A Horse Called Hero

by Sam Angus

  ‘Where’s the top field?’ asked Wolfie.

  ‘Savages,’ repeated Dodo.

  Hurt, and taken aback, Ned turned to Wolfie and said, ‘Follow the lane. Through the yard at Windwistle. Out along beech hedge line. First gate!’ he called. ‘Leave it open for’s!’

  He banged his legs and the sturdy animal spurted wildly forward. Ned cantered off, one arm out, pointing left.

  ‘I’m going to find the horse,’ Wolfie said.

  He set offrunninginthedirectionofNed’spointing arm. Dodo walked slowly after him, following the track as it curved and dropped, the hedges either side rising from banks of stone cushioned with emerald moss. The dropping sun shone fire-gold through the vaulting luminous russet leaves. The lane turned a corner and Dodo saw a cottage, so ancient and golden that it seemed to smile at her as if out of a storybook.

  ‘Windwistle,’ she read, on white letters carved in a slate set into the bank. Two stone walls, a cow-shed along one side, the house along another, together enclosed a yard in the corner of which stood an old apple tree, thickly hung with baubles of red fruit.

  ‘No one lives here,’ breathed Dodo.

  Wolfie was far ahead, shouting, ‘I’m going to find the horse!’

  ‘Windwistle,’ whispered Dodo.

  Wolfie was at a gate set into one of the yard walls, lifting the latch, following a line of oaks. Dodo lingered in the mossy yard, caught up in the mystery and magic of the abandoned house.

  Wolfie ran along a line of trees, cobweb trails of ghostly grey-green bearding each silvery limb. He thought again of the horse – abandoned and alone, just left behind. He started running again – the knacker’s cart would be coming. His heart drummed and he ran faster. An old mare. Geldings were better. He knew that because Pa always had geldings. Still, he pushed that thought aside and ran on, stumbling where the trees’ licheny arms curtsied to the mossy ground.

  Wolfie reached a break in the line of trees where a hedge had once been, then a second gate, but this one was splintered, punched in its middle, as if some angry beast had charged it in a rage. Had she gone? Had the mare gone?

  Beyond lay a rougher piece of ground, in the centre of which a ring of trees, thorns of some kind perhaps, formed a shelter.

  There was no horse.

  He cast around, looked behind – perhaps the mare had burst through that gate and escaped – but there’d been no horse in the first field either. Wolfie looked ahead again. ‘There,’ he said to himself, ‘there in the trees, she’d be in the trees, that’s where I’d be if I were a horse in this field.’ He could see nothing. A sharp, warning kuk-kuk held him to the spot. There was a sudden clattering and a black shape swooped down. A second dark thing rose from the shadow and the two fought, mid-air, like raggedy witches, the first seeing the other off with an evil screech.

  Wolfie moved on towards the ring of thorns. The outcast bird was settling on a branch, hideous and hunched, a sulking, hooded thing, black on a black branch against the darkening sky.

  Unnerved by the ravens, Wolfie waited, watchful and wary. Where the trees shadowed the ground on the other side of the circle, deep in the shadow there . . . Had something moved? He shifted. Leaves rustled, twigs cracked underfoot, startling as fireworks.

  He took a step forward. There, where there was a mound, part of an old hedgerow perhaps . . . what was there? He peered ahead but there was only silence and stillness. His shoulders sank. There was no horse, the gate was broken, the mare long gone.

  Now there was a croaking, a kark-kark, then an answering kuk-kuk, a whirring from the mound, two ravens sparring, their muscular barks raised in sharp argument. Wolfie started, suddenly sure there was something – not just the birds . . .

  The ravens sparred and karked, and spread their menacing cloaks. Another, more cunning than the others, waiting blackly on a branch, suddenly rose and swooped. There was more quarrelling, more clashing, flapping, and Wolfie sprang forward – racing – the shadow was moving – beneath the ravens – something was there and it was moving. He heard a whinny, wild and raw, a shrill arpeggio of pure terror – and Wolfie burst into a run, stumbling in the troughs where the fallen leaves were deep, shouting and flapping his arms.

  He stopped, and stood, trembling, open-mouthed, unbelieving, head swimming.

  There beneath the filigree branches that spread like charcoal etchings against the sky, there in the amber light of a dipping autumn sun, a young foal was rising to his feet, improbable and exquisite, a head luminous and white, a dark tail, short and thick as a brush, wavering spindle legs, uncertain and tippy-toed, the narrow body and dark, startled eye.

