Horse of Fire

by Lari Don

  “Of course!”

  So Goodheart and the goddess were married. They used the three gold coins to set up in business as woodcarvers, carving beautiful pictures of trees, clouds and horses. Whenever they had more than enough money for themselves and their growing family, they gave the extra coins away. Because Goodheart still had a good heart…

  The Centaur’s Heroes

  Greek myth

  Centaurs love parties. They particularly love crashing other people’s parties, where they use their horse hooves to dance on the tables, and their human heads to sing rude songs and to chant their catchphrase: “Half horse, half man, ALL party animal!”

  But one centaur was different. Chiron thought partying every day and every night was a waste of time, and he didn’t think it was fair to wreck people’s wedding parties, birthday parties and house-warming parties.

  So Chiron studied. He read ancient books, mapped the stars, played the harp and learnt about herbs.

  Chiron became a scholar and a healer. He moved away from his centaur herd in the valley and set up a school in the mountains. He hoped to train centaur foals to be less rowdy and more responsible; he hoped to build a herd of educated and heroic centaurs.

  All the other centaurs laughed at him. They weren’t interested in books or plants or stars or science. They just wanted to know where the next birthday cake was coming from and who was paying for the lemonade.

  So Chiron invited human children to his school. He gave them space and encouragement to learn weapon skills in practice bouts against each other, and he taught them ethics, healing, philosophy, music, algebra, politeness and leadership skills.

  Over the years, Chiron trained many of the greatest Greek heroes, including Jason, who found the Golden Fleece; Achilles and Ajax, who fought at Troy; Asclepius, who became a famous healer; and the fearsome monster-killers Theseus, Perseus and Hercules.

  But Chiron never lost his desire to train a centaur hero. So, one day, he trotted down the mountain to visit his old herd, to see if there were any young centaurs interested in astronomy, philosophy and mathematics.

  He reached his home valley to find the centaur herd crashing another birthday party. The children were terrified by the huge half-men half-horses stomping about their picnic, crushing the cakes and the crisps.

  The centaurs were daring each other to make the children scream even louder. The noise could be heard all over the valley and the mountains beyond.

  Chiron leapt onto a picnic table, scattering fairy cakes and bowls of olives. He yelled, “Stop scaring the guests! Can’t you be polite and ask for cake nicely?”

  The other centaurs pointed at him, high on the table. “Look, Chiron is going to dance for us. Show us your party piece, Chiron!”

  But Chiron tried to lecture them about civic responsibility and good relations with your neighbours.

  The other centaurs laughed, threw slices of chocolate cake at him, then grabbed the small party guests and started chucking them around in a violent game of piggy in the middle.

  Then a hero arrived.

  Hercules, one of Greece’s greatest heroes, heard the screams and came to investigate.

  Hercules saw the centaurs causing chaos and the children in danger. So he set an arrow to his bow and considered which centaur to shoot first.

  He recalled workshops on ethical warfare at his tutor Chiron’s mountain school, where they discussed whether killing the leader of a band of warriors might cause the rest to retreat or surrender, resulting in a faster victory and less bloodshed.

  So Hercules aimed at the centaur on the table, the centaur shouting orders, the centaur covered in chocolate and cream, the centaur the rest of the herd were pointing at.

  Hercules aimed at Chiron.

  Hercules let the arrow fly.

  And Hercules shot his arrow right into his old tutor’s chest.

  Chiron fell from the table.

  The other centaurs wheeled around and saw the huge heavily armed hero putting another arrow to his bowstring, so they dropped the children and bolted, galloping off across the valley.

  The children ran to Hercules. “Thank you so much for saving our party. But why did you shoot the nice centaur, the one who was trying to stop the nasty scary centaurs?”

  Hercules ran to the fallen centaur, wiped the cake from his face and finally recognised his old tutor.

  Hercules held Chiron’s head on his lap, as the centaur spoke his final words. “Thank you for saving the party guests. It’s good to know that my pupils have learnt to be heroes, even if my herd aren’t yet ready.”

