by Stacy Gregg
“Have you lost something?” he asks.
“No,” Haya says. “I am checking the mousetraps.”
She has already checked the one in the pantry and it was empty. The one behind the stove, however, does not disappoint her. These are live traps and inside, looking out with bright eyes, is a small grey field mouse. Haya reaches down and picks the trap up with the tiny creature still inside. She examines the mouse, looking at its tiny whiskers, the small, dark glassy eyes, and feels a pang of guilt for what she is about to do. Then she upends the trap into the leather pouch that she is carrying, so that the mouse drops into it, and puts the trap back into position and heads upstairs.
She is careful to shut the door quickly after her as she enters the bedroom. The curtains are drawn and in the half-light she can just make out the sakret sitting on his perch.
“Sahhh-ma!” He is wearing his hood, but he cocks his head at the sound of her voice. Haya does not go to him straight away. First she prepares herself, slipping on her leather glove and taking the squirming mouse out of the leather pouch. She wishes, not for the first time, that sakrets were vegetarians. She holds the mouse in her gloved left hand and goes over to the bird.
“Sama,” she says, slipping the hood off his head. “Come and have dinner.”
She holds her hand further away from the perch than she did last time she fed him. Small steps, a little further each time. That is what the falcon trainer told her.
He came to the palace two weeks ago to check on Haya’s progress with Sama. She had been hoping that the falcon trainer would be pleased with her efforts, but he took one look at Haya, saw the fresh scratches on her left arm, and the sakret bare-headed and screaming on his perch and shook his head in dismay.
“You will ruin this bird,” he told her firmly. “Why is he not wearing his hood?”
“I … am trying to make Sama happy,” Haya said. “It seems wrong to leave him with a hood on. I want him to look me in the eye so we may be friends.”
“I understand,” the trainer said. “But this will not produce the results you crave. Sakrets are wild creatures. Only if you take away their eyes and make them blind can they submit and become as one with you. Your bird must wear his hood at all times, especially when he is on your fist. Do you carry him?”
“Not much,” Haya admitted. “Frances won’t let me. She says he’s dangerous and he makes too much noise.”
The falcon trainer frowned. “Would you leave a puppy alone in a room to howl? So it is with this sakret. Sama must be your constant companion.” He looked at the bird, still screaming on his perch. “I will write you a list of what to do,” he said, “but you must follow my directions. With luck, it is not too late and the bird may still be trained.”
Since the visit Haya has tried to follow his advice. She has carried Sama everywhere, and has been feeding the bird by hand, calming his screaming. Until two days ago Sama fed with his hood on, but slowly Haya has been removing it again and now, little by little, she is teaching the bird to hop forward off his perch and come to her hand to eat.
“Here, Sama,” she says softly, showing him the mouse in her gloved left hand. “Come on. It’s your favourite.”
Sama beats his wings and lifts off from the perch; he is in mid-flight when the door to the bedroom swings open.
“What on earth …? Why is it so dark in here?”
At the sight of Frances in the doorway, Sama lets out an ear-splitting scream.
“Shut the door!” Haya tells her. “You’re scaring him.”
“He’s the one screaming at me!”
“Sama is having his dinner,” Haya says.
Frances peers suspiciously at the object clutched in Haya’s fist.
“Oh my lord!” Frances recoils. “What is that?”
“A mouse,” Haya says. She sees the look of horror on Frances’s face and can’t help goading the governess. “Here.” She thrusts the mouse closer. “See?”
Frances jumps back with fright. Then she regains her composure. “Honestly.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Why can’t you have a budgie like a normal girl?”
“If I had a budgie, Sama would eat him,” Haya points out.
“This is ridiculous.” Frances is flustered. “No more vermin in the palace. This bird of yours must be fed outside from now on, is that clear?”
“Yes, Frances,” Haya replies.
She is not going to argue with the governess with the King’s Cup so near. It is better to endure the telling-off than risk provoking Frances’s wrath.
