‘I’ve heard of sugar,’ said Suzanne. ‘My mother used it in medicines, but it has been too expensive since my uncle died. Is it good for horses then?’
The king smiled wearily. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, ‘but Grey Nose seems to like it.’ He stroked the horse’s long grey neck, as the man-at-arms ran up with a wooden bucket filled with spring water. The king held it up and the horse drank, slowly and deeply.
‘Well, old boy,’ said the king. ‘It seems this is the end of our friendship. For I must keep fighting until, like you, I can battle no longer.’ The old horse butted him again and whickered softly.
King Arthur hesitated. He drew Excalibur from its scabbard. The sword was stained dark brown with the black knight’s blood.
King Arthur shook his head. ‘I would have a clean sword for this,’ he said. He drew a cloth from his pouch and dipped it in the water that Suzanne had used to wash the bandages, and scrubbed the sword clean of blood. He held it high. The iron gleamed like silver in the morning light.
Suzanne gasped.
Then King Arthur brought the sword flat side down upon the horse’s head, then another tap upon each shoulder. ‘Rise, Sir Grey Nose,’ said the king, then smiled, as the horse was already on his feet, though shakily. ‘And from this hour thy name shall be Grey Nose of …’ The king looked around. ‘Sir Grey Nose of Green Grass, most worshipful and loyal Knight of my Round Table.’
Sir Grey Nose of Green Grass whickered softly again and nuzzled the king’s waist, hoping for more sugar.
Suzanne hesitated. Then she curtsied deep and low to Sir Grey Nose, as she would to any knight. Then she put her arms around his neck and hugged him.
The horse tolerated it, glancing over at the king as though to say: ‘They’re so emotional, these girls.’
Finally she looked back at the king.
‘Your Majesty?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said the king.
‘What … what of us … and the castle … and the Black Knight’s lands?’
The king smiled. ‘They are Sir Grey Nose’s,’ he said. ‘But you shall care for the lands and castle for him, my Lady Suzanne, and your children shall care for his children.’
‘I …’ began Suzanne. Then she curtsied deeply again. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty. I vow to do my duty, according to your will.’
‘Rise,’ said King Arthur tiredly, for the second time that morning.
‘Your Majesty?’
‘Yes?’ said Arthur.
‘I hope you find a friend. Another friend, some day.’
Arthur smiled, but the smile was sad. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but I suspect my truest friends will always be here.’
There was a slight commotion at the edge of the clearing. A new knight had arrived, leading a fresh great horse — a fine black horse, dressed in blue silk with gold borders and an emblem of white swans. Sir Grey Nose whinnied and looked at the king.
The king stroked the long grey nose. ‘The black horse may carry me well and swiftly,’ said Arthur softly to Sir Grey Nose, ‘but he will never take your place. Goodbye my friend.’
And so King Arthur rode away on the black horse, and Sir Grey Nose of Green Grass stayed in the clearing by the lake. A fence was built around it, so that Sir Grey Nose could not stray too far, and a proper stable was erected to keep him warm if he chose. Sweet grass was cut for him each summer, that he might have the best hay in winter, and hot oat mash was brought to him and the best mares as well, and turnips and apples and sugar lumps each morning, and his children roamed the forest near the castle.
King Arthur faced many battles after that. There was little peace for the king, but there was for his great horse, Sir Grey Nose of Green Grass, in his quiet lands by the lake.
The Black Kid
WARNING
This is a story about racism, so some of the words in it are racist, like ‘black kid’ and ‘piccaninny’. If you write about racism you need to use racist words.
In fact the greatest piece of racism in this story isn’t a word at all. It is the absence of a word. This is a story about a racism so strong that a child might not even be given a name …
It was winter when the black kid appeared. The sky was high and blue and the air so dry and cold it felt like it would crack if you moved too fast, thought Alf McWhirty, as he leant over the raw posts of the horse yards and watched the men struggle with the stallion. Frozen spiders’ webs clung between the gum leaves. Even the wombat droppings were frozen.
