All the while, Franny looked on between her fingers, unable to witness poor Sonnet being treated like a normal pony, for she was not a normal pony. Sonnet was Franny’s pony, and Franny’s pony did not need to be treated like a dumb beast.
In one swift movement, the princess mounted Sonnet’s back, both her legs upon one side. They looked a picture of grace and royalty, besides Sonnet turning to glare with slanted, mean eyes at the girl on her back in the heavy side-saddle.
Now the princess was on board, the king and his troops mounted their horses ready to travel back to the castle, taking Sonnet with them forever.
But Sonnet did not move.
The princess kicked her heel into the pony’s belly. ‘Get on, you lazy beast!’ she ordered.
In response, Sonnet grunted and dug her heels deeper into the turf.
‘Esmeralda!’ the princess called out with another hard kick.
Sonnet swished her tail in protest, which whipped across the princess’s face, leaving red marks across her angry cheeks. Now the princess (as you can imagine) had a temper, and this showed as her eyes filled with rage at the pony’s stubbornness.
Meanwhile, Franny’s hands moved from her eyes to her wide-open mouth as she watched in astonishment. The princess raised her hand high above her head, and in it was a thick, menacing whip. She brought it down so fast that it cut through the air with a snap, before slapping Sonnet hard on the flanks.
‘Sonnet!’ Franny cried out, trying to break free from her father’s clutches.
‘Hush, Franny dear,’ Father whispered. ‘Wait one moment.’
The horrid, spoilt child brought the whip down – once, twice, thrice. Each time cutting through the air, cutting Sonnet’s side, and cutting Franny’s heart. But the pony did not move an inch.
‘Father, crack your whip upon this pony’s hide!’ demanded the princess.
‘That may not be a good idea,’ said the king. His brow furrowed under his golden crown. He remembered the days when his own men had tried to break in the young beast. Since watching Franny and Sonnet ride through the village, he believed that the pony was now tame enough for his princess to ride. And he thought it would finally make his daughter happy to have the fine beast in her care. Yet the mare’s stubbornness was proving him very much wrong.
‘Do it!’ spat his child, interrupting his thoughts. Despite his unease, the king could never refuse his spoilt little princess. So he lifted his even bigger whip even higher into the air and – thwack.
There was a squeal from the pony.
There was a scream from the princess.
There was a thud as the princess flew through the air and hit the ground in a heap. Sonnet had promptly bucked her off!
‘Stupid, common pony.’ the princess growled, her mood as dark as the evening was becoming. ‘It’s as dumb and as rude as that girl! Take my tack from it right away. It doesn’t deserve my royal bottom on its back!’
A ripple of stifled laughter broke out amongst the troops and groomsmen as the princess stood up. Her autumn dress looked like a rag of shredded tatters, and wet mud covered her royal bottom. She mounted her previously redundant and bored-looking pony, and with much embarrassment she rode away, although not as fast as she may have liked. She kicked and kicked her grey pony, who continued to plod in a sombre manner, ignoring the princess’s commands entirely. The king turned his head and smirked, winking an eye at young Franny as if he had just won the battle.
Sonnet gave a whicker, and walked towards her girl, who in turn rubbed her pony’s white head.
‘Does this mean she’s mine again, Father?’ Franny asked with wide, tear-filled eyes.
Her father smiled and put away his hanky. ‘As much as you are hers.’
Together, Franny and Father bathed the whip marks upon Sonnet’s sides with coos and whispers and strokes. And despite Franny’s defiant opinion that she should stay and sleep in the field with her pony that night, Father refused. But he promised Franny could spend the next day, as she did every day, with her pony.
And when the morning sun rose, the pony looked to the distance. With her head over the gate, she watched as the little speck became bigger and bigger. Sonnet neighed in welcome, as she did every morning thereafter, to her girl.
THE GALLOPING PONY
“He was not the handsomest foal ever born, but he was perhaps the cutest.”
1
WARMHEART OF PENNYDALE
He was not the handsomest foal ever born, but he was perhaps the cutest. His limbs were too stocky to be described as elegant, and tufts of white and ginger feathers around his knobbly fetlocks gave away his common breeding. His eyes, although not noble, were big and kind and highly unusual, for he had one eye as black as midnight, and one eye as blue as a pale spring sky. All these strange qualities set him aside, even before I mention his curious markings.
‘Ah!’ said Farmer John, when he first set eyes upon the newly born ginger and white foal. ‘He’s the finest skewbald I ever did see.’
Farmer John stroked the foal’s rather thickset neck as the new mother licked her son’s chunky forehead, revealing a heart-shaped star under his thick forelock.
