They were driving narrow roads in the heart of Wales in a rented car.
They were looking for a Welsh pony stud to take back to Nebraska. He'd nearly ruined the car a couple of times driving too far to the left, but he was beginning to get the hang of it.
They'd stopped at places full of the usual sleazy horse people. People they recognized from California and Michigan except Welsh. People they'd never buy from.
Then there were the old ones lost in some pocket valley, raising fine horses on the same land their ancestors had farmed a thousand years ago.
One thing was the same. Tea and yellow cake with raisins. Everywhere they went they were plied with tea and yellow cake with raisins, and everywhere they went they accepted. They had eaten nothing else for two and a half days.
And they had not found their pony. Nothing near. A disappointment.
They were searching for the last place on their list. Driving in circles around a small village, losing themselves in narrow lanes that wandered hopelessly in odd directions. Then Marcy said ``That must be it.'' She was peering up at steep little fields and stone ruins. For a moment she thought she saw a perfect little stallion grazing alone.
White peacocks stood oblivious about the rough driveway. Children appeared and watched them from a rock wall.
The hill was crowned with ruins. Walls rose behind ancient earthworks. Fragments of a tower. A mullioned old house sinking into the ground.
But the man who greeted them was no primitive. A retired helicopter pilot, he said.
``Come in, come in. Martha, dear, is there tea?''
More tea. More cake. They spoke of horses. Of great race horses and Welsh ponies.
``We'll look at the stallion after tea,'' the helicopter pilot said. They spoke of other things.
``Are there ghosts here?'' Marcia asked.
``Not that I've ever seen,'' the pilot answered, ``not a whole one any way.''
``Not a whole one? What do you mean by not a whole one?''
``Not a whole ghost. We see an elbow now and then, don't we?'' His wife nodded. A boy child nodded too.
``By the power points mostly,'' Martha said, then sipped her tea.
Marcy felt a little chill go up her back. Power points?
``Electric plug ins,'' the boy said.
``Ah.''
``Just coming out of the wall. An elbow. Sometimes a shoulder.''
``Really nothing,'' The conversation turned to other matters.
``Let's go see if Black Jack's there,'' the pilot said.
They walked out into the peacock shrieking green. It felt like rain.
The pony walked toward them through soft mist then disappeared.
``He'll be back, he's off somewhere. Maybe tomorrow.''
``But the field is fenced. He can't be gone.''
The boy laughed. ``He's not gone that way. He's really gone.'' The boy had light grey eyes.
``Come back tomorrow,'' said the pilot.
In the morning as they drove up the steep driveway they both saw the stallion in all his perfection grazing alone. But when they reached the field he was gone.
``Why would I buy a horse who is only sometimes there?'' he asked.
``His sons and daughters are all champions,'' said the boy.
``And what about them? Do they disappear in the middle of the show ring?''
``Well - not usually - ''
As they were leaving it seemed to Marcia that the boy with the grey eyes who watched them from the wall was slowly dissolving into the form of a white peacock who shrieked loudly as they drove away.