  Wolfie caught his breath with wonder, his full eight years of dreaming and longing finding their rest in those dark eyes.

  ‘My horse,’ he whispered.

  The foal wheeled away, legs trembling, pausing, then lowered his head, bleated and nuzzled the mound. Wolfie’s hands began to shake.

  ‘His mother,’ he whispered. ‘His mother . . .’

  He looked up to the ravens that waited, the hulks of them sleek and hooded on the black boughs, waiting blackly. One of them rose, clattering and squawking around the foal. The foal whinnied.

  ‘He’s scaring them off,’ Wolfie mouthed, his voice halfway between a whisper and a shriek. ‘When they come close it tries to . . .’

  Wolfie drew closer. The foal lifted his head, nostrils flaring, ears pivoting. He trotted, helter skelter round his mother, limbs wayward, absurdly long and delicate. Wolfie saw the knife-edge ribs, the skin so fine and shivery that he was naked almost to the bone.

  The foal nickered again and nuzzled the mound, lifted his head and uttered a terrified, heart-rending whinny. Wolfie’s eyes glistened. The foal stood still, his head drooping a little, seismic trembles wrinkling the skin like gusts of wind on water.

  Wolfie moved a step closer. Head low, limbs juddery and weak, the foal watched him. Wolfie crouched and inched forward to the shadow on the ground.

  He saw. He saw the eyesgone,the head picked clean, the clustering iridescent flies. The foal whinnied. Wolfie looked up at him. He saw the valour in his eyes, his confusion, as he clung to his dead mother.

  Convulsed with horror, Wolfie yelped and leaped up, screaming. The foal whinnied again sharply.

  ‘Dodo! Dodo!’ Wolfie called desperately.

  He was answered, from somewhere, by a different voice.

  ‘Broke that gate, she did, got in here.’

  Another, answering voice, that Wolfie recognized: ‘Oop ’ere, oop’a the right.’

  Ned’s voice.

  ‘Gate’s open, Sprig has’n’ been oop here like as said she would. No one ’as.’

  A heavy, feathery horse had entered the field. Behind it a cart bumped over the rough ground, in it two seated figures, one of them Ned Jervis.

  ‘Over there. In th’ole pen p’raps.’

  Wolfie waved, screaming, ‘Over here – here!’

  They jumped down and ran up and past Wolfie.

  After a while, Ned looked up and said, ‘Nobody knowed she was in foal. Bassetts did’n’ know, I reckon. Got ’erself in here out of the wind and died in the foaling.’

  The foal whimpered, legs tense, akimbo, dark almond eyes huge in the slender head.

  ‘Looks sound.’

  ‘Hero. He’s called Hero,’ said Wolfie suddenly.

  The men spoke to each other as though Wolfie weren’t there.

  ‘’Ad twenty-four hours on her, I reckon, Drake, no more,’ said Ned.

  ‘Don’t stand much chance.’

  Hero nickered weakly and stumbled, crumpling to the ground.

  ‘Get the gun, Ned, shoot the little ’un, ’an’ after deal with the mare,’ Drake said.

  Wolfie frowned, assembling their words like a sinister puzzle. He saw the man reach for the gun. Wolfie mouthed the words ‘knacker’s cart’, suddenly understanding, then leaped forward, eyes blazing. ‘No. No. He’s mine. Don’t touch him.’

  ‘It’s
one o’ them London children,’ Ned said by way of explanation, ‘one o’ the Hollowcombe ones.’

  ‘Did Sprig know she were in foal?’ Drake asked Wolfie.

  Wolfie shook his head.

  ‘So she don’t know then . . . She ’asn’t even been up ’ere. Sprigs never like Bassetts, them or their animals.’

  ‘Shame. Nice-looking . . .’ Ned was saying.

  ‘Don’t stand no chance – probably didn’t even get no milk off her.’ Drake was anxious to get on with the work, to get home, to end the day. He stomped over to the trap, picked up the gun, unsheathed and cocked it. When he turned, Wolfie was standing between him and Hero.

  ‘An’ what’ll you do with ’um?’ Ned said to Wolfie, ‘’Tis ’ard to wean a foal.’

  ‘He’s mine,’ repeated Wolfie.

  ‘Get the boy away,’ said Drake.

  ‘Let the lad have him, won’t do no harm.’

  Drake lowered the gun. Ned was kneeling, inspecting the mare’s belly. ‘’E nursed from her, ’e’s got a chance,’ he said.

  ‘Get the boy away then. Get the boy and it away.’

