by Stacy Gregg
“What is he doing?”
“He is going to save the mare if he can,” Santi says. He cannot meet Haya’s eyes. “Ursula, take the Princess home.”
*
As they pull up to the entrance of the palace, Haya emerges from the car trembling and exhausted. Her clothes are caked with dust and horse sweat and her cheeks are stained with tears. If only Mama were here to take her in her arms and hold her tight and never let go. But at the top of the stairs, waiting with arms folded, is Frances.
“Oh, Haya …” There is something about the look that Frances gives her that makes Haya’s eyes brim with tears all over again. She wants comfort so desperately. She swallows her pride and runs up the stairs towards the governess.
Frances shakes her head. “Look at the state of you! Your boots are covered in mud. And your fingernails! My heavens, child, you are utterly filthy and you positively reek—”
That is it. Haya doesn’t listen to any more. She pushes past Frances, choking on her tears, and runs in muddy boots past the row of Kings, bounding upstairs. The slam of her bedroom door echoes throughout the palace.
In the darkness, Haya drops to the floor and drags herself beneath the bed until she reaches her treasure box. She shimmies back out again with the box and lies panting on the floor. Her hands are shaking so much that she cannot open the lid. Instead, she just clutches it to her chest, holding it close to her heart as she shudders and cries, her sobs wracking her body as she weeps and weeps until she has no more tears.
aya opens her eyes. It is morning and the sun is shining through her bedroom window, but it is not the sun that has woken her. It is the sound of the voices downstairs at the front door. Slipping out of bed, she runs across the landing into Ali’s room. He is already at the bedroom window, peering out at the commotion below.
“Ursula is here,” he says with his nose pressed up to the glass. “Her and Frances are fighting.”
Haya looks out of the window. She can see Ursula standing on the doorstep, still wearing the same clothes that she had on when she dropped Haya home the night before. And standing in front of her, hands on hips, flanked by the stone lions, is Frances.
“This is ridiculous,” Ursula says. “Let me in. I need to see Haya.”
“Out of the question,” Frances replies. “The Princess is still in bed. She’s exhausted after last night. She is not fit to receive company.”
“Well, I’ll come back later then.”
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Frances says.
“It’s not up to you,” Ursula snaps back. “Ask Haya! She needs to know what happened.”
Frances looks as stony-faced as the lions. “I’m not asking a five-year-old to make the decisions; I’m the one who is in charge. If it had been up to me, she would never have been there in the first place. She was in floods of tears last night when you brought her home.”
“But I should tell her—”
“No,” Frances says. “You have already done enough damage without upsetting the Princess all over again. Now I think it’s time you got back in your car and left before I call the guards.”
Haya leaps down off the window seat and begins to run. Across the landing and down the stairs, she feels her heart hammering in her chest as she races for the front door. Why does the palace have to be so big? She is halfway down the corridor when she sees Frances striding towards her.
“Where is she?” Haya pants.
“If you mean Ursula, she has gone,” Frances replies. “Now go upstairs, Haya, and get dressed for breakfast.”
Haya is beside herself. “But I wanted to see her …”
“Out of the question.”
“I want to know what happened to Amina …”
“Haya, do not argue with me,” Frances says. “That is all.”
*
What else can Haya do? It is another two whole days before Baba returns from his meeting in America and Frances won’t let Haya go back to the stables no matter how much she begs.
When the King arrives home, it is late at night. Haya is in bed, but still awake when he comes in to check on her. “You’re back,” she murmurs.
“I made it just in time,” her father says as he strokes her hair. “I know a girl who is turning six tomorrow.”
*
The birthday party is held on the lawn of the palace. All of Haya’s cousins, aunts and uncles are there. Her aunts all admire the pretty dress that Frances made her wear. They say to Haya: “You look so much like your mother,” and Haya feels her cheeks turn hot with pride and delight.