‘Warmheart,’ said the farmer with a wide, kind smile (although when he said it, it sounded more like ‘waram-art’ because he had a peculiar country accent). ‘That’s what we’ll call you.’
And that is where Warmheart’s story began; on a peaceful spring morning at Pennydale Farm surrounded by many other farm animals, who looked upon him with soft eyes and kind hearts.
2
HUMBLE BEGINNINGS
Warmheart had a great time growing up on the farm and had many friends, such as lambs and calves, and a playful black and white sheepdog called Bob.
‘C’mon, Bob!’ Warmheart shouted. ‘I’ll race you!’
In an instant, the two of them galloped around the perimeter of the paddock in a blur of colours and huffing breath.
‘Never mind, Warmheart,’ panted Bob, and smiled as they reached the winning post, which was the gate in the farthest corner of the paddock. His long pink tongue hung from the side of his panting mouth. ‘Maybe next time you’ll win. Keep trying, young one.’
Warmheart shook his long mane and jumped in the air. ‘I was closer though, right? Closer than last time and the time before?’ asked the young cob, whilst prancing and dancing on the spot and swishing his flowing tail.
Bob ducked his head and wriggled his back to fit under the gate, trotting away towards the farmhouse with a wagging tail. He paused, turning his head to watch his friend gallop off into the distance. ‘You’ll beat me one day,’ Bob called as a whoosh of wind and galloping feathers bolted passed him.
‘That pony!’ laughed the sheepdog to the intrigued cows, who looked over the hedge with long dandelions poking out from their chewing mouths.
* * *
And so time went on, month-to-month, season-to-season, and Warmheart grew into a wonderful young pony. He had become strong and fit from racing Bob and any other animal brave enough to take him on.
In four years, however, he had never beaten the fast-flying dog, but that did not stop him from trying.
Every day.
Then one day, not-quite winter and not-quite spring, something happened to cause interest and gossip amongst the animals of Pennydale Farm. Lots of questions and excitement arose, and even Farmer John got out of his tractor to see what all the fuss was about.
Of course, our farmer friend could not hear what his animals were saying – instead, he heard a lot of clucks and moos, and neighs and barks.
‘What’s this ruddy commotion?’ Farmer John said, trying to settle his worried stock. He removed his hat and scratched his nearly bald head. ‘Ah, I see! The Norrells are building a new gallop to train them racehorses of theirs.’
The animals became quiet, listening to their farmer’s soothing voice.
‘They ’ave more money than sense. Mind, with all them racehorses winning all them races, it’s
no wonder they got all that money. Bet they never know my struggles.’
Then, content that his animals were quiet and settled, Farmer John went back to ploughing the ground with his tractor whilst hundreds of seagulls swooped close by, catching unlucky worms that surfaced in the newly tilled soil.
‘Racehorses?’ Warmheart said, his black and blue eyes stretching as wide as dinner plates. ‘I didn’t even know there was such a thing. Can I be a racehorse when I grow up?’
Sandy, Warmheart’s mother, rubbed his neck with her muzzle, which made Warmheart’s nose twitch and wiggle in response to the lovely scratch. Then, she stopped and said sadly, ‘Not all horses can be racehorses, darling one.’
‘But I could!’ Warmheart stood up as tall as he was able, which was not particularly high – not compared to a racehorse at least. ‘I’m super-fast, aren’t I, Bob? Bob thinks I’ll beat him one day; isn’t that what you said?’
He looked at Bob for a brief moment, and carried on talking faster than he could gallop. ‘And quite frankly, if I can beat Bob, I can beat anything!’ Warmheart pirouetted on the spot, his heavy hooves thudding upon the ground. Then he took off, racing his own shadow around the field, skilfully avoiding the grazing sheep and lambs in his way. But he did not see the concerned faces watching him.
‘He needn’t know he’ll never be a racehorse,’ Bob said, his ears flat against his head. Sandy nodded and agreed.
‘You’re right. He deserves to dream,’ said his mother, watching as the machinery continued to build the gallops in the field next door.
3
A GENTLEMAN’S BET
Several weeks passed, and in this time the Norrells had finished building their gallops. Every morning, just as the sun poked its head over the horizon, Warmheart and the other animals at Pennydale Farm lined up at the hedgerow, peering over or in between the fence to watch the horses train.
Warmheart watched in amazement at first. He had never seen any animal gallop so fast. They were, he thought, even faster than Bob! But this amazement soon turned to envy. This envy soon turned to sadness, and the sadness soon turned to doubt.
‘I’ll never be a racehorse, will I?’ he asked. Warmheart did not wait for an answer before walking away from his mother and friends. ‘I’m simply not fast enough.’ He tripped over his own heavy hooves in the process, which made him sigh. Poor Warmheart was quite dejected.