Sama, however, does not know how to hold his tongue. As Frances leaves, he lets out one last scream at the governess. Then, with two flaps of his wings, he lifts up and lands on his mistress’s fist.
aya has a photograph of her mother, taken back in her days as a champion waterskier. Her Mama was always the smallest and the lightest in her waterski team and that is why she was chosen to be the one to climb to the top of the human pyramid, riding high on the broad shoulders of the other skiers. Now it is Haya’s turn to do the same, but not on water, on horses.
“Are you ready?” Yusef asks her. Haya is riding bareback, doubling behind Yusef on his big grey stallion, and now, as Radi pulls up close beside them on his horse, she knows it is time.
“Hup!” Radi says. And in one swift manoeuvre the grooms make their move. They stand up in unison, the two men balanced barefoot on the backs of the horses. Slowly Haya gets to her feet and as the horse keeps cantering beneath her she begins to climb. She uses Yusef’s hip as the first rung in her human stepladder, placing her other foot across the narrow gap between the two cantering horses so that she is straddling thin air, one foot on Yusef, one foot on Radi.
Up she climbs, until she is on their shoulders, her arms up above her in the air like a circus performer! She holds the pose for a moment longer, waving to the imaginary crowd from the top of the world. There is a smattering of applause and she looks over to see Ali watching from the sidelines.
“What did you think?” Haya asks him.
“It is a very good trick,” Ali says. “But didn’t Bashir do it last year?”
Ali is right. Bashir’s team have also mastered the pyramid.
“If we’re going to beat them then we need something even better,” Zayn says.
“Haya is a good gymnast,” Ali says. “Why don’t you do a handstand, Haya?”
“On a horse?” Zayn says.
“Sure,” Ali says. “She can do one on a wooden horse – why not a real one?”
Very soon the King’s Cup will be upon them and the vaulting is now the most vital event. There are five flags in the contest and to win they must take three. One of those flags is the parade and there is little doubt that Bashir’s team will beat them. Then there is the tent-pegging – and even Santi says that this contest will be neck and neck.
Haya is hopeful that she can take the flag in the showjumping. She only wishes she were as confident about the falconry. Sama is a very unreliable bird. She has worked hard for many hours trying to train the sakret, but with the contest just one week away, she still has him always on the long string and she daren’t let him fly free. If she lets him loose, she worries he will disappear and never be seen again.
Sama’s behaviour at the palace is dreadful. He is still prone to screaming when Haya feeds him, ear-splitting shrieks that bring Frances running every time. And Haya has fresh scratches up her arm yet again from yesterday when he chose to attack her instead of a tasty titbit she had brought him. She cannot rely on Sama, so that leaves only the vaulting – this they must win.
One-two-three. In the arena at Al Hummar, Haya rides Bree forward, counting the canter strides out loud. She is bareback, dressed in cotton shorts and a T-shirt with bare feet and no helmet because it would get in the way when you are doing a handstand.
Bree’s hoofbeats pound in time with Haya’s heartbeat, steady and regular. “Good girl, Bree.” Haya swings her legs and windmills her arms. She does this for a
minute or two to get Bree accustomed to her movements. The mare must learn not to be distracted by the rider on her back. She must keep the canter, no matter what.
One-two-three, one-two-three. Haya’s concentration is total. She lets go of the reins so that they hang around the mare’s neck and now Bree has nothing holding her, she is free, yet still she keeps the canter rhythm. Haya spreads her arms out to the sides like an aeroplane. One-two-three, one-two-three.
“Good girl!” Haya says again. She’s practised this part countless times and keeps Bree in the canter with no reins and her arms outstretched. But until now Haya has not been ready to try what comes next. Today is the day. She cannot put it off any longer.
One-two-three. Bree canters up the long side of the arena and Haya lowers her arms back down and places both hands in front of her on Bree’s withers. Her fingers splay wide to help her to balance as she puts all her weight into her upper body. She is now poised like a gymnast about to perform a trick on a wooden vaulting horse. But Haya’s horse is not made of wood, Bree is alive. One-two-three. One-two-three.