She misses Mama more than ever on her birthday. Special days should be happy occasions, but since Mama died there is a tinge of sadness about them. But you cannot stop birthdays; they come every year. And so Haya tries to be brave and to smile for the guests even though she hears her aunts as they whisper, How quiet she is! And how sad she looks. Look how she sits alone and doesn’t play with the other children. It is no wonder that the King constantly worries about her.
“Haya,” her father says, “come over here and play pin the tail on the donkey.”
Haya’s father puts a blindfold on her and spins her round and round until she thinks she is going to topple over. All the other children shriek and giggle as she tries to stick the tail on the donkey’s head and soon Haya is smiling too.
Lunch is a picnic on the lawn and there is birthday cake and Haya opens the presents stacked on a big table. The coloured paper crackles in her fingers as she thanks her aunts and uncles for the gifts.
“My present wouldn’t fit on the table,” her father says. “It’s waiting at the front door.”
The children run, screaming with excitement, as they race through the palace, their bare feet slapping on marble. Haya is in the lead ahead of Ali and her cousins, determined to be the first one there. The massive front doors of Al Nadwa have already been swung open wide and she races outside.
“What is it?” Ali is panting. “What did he get you …?”
Haya does not answer. She is too shocked by the sight that greets her. At the bottom of the stairs, seated upon camels, are two officers of the Desert Patrol, the most rugged and fearless soldiers in all of Arabia.
The men of the Desert Patrol carry curved daggers at their hips. Their faces are noble, tanned from the sun, with high chiselled cheekbones and black eyes, their expressions solemn and serious. If the stone lions at the palace doors of Al Nadwa could shrink back in awe of these men, they would!
“Do you like them?” Her father has caught up with her at last.
Haya looks at him, her eyes wide. Standing next to these officers with enormous pink bows tied round their necks are her presents. Two camels. One fully grown, the other just a baby, but still taller than Haya. The baby camel keeps shaking his head to get rid of the pink ribbon, as if it is embarrassing him.
“They are mine? Both of them?” Haya turns to look at her father in astonishment.
“You wanted to be a proper Arabian Princess,” the King smiles. “For this you will need camels.”
Baba has understood all along. A proper Arabian Princess is exactly what she wants to be.
“Will they live with us at the palace?”
Haya can feel her governess’s cold eyes boring into her. She knows Frances is imagining the mess Haya’s camels will make on the back lawn!
Luckily for Frances, the King doesn’t think this is a good idea either. “They will remain with the Desert Patrol,” he said. “But you may visit them to feed and ride them.”
Haya is hesitant as she steps close to the camels. “Can I pat the little one?”
“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” the soldier replies.
Haya reaches out a hand to stroke the baby camel. He has shaggy fur, soft like velvet, the colour of caramel.
“I’m going to call this one Fluffy,” she says decisively, “and the mummy can be Lulabelle.”
A choked noise comes from the officer holding Fluffy’s lead rope. The men of
the Desert Patrol are the toughest soldiers in Arabia. They do not call their camels Fluffy and Lulabelle! But he keeps a straight face and says nothing. He waits patiently while Haya and Ali and their cousins fuss over the baby and the other officer gets down off his camel to lift up the children so they can take turns to sit on Lulabelle’s back. When at last everyone has had enough, the soldiers mount up once more and lead the camels away, both men looking exhausted. The perils of the great desert are nothing compared to a six-year-old’s birthday party!
On the steps of the palace, guests are preparing to leave when Santi and Ursula arrive. They are driving the Al Hummar truck, and Ursula waves cheerily out of the window. “Happy birthday, Haya!” she calls. “So sorry we’re late!”
“Yes, happy birthday, Titch,” Santi says warmly.
“You’ve missed the birthday cake, I’m afraid,” Frances says curtly.
Santi pulls the truck up and opens the door, patting his belly as he gets out. “I do not need cake. Ursula feeds me too well as it is.”
He smiles at Haya. “I am only here to bring Titch her present.”
