whinny back to me. That’s what he does back home. Gus is clever.