No-one noticed the black kid at first. All eyes were on the stallion, rearing in terror in the yards. The horse was sweating in spite of the cold; his nostrils wide and his eyes staring white as his hooves kicked and reared above the men who tried to hold him.
‘What the …?’ Young Mike ducked, tripped and rolled in the dust till he was safely out of the yard and away from the hooves. Flash Jack made another leap for the rope then ducked out of the way as the horse reared again.
‘No use,’ said McWhirty quietly to Colonel Gloucester.
Colonel Gloucester ignored him. Colonel Gloucester only heard what he wanted to hear.
‘Try again,’ he ordered.
The horse’s head came down then. He cantered over to the rails where the Colonel stood with Alf McWhirty, as though he knew who his chief tormentor was. He turned. The hard black hooves kicked out towards the Colonel.
The Colonel leapt back. So did McWhirty.
McWhirty glanced at the Colonel. ‘Give it a rest then,’ he called to the man still in the horse yard. ‘We’ll give him a day or two to calm himself down.’
The Colonel glared at McWhirty. ‘Shouldn’t have to,’ he barked. ‘Paid good money for that horse. Two thousand pounds! That horse is supposed to be broken to the saddle! Major O’Leary swore to me …’ He stopped, then stomped back across the yard and up the wide stone steps to the back door of the main house.
McWhirty stayed where he was, and watched the horse. He was still cantering roughly around the horse yards, as though the only way he could express his agitation was through action. McWhirty knew his horses. Even the Colonel listened to McWhirty some times.
Anger … or terror, thought McWhirty, as the horse shook his long black mane. He reckoned that horse had been broken to the saddle all right. But something had frightened him, so he reared with terror at the touch of a rope around his neck.
He was a good horse, a fine horse — pure Arab, the Colonel claimed. Colonel Gloucester had an old army acquaintance ship him out from Calcutta.
It must have been a terrifying journey for a horse, thought McWhirty, the shaking and the shuddering of the boat, and hay that smelt of mould and salt maybe, and who knows what ropes the stallion had been confined with? No wonder he couldn’t abide the touch of anything on his skin again.
Ah, a pity it was that horses couldn’t speak, thought McWhirty, and understand you too. If the horse could just understand his words, he could explain his journey was over now; that the horse was safe. McWhirty gave a half smile. Though to be sure, that would only be half the truth. The horse’s journey might be over but he didn’t envy any horse that had to carry the Colonel. The Colonel was used to every order being carried out and he used his temper and his whip against any human or animal that didn’t obey.
The stallion was quieter now. He looked at McWhirty suspiciously, as though waiting for the attack to begin again.
‘No, don’t you be worrying, fellow,’ said McWhirty. ‘Sure, I’ll do what I can to make them leave you alone for a time.’
At least the horse could be used for breeding, he thought as he turned to go, even if no-one could climb on his back. A colt from the stallion would be worth a lot. There were still precious few good horses in the colony. The Colonel might make a fortune from his horse yet, even if he could never make a show, riding high and fine on his black stallion.
That’s when McWhirty saw the black kid.
He was behind a tree, or almost. Just his wide brown eyes were pe
ering round, and a flash of black hair and the dark fingers of one hand brown against the white of the bark. He was gazing at the stallion like he’d never seen anything like it before.
Which he hadn’t, like enough, thought McWhirty. There were few enough quality horses in the district and nothing in this stallion’s league.
It had been a while since McWhirty had seen any kid, black or white. The Colonel’s were all grown — the girl in Sydney, the boy at Sandhurst military college in England.
Alf McWhirty had a kid of his own once. He’d had to leave the child behind with his wife when he’d been transported ten years ago for burning down an English landlord’s house; though, as McWhirty said, it wasn’t like the landlord had been in it at the time. He’d been far away in England where the rent money kept him wealthy.
McWhirty looked at the black child. Maybe he recognised something in the black kid’s gaze, the joy and excitement he’d felt the day he’d seen his first great horse. Or maybe … maybe it was just good to see a child again.
‘Hey, boyo! Catch!’ he called.