Santi looks over at the King and Haya sees her father give him a nod, as if to confirm that all is fine.
“There is another gift,” her father says, bending down beside Haya. “Santi and Ursula have brought it here for you.”
Haya does not know why her heart is beating so fast. Her father takes her by the hand and leads her to the rear of the truck, where Ursula and Santi undo the bolts and lower the ramp.
Inside the truck, so small that it does not even take up the space of one horse stall, is her birthday present. It looks at Haya with wide eyes blinking in the sunlight, a bundle of fuzzy baby fur on lanky pipe-cleaner legs.
“It’s a horse!” Ali shouts out. Then he frowns. “Why is it so little?”
“It’s a foal,” Haya tells him. “A baby, Ali, like you.”
“I’m not a baby. I’m four,” Ali says indignantly. But Haya isn’t listening to her brother. All her focus is on the foal standing before her.
It is a bay, with four black stocking legs and a thick black bottlebrush mane that sticks up in a ruffle along its tiny neck. On its forehead there is a white star and on one of the hind legs there is a white sock with black ermine dots on it.
With a stocky little body and sturdy limbs, the foal is no elegant, long-stemmed beauty like the rose-grey horses of Al Hummar. Yet its heavy jaw and flat profile are handsome in their own way. And those eyes! The foal has the most amazing eyes, so big and brown and wide, honest and kind. Haya looks into them and her heart beats faster still. She has never seen a horse quite so beautiful in her entire life.
Haya has been staring so long at the foal, she has forgotten the guests. When at last she turns back to them, her mouth is wide open, but no words come out and the crowd laughs.
“Is it mine?” she manages to stammer.
“She is yours,” her father says.
She. That was what her father just said. So the foal is a filly. A baby girl.
The King leads Haya by the hand up the ramp. When they get close to the filly, Haya can see that she is shivering.
“She’s cold,” Haya says.
“She’s just a little scared,” the King says.
“Why?” Haya asks.
“She’s never left her loose box before,” the King says, looking at his daughter kindly. “The world can be a frightening place when you are very little and all alone.”
The King crouches down beside his daughter and puts his arm round her. “This filly is Amina’s baby, Haya. The vet could not save the mare, but he did everything he could so that her foal might live.”
Now Haya knows what Ursula came to tell her when Frances sent her away. This shivering bundle of fluff is Amina’s daughter. She is three days old and she is an orphan.
“She will need a great deal of care,” Baba is saying. “It is a big responsibility.”
Haya looks at the foal. Now she can see how much like her mother this filly is. Her coat is still fluff, but already it is a rich red bay, just like her mama. And her eyes, they are Amina’s eyes: deep liquid brown, gentle and kind.
“What do I have to do?” Haya asks shakily.
“Feed her, groom her, teach her manners. Teach her how to become a horse,” her father says. “Santi and the grooms will help you, but she is your foal, Haya. You will be her mother now.”
Haya feels the weight of his words. This foal that clung on so tenaciously to life, and remains in this world against the odds, is now being given over to her care.
Haya reaches out a hand and strokes the trembling filly. “It’s OK,” she says softly. “Don’t be afraid, little one. No one is going to hurt you.”
The party guests are crowding the truck, trying to get a better look. “If everyone moves back then Ursula can lead her out,” the King says.
The party guests retreat to the steps as Haya and the King come down the ramp first and then Ursula comes after them leading the foal. Gently, step by step, she coaxes the filly forward until she comes down all in a rush, legs wobbling down the ramp as if she is attempting to walk it on stilts.
When she reaches the bottom, the filly stops at the sight of the party guests. Her ears prick forward and she takes deep, snorty breaths through wide nostrils. Then she raises her head as high as she can and lets out a valiant whinny. It is meant to be a clarion call, but instead it comes out as a shrill squeak. The crowd laughs and the foal is startled by the loud noise. She skitters back and gives another snort, body trembling and eyes wide.