There is a metronome in her head keeping the beat. Steady, not yet. Haya hesitates for just a moment and then, as the mare’s hind legs swing forward, she makes her move. Her arms stiffen and thrust as she pushes herself up in one swift movement, levering with her legs pushing away from Bree’s sides, swinging her hips and tucking her knees underneath her so that now she is on her hands and feet, crouching on the mare’s back as if she were a cat.
Keep the canter, one-two-three.
Haya looks down and sees the mare’s shoulders plunging up and down beneath her, and the ground rushing by in a blur before her eyes. She jerks her head back up again. Much better not to look down! She keeps her head high staring straight ahead as Bree canters on with Haya perched precariously on all fours. She cannot stay like this for long without falling; she needs to execute the next move.
One-two-three. This time, on the third stride, Haya pushes off. Her hands splay on the withers once more, gripping for dear life as her feet kick off, pushing her legs straight up into the air.
Immediately she knows it is not good. She was not strong enough in the kick to get enough height with her legs. And even if she had got her legs up, her hands are the real problem. Her palms are damp with perspiration and she panics as she feels them sliding down either side of the withers, her grip collapsing away beneath her. She loses her balance and comes crashing down, managing just in time to push herself hard away to the left-hand side so that she does not fall on top of Bree.
Everything goes into slow motion as the ground rushes up to meet her. She is falling head first and all she can do is stick out her arms to take the impact.
The ground is hard from the summer sun and she hits it with surprising force, taking the brunt of the blow on her hands. She lies there for a moment gasping, unable to believe her good luck. Her wrists ache from the ground-shock, but she gives them a shake and thankfully knows immediately that nothing is broken.
“Are you OK?” asks Zayn.
“I’m fine,” she says, taking his hand and getting back up on her feet.
“It looked like you were going to do it this time,” Zayn says encouragingly.
“It’s my hands,” Haya says. “Her coat is too slippery and my palms get sweaty and then I lose my grip.”
“The riders that perform this in Spain have broad backed horses to balance on.” Zayn is reading her mind. “Maybe an Arab is too skinny for a handstand?” Perhaps Haya is asking the impossible to try the same feat on a narrowly built mare like Bree?
“Do you want me to stay here while you try it again?” Zayn asks.
Haya grabs Bree by the bridle. “No,” she says. “I’m taking her back to the stables.”
There is no use trying again. She can’t keep falling off head first like that. If she breaks a bone, she won’t be able to compete. She will have to figure out a way to master the handstand in safety before she gets back on Bree.
For the rest of the afternoon, Haya practises in the courtyard. She can do a handstand on the compacted dirt surface of the yard and hold it perfectly with her legs straight in the air for at least ten seconds. She can even walk a few steps on her hands if she tries. But the ground is different to being on Bree. The mare’s coat is so smooth, her shoulders so narrow. Haya needs to learn somehow to keep her grip on the mare’s sleek withers or she will never master it.
*
Two days later, as Haya is walking up to the entrance of Al Nadwa palace, she looks at the stone lions standing sentry at the top of the stairs. Perhaps she should practise her vaulting on them? They are a low height, not quite so bad if she falls. Then again, they are right above the stone stairs, which would make quite a gruesome dent in her head if she fell. Also, the lions are too easy and not at all slippery. What she needs is something that is exactly like Bree, only on the ground.
She is walking down the hallway past the portraits of the Kings when she passes her father’s office. The door is open a little and she wonders if he is in there working. “Baba?” She pokes her head in. Her father is not there, but lying in front of her is the solution she has been seeking.
The bearskin rug is spread out on the floor – paws pointing north, south, east and west, the great head of the creature looking straight at her father’s desk. Haya shuts the door behind her, slips off her shoes and steps on to it. The thick brown fur feels deliciously bristly beneath her soles.
Haya walks to the middle of the bear and then raises both hands over her head and tilts up into a handstand. Her fingers plunge into the rug as she kicks her legs up.