  Ned held a hand out. A minute or so passed. The foal whinnied and tossed its head, struggling to his forelegs. Ned kept his hand out. The foal paused, then lowered his head, raised it suddenly and swung it away, forelegs doubled, trembling, ready to rise. Ned waited. The foal inched his head back. Ned blew gently into the air but made no other movement. The foal jerked its head away, paused, then brought it slowly back round again. Still Ned was blowing, and now the head was reaching to him, nostrils quivering, and Ned was blowing softly on to the dark muzzle, one hand inching up the side of the neck.

  ‘Hero . . . Hero . . .’ Wolfie whispered.

  ‘Steady there.’ Ned was still blowing, still scratching, inching his hand higher. The grey head was drooping, eyes closing. Wolfie eyed again the strange figure of Ned Jervis, the whiteness of his hair, the redness of his cheek, saw how he now had one arm under the foal’s neck, the other over his back. Ned was catching him up, rising, walking, beckoning with a jerk of his head for Wolfie to follow.

  ‘See, ’e’ll need a blanket and some honey.’

  As Ned walked, he gathered some skin on Hero’s neck, pinching it together, then releasing it. A ridge of dappled skin remained, as if still held by Ned’s fingers.

  ‘Dehydrated. Needs water. An’ milk.’

  Wolfie ran alongside, longing to touch, to hold.

  ‘Ten pints of milk every twenty-four hours. Not cow’s milk, mind.’

  Wolfie did not know of any other kind of milk. ‘Not cow’s . . . ?’

  Ned was smiling. ‘A lactatin’ goat’s what you’ll be needing. Or sheep. Sheep’re easier to come by roun’ ’ere.’

  At the broken gate he said, ‘For tonight, two egg yolks, with water an’ cod-liver oil. Keep ’im warm, see. Same size as you today, bigger ’an you tomorrer. Grow as you watch ’em, they do. Feed him every half an hour. From a plate if you an’t got a bottle.’

  ‘Dodo, Dodo!’ Wolfie was calling, beside himself with longing for her to see. ‘Dodo, where are you?’

  She was waiting in the yard at Windwistle, jumping up as she heard Wolfie, turning round-eyed with disbelief as Ned walked on past her, holding a very young grey foal, as though it were a large dog, saying, ‘Get a blanket.’

  Dodo eyed Ned warily. Wolfie was running ahead to the stable, shouting, ‘He’s grey, Dodo and he’s – he’s – perfect.’ He unlatched the door, shoving it with his shoulder to force it open. Inside, old straw, dirtied by birds, covered the earth ground. A stack of old logs was piled high in one corner, rough kindling in another.

  ‘I haven’t got a blanket.’

  ‘Then your jumper, take it off. And you’ll need tinned milk for tonight.’ Ned gathered together scattered straw with his feet. ‘Clean enough,’ he said, kicking it over and heaping it up. Wolfie hovered at his side. Ned crouched and laid Hero down.

  ‘Scratch him on his neck, see, that’s what she would have done. If you an’t got a syringe, use your finger, but he’ll be needing the honey.’

  ‘Honey. Egg. Water. Condensed milk,’ said Wolfie.

  ‘Aye, an’ cod-liver oil if you got it,’ said Ned, fluffing up the bedding.

  ‘He’s called Hero,’ whispered Wolfie to Dodo.

  From the door Ned bid them ‘Good luck’. He paused and looked up over his shoulder, listening. There was a throbbing and droning sound. ‘More load-shedding tonight,’ he said, grimacing. ‘On their way back – they’ve been bombing Bristol or Swansea.’ They looked at him, uncomprehending. ‘German bombers lighten their load over us on their way ’ome.’ Ned grinned. ‘Good luck with ’un.’

  Wolfie looked at Dodo. ‘There’s honey in Mrs Sprig’s larder,’ he said.

  Chapter Seven

  Mrs Sprig’s door opened. Halfway down the stairs, Wolfie froze, shrinking against the oak panelling, heart thumping.

  Dodo stepped into the dim light of the landing. ‘It’s only me,’ she said, ‘going to fetch a glass of water.’

  ‘Fetch it then, and I’ll wait.’ Mrs Sprig hugged her bedjacket to herself, her face pinched with anxiety at the irregular and unpredictable movements of children.

  ‘Yes.’ Dodo motioned with a hand behind her back for Wolfie to go, then walked on down the landing, heavily, to cover any noise he might make.