“Do you want to hold her?” Ursula passes Haya the lead rope. Haya takes it and stand at arm’s length, still unable to believe that this creature belongs to her. She looks up at her father, her eyes shining.
“Thank you, Baba,” she says solemnly. “I love her. She is so beautiful.”
“Are you going to ride her now?” Ali asks.
Haya turns to her brother. “No!”
“Can I ride her then?” Ali asks.
“Ali,” the King says, “she is just a foal. You can’t ride her until she is grown up.”
“You have to break her in first,” Haya says. This is something she has heard Santi say about the rose-grey fillies.
“Well, how long will that be?” Ali frowns.
“In three years she should be ready,” the King tells him.
Ali sighs. “I want a bike for my birthday. You can ride a bike straight away.”
The laughter of the party guests makes the foal skitter again.
“I think that’s enough excitement for one day maybe?” Santi says to Haya. “She is ready to go home. It is almost her dinnertime.”
“What does she eat?” Haya asks.
“Camel’s milk,” Santi says. “I will show you how to give her the bottle. You must feed her four times a day – and three times during the night too.”
There is a loud harrumph from among the crowd and then Happy Frances, her voice coated in honey, speaks up.
“Señor Lopez,” Happy Frances says, “surely you are not suggesting that Her Royal Highness will be at your stables at all hours of the night feeding this waif?”
Santi shrugs. “The foal belongs to Haya. It is her responsibility,” he says. “That is all I am saying.”
Frances turns and makes her appeal to the King. “But Señor Lopez must see it is not reasonable for the Princess to be travelling at such an hour? Let the stablehands do the feeding.”
“I have to do it,” Haya insists. “She’s mine. I’m the one who is taking care of her.”
“Out of the question.” Frances refuses to give in. “It is too far, in the dark on those roads …”
“Frances is right,” the King says. And Haya thinks for an awful moment he is taking the governess’s side, but then the King turns to the crowd. “My brother?” he says. “Can we keep the filly at your stables instead?”
Prince Hassan is the King’s brother and captain of the Royal Polo Team. His polo
stables are inside the Royal Compound, only a few minutes’ walk up the hill from the palace.
“Certainly,” Prince Hassan agrees. “There are plenty of spare loose boxes. My polo mares will enjoy the company.”
Haya’s uncle sends word to his grooms at the polo yards to prepare a box for their new addition, and Ursula leads the filly back into the truck.
“Do you want to ride with her?” she asks Haya.
Nervously, Haya climbs the ramp of the horse truck. Her eyes are as wide as those of the filly beside her. “You’ll be OK,” Ursula insists. “All you need to do is hold her halter like this, and talk to her once we start to move to keep her calm.”
Ursula smiles and then steps out of the truck and raises the ramp behind her. Haya can hear the locks slide on the outside of the doors.
“Hang on to the rail when we move off!” she hears Ursula shout. “It might be a bit bumpy at first.”
It is dark inside with the door shut, but two thin windows along the side walls provide enough daylight to see by. Haya uses one hand to steady herself on the railings, gripping the foal’s halter with the other hand.
Haya and the foal are alone together for the first time. Haya stares at the bay filly as if it were some magical creature, as if she had been given a unicorn.
“Hello,” she says to the filly. “I knew you before you were born. You look just like your mama, do you know that? She was very beautiful, and she was a great jumper. And you are just like her.”
She strokes the filly down her broad muzzle, pressing her face close to it in the darkness. Now she is whispering, “My name is Haya and I’m going to look after you.”
She holds tight to the filly’s halter and her father’s words fill the silence between them. You will be her mother now.
“I’m going to take care of you,” Haya whispers. “You will never be lonely or sad because I will love you always. I will be there no matter what happens and you will make your mama proud and be the best horse in Arabia.”
In the back of the horse truck, the bay filly nickers softly, and Haya knows that she understands every word.