She does a very good handstand. Too good. The bear fur is longer and shaggier than Bree’s coat and Haya can grasp it with her fingers. Also, the floor beneath the rug is flat, not at all slippy like Bree’s sloping withers.
Haya leaves the office and goes upstairs to find Ali in his bedroom.
“I need your help,” Haya says to him.
Ali looks up from his comic book. “With what?”
“I need the bearskin out of Baba’s office. It is too heavy for me to carry – will you help me?”
Ali narrows his eyes. “Are we going to get into trouble?”
“Probably,” Haya shrugs.
Ali thinks for a moment. “OK.”
At first, they try to carry the bear by rolling it up like a rug, but it is too bulky to get their arms round it.
“How about if we go underneath it?” Ali suggests.
“OK,” Haya agrees. She takes the front half, putting her own head right beneath the bear’s open jaws, wearing the rug as if it were a cloak with the large paws draped out over her arms. Ali takes the back end and they walk down the corridor like this, giggling. Haya thinks of the time they went to the theatre in London and saw a pantomime horse with one man playing the front half and another being the hind legs.
“I can’t see,” Ali complains after a while.
“Don’t worry,” Haya tells him. “Just follow me.”
They take the bear down the stairs and out of the back door into the garden. They walk across the lawn and then down the stone stairs that lead behind the hedge to the greenhouse. They will be out of view of the palace here and this isolated spot has everything that Haya needs.
“Why are we taking the bear outside?” Ali wants to know.
“So I can practise my handstands on him,” Haya says.
She looks round the greenhouse. The paddling pool is right where she last saw it, stored in the corner.
“Ali, can you pump up the pool? Not too much, just a little bit so it’s kind of half full of air?”
Ali puffs and pants, working the pump to fill the inflatable pool while Haya checks out the lower garden. There is a low drystone wall that runs round its border. What she needs is a section of wall without any trees or plants in the way. She walks the perimeter and eventually decides on the perfect bit of wall, not too far from the greenhouse. She takes Ali’s half-inflated p
ool and drapes it over the drystone rocks.
“What are you doing now?” Ali asks.
“I’m making a Bree,” Haya replies.
They go back for the bearskin. This time they do not bother to wear it, they just drag it along the lawn and then fling it over the paddling pool.
“It looks good,” Ali says. “Very horsey.”
“No.” Haya shakes her head. “The fur is still too shaggy.”
She sets off back over the lawn towards the palace.
“Where are you going?” Ali asks.
“Wait for me here,” Haya tells him. “I won’t be long.”
In the palace, she is heading towards Ismail’s kitchen to look for scissors when she suddenly has a much better idea. She changes direction and goes up the stairs, turning to the right at the top of the landing and heading for her father’s bedroom.
“Baba?” No answer. Her father isn’t here. She walks through his bedroom. It is a beautiful room, very big with an elegant bed made up in crisp white Egyptian cotton sheets, the walls papered in pale gold flock paper, and the carpet, thick and opulent in a pattern of dusky blue. Haya enters the marble bathroom and looks around. Above the basin there is a cabinet and she opens this and finds what she is looking for. Her father’s electric shaver.
*
“Sorry, Mr Bear,” Haya says as she flicks the switch on the shaver, “but you need a haircut.”
“You’re going to shave the bear?” Ali is wide-eyed.
“Not the whole bear,” Haya says. “I’ll just shave the bits where my hands are going.”
The bear’s fur is thick and it takes more effort than she expected. The electric shaver keeps getting clogged up and Haya has to stop and pull bits of hair out of it. In the patches where it has been shaved the bear is now short-haired and sleek. Haya shuts her eyes and runs her hand over the shaved pelt. It feels almost exactly like Bree.
It takes forever to shave enough of the fur away for a decent smooth patch where both her hands can fit. By then the shaver has well and truly jammed up with bear fur – it gives a pitiful whine and the blades rotate once or twice and then crunch to a stop. Haya winces as she realises her father probably won’t be able to use his shaver any more.