The Pony
The pony’s first appearance has a strange impact upon the narrator, but in the cold harsh light of day all that strangeness seems to have dissipated. This descriptive imagery is fine for comparison to other equine brothers and sisters, but as time goes on it will become more and more apparent that his oddness is definitely not merely the result of contextual comparison. In fact, this description of him that situates him as “average” will come to proven way of the mark.
“He was not as small in the daylight as he had seemed in the dark. Maybe the other horses around him had been especially big, I don’t know. But now, grazing by the charred oak, the pony seemed of average height for a horse. His coat gleamed black in the sunlight, and his neck was arched and muscular, topped by that bright white head, which made for a most peculiar spectacle.”
The Narrator
The pony is not the only odd thing in the book. The narrator, Silas, is not exactly your average boy writing about a special relationship with a horse. Although from the cover alone, one could easily assume this is just another in a long line of similar novels that include Black Beauty, My Friend Flicka, and The Black Stallion, in truth there is something much different going on here than your average “a boy or girl and their horse” story:
“It is something to see, a soul rise from its moorings. I am not sure why I’m gifted with the ability to see these things, or why the line between the living and the dead has always been so blurred for me. I don’t know why some souls linger and some don’t. Mama’s did not linger. Pa’s did not, either. It rose from his body and hovered briefly, unencumbered by weight. Have you seen the way heat rises above a shiny field and melds the edges of the world contained beyond it? This is what a soul leaving the earth looks like. To me, at least. It may look different to others, but I can only catalog my own perceptions.”
The Ghost
The pony is just a little off in this novel. The boy narrator is just a little off as well. Even the ghost is a little off and it should be enough that there even is a ghost in this story for him to be off, but it goes beyond his mere existence. First off, the ghost is named Mittenwool which, let’s face it, is kind of strange moniker for a ghost; seems more like the name of a cat, maybe. But there’s also the fact he may not even really be a ghost at all. Even Silas doesn’t really know for sure:
“I should explain that a long time ago, when I was about six or so, we had all agreed—me and Mittenwool, and me and Pa—that I was never to discuss Mittenwool with other people. We reached this accord after an unhappy incident involving some children, who overheard me talking to Mittenwool one afternoon as I waited for Pa outside the general store in Boneville. The children had asked me who I was talking to, and I, being innocent of how people viewed these things, told them without any trepidation: “I am talking to my friend Mittenwool!” You might well imagine how they taunted me afterward! Mocked and ridiculed me mercilessly.”
The Narration
Silas is an engaging narrator and his clever way with words often have the effect of creating imagery in places where imagery is usually not found. For instance, his recollection of an appearance by the ghost starts out as a rhapsody on the nature of recollection itself which produces a short, but imaginative tapestry of imagery related to the subject:
“Memory is a strange thing. Some things come to you crisp and bright, like fireworks on a long black night. Others are as dim and fuzzy as dying embers. I have always endeavored to provide order to my memory, but it can be like trying to put lightning in a box. Still, I have defeated lightning, so there’s that.”