The black kid couldn’t have understood the words. But his gaze tore from the horse just as McWhirty tossed him the apple from his pocket. It was meant for the horse, but there was no way the stallion would take an apple from anybody’s hand today.
The black kid caught the apple. He met McWhirty’s gaze and laughed.
Then he was gone.
McWhirty shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled down to the paddock behind the big house to saddle up Barney. There were fences to repair and gates to check.
But somehow the black kid stayed in his mind. The look in those brown eyes as he watched that horse … Sure, it was a good thing the Colonel hadn’t seen him. The Colonel wouldn’t have blacks on his property.
There was a camp way down the river, well off the Colonel’s land. That’s where the kid had come from, most like. Well, no harm done. The boy had gone and that was the end of it.
The black kid was back next day. He was standing at the rails gazing at the stallion when McWhirty came out.
McWhirty shook his head at him. ‘Don’t you be getting too close there, sonny boy.’
The kid just stared. He didn’t speak English, of course, and McWhirty didn’t speak an Aboriginal language. None of the men did, though they’d lived in Australia all or most of their lives. (Colonel Gloucester had lived twenty years in India without learning more than half a dozen words of any Indian language either.)
McWhirty crossed over to the rail. ‘The Colonel’s been writing to that friend of his, the one who sold him this animal here,’ McWhirty said to the boy, just as though he could understand him. He nodded towards the stallion. The horse tossed his head, as though he knew he was being discussed. ‘He’s asking for his money back. Don’t think he’ll be getting it, but.’
The black kid glanced at him, then stared again at the stallion.
‘Dhadhi?’ he asked.
‘His name’s Trumpeter,’ said McWhirty. He spoke slowly and gestured to the horse as he repeated the name. ‘Trumpeter.’
The boy shot him another look. ‘Muurruubarraay!’ he declared.
‘Well, what’s that mean when it’s at home?’ inquired McWhirty.
‘Muurruubarraay!’ repeated the boy stubbornly, staring at the horse.
‘Is that your name for him then? Well, if you say so,’ said McWhirty easily. He dug down in his pocket for another apple. The Colonel had a good orchard of apple trees; a dozen varieties sent out from England. The stone storeroom was full of barrels of apples, all stored in sawdust to keep through the winter. Even now they were hardly withered.
The boy took the apple, but this time he didn’t run away. He just grinned his thanks then stared back at the stallion. He said something softly that McWhirty didn’t understand.
Or maybe he did, even though it was in another language. Sometimes it was like that with horses, McWhirty thought, if there was bond enough between you. Sometimes you didn’t have to speak each other’s language to understand.
‘No, he’s wild, that one,’ said McWhirty. ‘Can’t be doing anything with him. Don’t suppose anyone ever will. Sometimes when a horse has been badly treated, they never forget, no matter how gentle you are with them after.’
Not that Colonel Gloucester’s ways were gentle with anything and nor, for the most part, were the ways of the men above him either.
The boy said something else, almost too low to hear. He could have been speaking to either McWhirty or the horse. Then he was gone again, his bare feet padding through the cold dust of the yard, taking his apple with him.
It was Colonel Gloucester who saw the kid the next day. He’d been inspecting the stables and came out to the yards with McWhirty and three of the other men behind him. And there was the black kid, but he wasn’t at the rails today.
The black kid was in the horse yards with the stallion. The five men pulled up and stood still.
McWhirty opened his mouth to yell ‘Get out!’, but something stopped him.
Even the Colonel was silent.
The black kid was looking at the stallion.
Slowly, very slowly, he stepped forward, one step, another, bare feet edging forward softly on the sand. The stallion watched him, his eyes just slightly wide, his curved ears swivelling, his nostrils flared and breathing in deeply.
One small hand crept towards the stallion. It held the apple that McWhirty had given him the day before.
And slowly, very slowly, with a single whicker of acceptance, the stallion bent his head and took the apple from the child.
Suddenly the black kid laughed. It was a gurgle of pure delight, of total joy. The stallion reared back, but the hooves were nowhere near the child. The stallion bucked and plunged and kicked his heels, but this time, thought McWhirty, it looked like the stallion was simply showing off for the child.