  Chiron closed his eyes and took his last breath. Out of respect for all the heroes he’d trained, the gods immortalised him as a constellation of stars in the sky.

  Nowadays centaurs are more careful about which parties they crash, in case Hercules is a guest. And Chiron, the best centaur of them all, is still galloping across the sky, hoping that one day he will see a heroic centaur gallop the earth below…

  What You Learn at Wolf School

  Balkan folktale

  The young wolf had just finished his year at wolf school. He’d howled in the school choir, he’d studied reading and writing and pack etiquette and paw care and the phases of the moon, and he’d also learnt the most important rule of being a wolf:

  If you don’t know its name, don’t eat it.

  That was the rule they repeated every morning and every afternoon:

  If you don’t know its name, don’t eat it.

  Because, the wolf school pupils were told, if you don’t know an animal’s name, then you don’t know whether it’s safe to eat. It might give you a tummy ache. It might bite back. It might even want to eat you. So:

  If you don’t know its name, don’t eat it.

  But the young wolf was hungry. (Wolves in stories are usually hungry, because full sleepy wolves aren’t as exciting as hungry prowling wolves.)

  The hungry young wolf was trotting through the woods, when he saw a big glossy animal, tied to a tree.

  Tied to a tree! It couldn’t run away! This was the very best kind of food for a young wolf, like a picnic or a packed lunch…

  There was just one problem. The young wolf didn’t know what this juicy-looking animal was. He didn’t know its name. So he knew he shouldn’t eat it.

  But after a full year of wolf school, and winning top prizes in howling and paw care, this young wolf knew he was very clever, and he was sure there was a way round the If you don’t know its name, don’t eat it rule.

  So the wolf trotted up to the big glossy animal tied to the tree and said, “Hello! What’s your name?”

  The big animal flicked her tail. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you do. Everyone knows their name. So, what’s your name?”

  The big animal tossed her mane. “I don’t have a name.”

  “Come on,” said the wolf. “Everything has a name. Look around. That’s a crow, that’s a worm, I’m a wolf and you are…?”

  The big animal shuffled her heavy feet. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  “You must have a name. Everyone is given a name.”

  The big animal looked sad. “No one has ever given me anything.”

  “Aw!” said the wolf. “Really? No one has ever given you ANYTHING?”

  “Well, the farmer gave me four shoes last week.” Her ears pricked up. “Maybe my name is on my shoes!”

  The wolf thought about the name tags on his gym kit at wolf school, and nodded. “Yes, your name might be on your shoes.”

  The big animal tossed her mane again. “Why don’t you have a look? Why don’t you see if you can read my name for me?”

  The wolf grinned. “Why not? Then you’ll know your name. And so will I!” He licked his lips.

  The big animal lifted her back right foot. “See if you can read anything on this shoe.”

  The wolf walked round behind the animal’s back legs and looked at the curve of metal on the bottom of her foot. “
I see nails and scratches, but no letters.”

  “Perhaps you should come closer and look more carefully.”

  The wolf stepped closer to the back leg. “I still can’t see anything.”

  “Try a little closer…”

  “No, still nothing.”

  “Try even closer…”

  The wolf stepped right up to the huge, heavy, iron-shod hoof.

  And the big animal kicked as hard as she could.

  The wolf ran off howling, “Owowowowow!” with his nose bruised and sore.

  The young wolf still doesn’t know the big animal’s name, though he does know she’s far too dangerous to eat.

  But I’m sure you know what she was!

  The Horse Who Fought a Lion

  Persian legend

  Rostam was a hero. He’d been learning how to be a hero since he was a small boy, and now he had almost everything a hero needed. He had a sword, a spear and the start of a splendid moustache. He’d even won a few victories over his king’s enemies.

  But he didn’t have a hero’s horse.

  So he visited the finest herd of horses in Persia. He approached each horse, laid his right hand on the horse’s back and pressed down hard. Every horse crumpled to the ground, because no horse could bear the weight of Rostam’s strong fighting hand.