  Clinging to the shadow, he crept down. In the boot room he picked up his coat, then the basket Dodo had prepared, a blanket placed carefully over the top.

  Pressed against the wall of the porch, Wolfie considered the distance across the yard to the gate. He shrugged his coat on over his pyjamas. If he kept to this side of the yard, kept to the wall of the house, he’d get to the gate without being seen. He waited for Dodo, peering out into the black and silver night, straining to hear any movement from the house. From inside he heard first one door shut, then the sound of a second.

  ‘She’s not coming,’ he whispered to himself.

  He stretched out a hand behind him and pulled the door softly to, without latching it.

  He tiptoed along two walls of the yard, then out through the gate. On the lane he broke into a run, pebbles clinging between bare toes, the ground already wet with dew. The way here was shrouded by trees, the darkness thickening where the track swung down over the stream. Wolfie stopped, unnerved, heart pounding, wishing Dodo were with him, hoping she’d come. He breathed deeply in, deeply out, to calm himself. Hero. Hero was up there, alone and hungry. Wolfie set off again at a run, the basket bumping against his side, only the twinkling of a tiny runnel giving him something to follow. The path began to climb. He looked up into the overarching trees. A spray of stars hung between the silvery branches, as though caught in a net.

  ‘I’m coming, Hero, I’m coming, and I’ve got everything you need,’ Wolfie was whispering. ‘Honey, milk, egg.’

  He pushed open the door.

  The slender grey body was sprawled on the straw. Hero made as if to rise, starting with fear, but sank down, tremulous and weak. Wolfie crouched beside him, spilling the basket in his hurry. He inched a hand towards the narrow, dappled neck.

  ‘Scratch, Wolfie, scratch their necks. That’s what they do to each other. They don’t like pats,’ Pa had said when he’d taken them to the stables of his barracks.

  Wolfie ran his hand down a forearm, around the large bone of the knee, closing his hand, wonderingly, in a ring around the long cannon bone of a leg. He measured the length of his own arm against Hero’s foreleg, then felt the surprising softness of a young hoof.

  Then he scooped out a finger of honey and swirled it into the jar of water Dodo had prepared. He extended his hand and Hero’s head turned, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. Wolfie inched his palm closer and waited. Hero drew his head closer, nostrils wide and rosy pink. Wolfie’s hand was still, his eyes watching as the velvet ears flickered.

  Hero’s head drew closer still, the dark almond eye watching, then closer stil
l, and Wolfie felt the soft muzzle on his palm, felt the lips open and snuffle, snuffle again, finding the honey, then snorting and slurping. Wolfie poured more honey mixture and held out his palm, watching Hero as Hero watched him. Straightaway Hero snuffled and snorted again at his palm.

  When there was no more water, Wolfie took a torch from the basket and poked around the walls of the building. Finally he found a feed scoop in a bucket by the door. He broke the egg on to it, then some condensed milk. Hero lifted his head, suspicious and wary, then inched it round slowly, nostrils twitching, and suddenly slurping at the strange new food, then snuffling and blowing and slurping and then nuzzling Wolfie for more, almost knocking the condensed milk can from his hand as he upended it over the scoop. Again Hero wet his snout and blew and slurped and sloshed, and Wolfie laughed with the sweetness of it.

  Hero was tiring. Like a baby, Wolfie thought, seeing the eyelids droop, the long straight lashes dark against the pale furry coat. Wolfie placed his hand on Hero’s narrow forehead. His lips were twitching. Dreaming of milk and honey, Wolfie thought to himself. His hand followed the crest of Hero’s neck, down to the withers. He felt the muscles relax and soften under his stroking. He ran his hand down the shoulder, along the rib, and felt there, beneath his hand, the pulse of a heart beating.

  He drew the blanket slowly over Hero, then lay down, there, beside his horse, in the quiet of night, in the prickle and smell of straw, the dark stable as peaceful as the calm of a church, the silence full as a prayer.

  The cuffs of his pyjamas sticky and sweet with milk, Wolfie grew warm and drowsy, edging closer to Hero. He laid his head on the straw, and watched Hero’s ears flicker and then, eventually, still, the eyelids half close. He grew conscious in the stillness of the beating of his own heart, and the ribcage beside him that rose and fell, rose and fell. Over the barn door hung a night more starry than he’d ever known.

  Chapter Eight

  When Dodo woke, it was too late. She yanked her shoes on and raced down the stairs. She’d wanted to get to Windwistle, to drag Wolfie back before Mrs Sprig woke but she’d fallen into a deep sleep just before dawn.