‘Catch him,’ ordered the Colonel.
‘The stallion? But … but no-one can catch him,’ stammered McWhirty, startled.
‘Not the horse, you fool. The piccaninny,’ said the Colonel. ‘I want him kept here.’
‘But … but what … What will you be doing with him?’
‘Isn’t it obvious, man? Give the piccaninny some clothes, a decent feed. I want him here tomorrow morning.’
‘But you can’t …’ began McWhirty.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said the Colonel. ‘He’s got the right hands. You’re either born with them or you’re not. That child understands horses or the horse understands him, what difference does it make? Saw something like that in India once. Horse made friends with a goat. No-one could do anything with him if that goat wasn’t in his stable when he returned. I want that kid here tomorrow.’
The Colonel marched off. McWhirty didn’t move. The child laughed suddenly, as the black horse whinnied near his ear.
One of the men, Young Mike, ran towards the rails. The black kid looked up, as though aware of them for the first time. He backed away.
‘Round the other side, someone!’ yelled Young Mike.
Still McWhirty didn’t move.
Flash Jack sprinted around the other side of the horse yard. The black kid glanced from Young Mike to Flash Jack, then ducked under the rails between them. Young Mike leapt, and landed on him in a flying tackle.
‘Got you!’ yelled Young Mike. ‘Arrrk!’ he screamed, as the black kid bit his hand.
Flash Jack hauled the black kid to his feet. The boy was dusty and there was blood at the corner of his mouth. ‘You try that again and I’ll give you the back of my hand,’ swore Flash Jack. He shook the kid roughly then dragged him across the yard, the thin brown arm held tightly in his hand.
McWhirty came out of his trance. ‘Where are you taking him?’ he demanded.
Flash Jack glanced over his shoulder. ‘You heard the Colonel,’ he said. ‘The storeroom. He’ll run off, else. Let’s see the kid get out of there.’
‘Why not the kitchen?’ demanded McWhirt
y.
Flash Jack grinned. He looked down at the child. ‘Better get some clothes on him before Mrs Connolly sees him. She’d have a fit.’
Mrs Connolly’s seen more than that before, McWhirty thought. But he said nothing. It paid most times, he’d found, to keep your thoughts to yourself.
The storeroom was past the stables, next to what had been the dairy when the Colonel’s lady was alive, and the Colonel had bothered with a milking cow. The big rusty hinge creaked as the storeroom door opened. Flash Jack thrust the black kid inside. He turned back to McWhirty.
‘You got any clothes that’ll fit him?’ he asked.
‘Why should the likes of me have children’s clothes?’ inquired McWhirty. He shrugged. ‘I’ll find him something.’
Flash Jack nodded as he turned the big key in the lock, then pulled it out. ‘I’ll put this safe by the back door,’ he said, holding up the key, and headed off towards the house.
McWhirty hesitated. He stared at the locked door. There was no sound from inside.
It was late afternoon when McWhirty came back to the storeroom. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
It was dark in the storeroom. A little light from the high barred window shone on the barrels of apples, the honey set to strain over a wooden bucket, the late pears shrivelling on their shelves.
The more valuable stores — the chests of tea, the sugar and flour and treacle — were in the storeroom by the kitchen. That room was kept locked as well. Mrs Connolly kept that key with her and the Colonel himself kept the key to ‘the cellar’, which was not a cellar at all, but yet another room with thick stone walls where he kept his port and his brandy and the rum he sold to the men.
There was no sign of the child.
McWhirty stepped quietly. ‘It’s alright,’ he said softly. ‘There’s no call to be afraid.’ It was a lie, he knew — there was every reason in the world for the child to be afraid — but the kid wouldn’t understand anyway, he reasoned, so perhaps it wasn’t a lie at all.
He peered between a pair of barrels. The black child starred up at him, huddled against a barrel, his eyes as white and scared as the stallion’s had been the day before.
The Book of Horses and Unicorns Page 10