  Then he roped the wildest, reddest, fastest horse in the herd and pressed hard on the young stallion’s back. The horse stood steady and calm, no matter how hard Rostam pushed.

  So the red horse was chosen to become the hero’s horse. Rostam named him Rakush, which means lightning.

  This is the story of Rostam and Rakush’s first journey together, as hero and horse, travelling through the desert on a mission for the king of Persia.

  After a tiring day crossing the sands, Rostam and Rakush stopped for the night by a small pool. Rostam fell asleep and Rakush kept watch.

  But they weren’t the only ones resting by the water. A lion was watching them from the shadows of the reeds.

  The lion thought that a fresh crunchy hero would make a tasty supper. The lion also thought that a grass-eating saddle-wearing horse would be no match for a meat-eating wild-haired lion.

  So the lion ignored Rakush and crept towards Rostam.

  But Rakush was a hero’s horse. When he saw the lion stalking the sleeping hero, Rakush attacked.

  The horse’s strong teeth tore chunks out of the lion’s mane, so the lion tried to bite the horse’s legs. Rakush leapt away from the teeth, so the lion stretched out his sharp claws and scratched the horse’s side. Rakush reared up and kicked out with his heavy hooves, bruising the lion’s ribs.

  The lion roared in pain, decided that heroes probably didn’t taste as good as goats anyway and ran off.

  Rakush shook his mane and stood guard over Rostam again. But the lion’s roars had woken the hero.

  “What have you been doing, horse?” Rostam looked at the tracks on the ground and the scratches on Rakush’s flanks. “Have you been fighting lions? All on your own, without waking me?”

  Rakush nodded.

  “That was foolish. I’m the hero! You’re just my horse. What if the lion had slashed your throat rather than your side? I’d have been stuck here with a dead horse and no way of crossing the desert. So no more fighting on your own. Wake me up next time and let me do the fighting.”

  Rostam fell asleep again, muttering about horses who thought they were heroes.

  Rakush kept watch all night, but the lion didn’t come back.

  The next day was dry and hot, and when the sun finally went down the hero and his horse were lost and thirsty. They couldn’t find any water, until Rostam followed a wild sheep to the tiny spring of water it drank from every night.

  Rather than killing the wild sheep for his supper, Rostam thanked it for leading them to water and wished it a long, happy life.

  As he settled down for the night, Rostam said to the horse, “No fighting enemies on your own for fun, Rakush. If you see anything dangerous, wake me up and let me do the fighting. I’m the hero, remember. You’re just the horse.”

  Rostam lay down and Rakush stood on guard.

  Then, at the edge of the light from the campfire, Rakush saw a long curved claw. The claw moved away. He saw a massive eye, glaring at him. The eye blinked and vanished. He saw a wide nostril and a wisp of smoke.

  There was a dragon, in the darkness, watching them.

  Rakush had been forbidden to fight on his own. Anyway, the dragon was much bigger than the lion. So the horse stamped his hoof on the ground to wake Rostam.

  Rostam leapt up like a hero, with his hand on his sword before his eyes were fully open. He looked around. But the dragon had stepped back into the deep darkness of the desert.

  “Why did you wake me?” demanded Rostam.

  Rakush nodded towards the darkness.

  Rostam peered into the night. “I don’t see anything. There’s no lion there. Don’t wake me again for no good reason.” He went back to sleep and started to snore.

  Rakush stared into the darkness. There, at the edge of the firelight, he saw a scaly tail slither.

  The dragon was back!

  This time the dragon stepped into the light. It was a silver dragon, with a smile wider than the horse was long. The dragon moved on clawed feet, slowly and silently, towards Rostam. Its forked tongue licked its sharp teeth.

  So Rakush stamped again.

  Rostam sat up and rubbed his eyes. By the time he looked round, the dragon had gone.

  Rostam scowled at Rakush. “I’m not sure you’re the right horse for me, after all. A hero’s horse can’t be afraid of the dark. A hero’s horse can’t be scared by shadows. And a hero needs a good night’s sleep. So if you wake me up one more time, I’ll find a new horse to carry me on my quests.”

