Free Secret Pony Society by Janet Rising Page A

lake, the land dropping as we rode through the trees. Bare branches stretched skyward like skinny fingers, reaching for the light.
    Past the lake we went, the ponies’ hooves sinking into the mud at the bottom of the hill, and started to climb upward again. It was a long way from the travelers’ camp at the Sloping Field and, eventually, I pushed through thick rhododendron bushes overgrowing the path and came to a halt in a small clearing. Jazz nudged Falling Snow up beside Drummer.
    â€œThis is a good place,” she said, looking around. The wind was quieter here, and we were cocooned by trees, evergreen rhododendron bushes, and dense holly. It felt protected and hidden. Secret.
    Dismounting, I walked toward the center of the clearing, leading Drummer to the far side of a grassy mound, as tall as a man. Falling Snow followed, and I noticed Jazz’s eyes widen when she saw an old wooden door embedded into the mound. Arched, it had huge iron hinges and a handle. The wood, although mossy and old, was still solid and sound.
    Jazz slid off her pony and examined the door. “What is this?” she asked me, puzzled.
    â€œIt’s an old icehouse,” I explained. “It’s been here for years and years, but not many people know about it. It’s where the owners of the big house used to store ice from the lake in the winter for use in the summer.”
    â€œWhat big house?” asked Jazz, looking around.
    â€œIt’s fallen down, gone,” I said. “I couldn’t open the door last time I was here, but I’m hoping our combined strength will shift it.” I knew it did open because James had told me he’d been inside the icehouse.
    We both grasped hold of the huge, iron, circular handle and pulled. For a while, nothing happened, then we felt it move.
    â€œOh, we can do it!” I exclaimed, strangely excited and scared at the same time. The icehouse gave me the creeps, but Jazz didn’t seem worried, and I didn’t want to seem like a wuss in front of her. Ignoring my feeling of dread, I concentrated on gathering my strength.
    We pulled again, kicking the mud away from the base of the door to make it easier. And it did open, reluctantly, creakily, spookily, revealing a dark emptiness inside.
    Pulling out the flashlight I’d brought with me, I switched it on, and we peered into the gloom. Dark, damp brick walls disappeared into nothing.
    â€œI’ll look,” said Jazz, taking the flashlight and walking inside.
    I stood outside in the daylight. Nothing would have persuaded me to take a step inside that place. It smelled musty and old. It was damp, dark, and dingy. It felt like a tomb. It is madness , I thought, Jazz can’t stay here . A hole buried in a grass mound wasn’t my idea of a great place to shack up for a night or two. But in all other respects, the icehouse had seemed the perfect place for Jazz to hide: it was tucked away, it would keep her out of the wind and rain, and there was grass around it for Falling Snow.
    But now I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t even begin to imagine being in the icehouse at night, with the wind playing in the trees and every sound suggesting ghosts and who knows what else! Surely now Jazz would give up her idea of running away.
    â€œNot exactly the Ritz, is it?” snorted Drummer.
    â€œIf you’ve got any other ideas, I’m all ears!” I told him. I mean, it’s all very well being critical, but it wasn’t like my pony had volunteered any input, was it?
    â€œI’m just saying…” said Drum, nibbling grass off the top of the mound.
    Jazz returned with the flashlight. Her face said it all.
    â€œI take it you’d rather not stay here,” I said. I didn’t have a plan B, so if plan A was out of the question, then that was it!
    â€œI can stay here…” she said slowly. She seemed distracted.
    â€œI’m sensing there’s a but coming,” I