  The hero pulled his cloak over his head and snored even more loudly.

  The dragon stepped back into the light and grinned at the horse.

  Rakush didn’t know what to do. Rostam had ordered him not to fight enemies on his own, so he couldn’t fight the dragon. And if he woke Rostam up again, he’d lose his new job as the hero’s horse.

  Rakush flicked his tail and shuffled his hooves. What could he do?

  The dragon crept towards Rostam, smoke rising from its nostrils, its long tongue snaking towards the hero.

  Rakush decided Rostam’s safety was more important than his job. So he stamped his hooves.

  Rostam woke up and leapt up, but this time he aimed his sword at Rakush, as the dragon stepped backwards out of the light.

  “You stupid noisy disobedient horse?” Rostam yelled. “How dare you wake me up again?”

  Rakush backed away from the angry hero. Rostam followed the horse, shouting and waving his sword.

  Rakush backed to the edge of the light. Then he stamped his hooves in a circle. Stamping and stamping, round and round, as Rostam yelled, “Stop making that noise and listen to what I’m shouting at you!” But Rakush kept stamping until Rostam looked down.

  On the sand, framed by a circle of hoofprints, Rostam saw one huge clawed footprint.

  Rostam lowered his sword and smiled at Rakush, then said clearly, “If you wake me up again, horse, I’ll make horsemeat stew for breakfast. Stand still, keep quiet, remember what I said about horses not fighting, and I might let you be my horse in the morning.”

  Rostam winked, returned to his blanket and lay down.

  Rakush watched as the dragon stepped into the light and walked confidently towards Rostam, who was making loud snoring noises.

  The dragon looked at the horse. The horse shrugged, to show the dragon that he couldn’t fight, he couldn’t wake Rostam up, he would just have to watch as the dragon ate his hero.

  The dragon leant over Rostam and slowly opened his jaws.

  But Rostam leapt up, sword in one hand and spear in the other. The wide-awake hero attacked the surprised dragon.

  The dragon fought with teeth and claws. The hero fought wi
th blades and points. Sometimes the dragon flung the hero to the ground, sometimes the hero forced the dragon to back off. Sometimes they rolled out of the light, sometimes they rolled towards the fire.

  Then the dragon wrapped its coils tightly around the hero, and suddenly Rostam couldn’t stab with his sword or aim with his spear.

  Rakush neighed. And Rostam said, “All right, you can fight if you want to.”

  So the horse leapt onto the dragon’s back, kicking and stamping and biting.

  The hero and his horse fought the dragon together. The dragon wailed and writhed, and finally lay panting on the ground at the hero’s feet and the horse’s hooves.

  Rostam spoke sternly to the dragon, “I will let you go, if you promise not to attack travellers, or their horses, ever again.”

  The dragon nodded and limped out of the circle of light.

  Rostam lay back down, but just before his eyes closed, he sat up.

  “Why don’t you sleep, Rakush?” he said. “I’ll keep watch, while you have a rest. You have to carry me a long way tomorrow, you deserve sleep too.”

  Rakush settled down, while Rostam kept watch for lions or dragons or any other enemies he could fight, with his hero’s horse by his side.

  Following the Trail of Magical Horses

  I grew up in a rural part of Scotland, and I did what lots of girls in rural areas do – I rode horses. I had riding lessons every Saturday, and I trotted and cantered, I jumped, I groomed, I mucked out. And I loved it.

  I live in a city now and I don’t spend a lot of time with horses. But I haven’t lost my love for them, or my fascination with them, particularly with horses’ roles in stories.

  What I love about horses nowadays, as a storyteller and writer, is their beauty, but also their power. The horses and ponies I knew were all well trained, but they could still hurt you, if they kicked or even stood on you accidentally. When I was standing beside them, I was always aware of the size, weight, power and potential danger of horses. And these were horses I loved.

  But imagine being a soldier on foot as a knight on horseback charged at you. Horses are beautiful, but they can also be terrifying. And I wanted to reflect that power and fear in these stories, as well as the role horses have as our companions and helpers.