Bob, ever upbeat (like most sheepdogs are), trotted gently to his friend’s side. ‘Come now, Warmheart. There’s no need to be glum. Why not try practising harder? Instead of racing me, perhaps you could race against the racehorses alongside the fence line,’ Bob barked.
But Warmheart did not reply.
Then, some young lambs who always enjoyed watching the pony frolic around the field joined in. ‘You must keep galloping!’ they bleated in union, as they watched the pony’s tail drag limply across the ground.
‘It’s no good,’ Sandy said, watching her son disappear into the barn to eat some hay. ‘He knows it’s true. He will never be a racehorse.’
And that was the end of that – until the day everything changed…
* * *
The day started as usual when the cockerel crowed just before dawn. Very soon, the farm was alive with concern. At first light, a large lorry roared into the yard, and soon it disappeared loaded with dozens of cattle.
The animals stared in disbelief. They had not even had a chance to say goodbye to their friends. Not long after, a beaten up old Land Rover appeared with a large trailer behind it. When it left, it was filled to the rafters with sheep, and there were lots of protests from the travellers inside as it rocked down the stony lane.
It was not long until Bob came galloping towards the remaining animals. ‘You will not believe it!’ he barked. ‘Farmer John has to sell all the farm animals!’
In an instant, there was uproar. Fur and feathers became ruffled, and nobody heard what anyone else was saying as they all spoke so deafeningly loud at the same time.
‘What about us?’ the chickens asked.
‘Where have the others gone?’ the calves asked.
‘Will we be split up too?’ asked the ducks, who had waddled over from the pond.
The only one who did not speak a word was Warmheart. He was already as sad as sad could be, and watched on silently. Warmheart flickered an ear slowly when he heard two-legged footsteps behind him.
‘Ah, my lovely boy,’ Farmer John said sadly, stroking Warmheart’s heart-shaped star upon his head. ‘I never thought I would see this day, and the worst is yet to come.’
Warmheart rubbed his head into the farmer’s chest, urging him to continue, while Bob lay beside the farmer’s feet, hoping to reassure him.
‘Had to sell the stock to pay me rent,’ Farmer John said, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘I’ll have enough money for this month, but next month…’
The farmer shook his head and all the animals held their breath, stepping closer with wide eyes and alert ears. ‘Next month, the rest of you will have to go.’
With that, Farmer John’s cheeks flared red, his huge shoulders shuddered, and tears spurted from his eyes. He buried his face in Warmheart’s neck, and sobbed.
But Warmheart, usually the most affectionate animal on the farm, did not stay to comfort the farmer. Instead, he galloped off towards the fence line, away from his family and friends. Farmer John nearly fell over with the suddenness of it. All eyes turned to the blue-and-black-eyed pony staring into the distance, with an expression of utter concentration upon his face.
‘What’s that ruddy soft animal doing?’ asked the farmer, not expecting his animals to reply. And the animals didn’t because even if they did, the farmer would only hear animal noises. But also, they didn’t actually know what Warmheart was doing. It was, in fact, a very peculiar thing.
It soon became clear when the sound of galloping hooves thundered from the gallops next door. Through the morning mist, they could make out the shapes of the athletic racehorses as they whirled along with speed and beauty. Just as they reached the point where Warmheart stood, the pony broke into a wild and frenzied gallop in an attempt to keep up with the prized specimens from the Norrell’s stud farm.
Warmheart’s short, choppy strides covered little ground compared to the long-legged thoroughbreds. Yet his determination outweighed his physical ability and for several minutes, he did keep up with the highly-tuned animals. The farmer could not hear the giggles from the snooty racehorses as they watched Warmheart slow and stagger to finally stand, huffing, puffing, and heaving with his effort.
Farmer John, however, was impressed. He broke into a rather awkward and uncoordinated run towards his young pony. ‘That’s it, Warmheart! We can enter you into the annual county race!’ he said, leading his tired pony back towards the barn to wash his ginger and white coat, which glistened with sweat.
As he washed Warmheart down, Farmer John spoke warmly to his pony. ‘If you train every day for the next month, I don’t see why you couldn’t win this farm some money. Then perhaps I won’t need to sell all you farm animals. The annual event pays very well.’
Warmheart listened to the farmer’s kind words, feeling so much more confident now that someone believed in him. But they were interrupted by a low, smug laugh.
‘That common cob? In the annual Pennydale Race?’ said a tall, slender man. He wore cream trousers, a cream waistcoat, and a shockingly yellow bowtie around his neck.
Farmer John jumped up in shock and wiped his wet hands on his grubby blue overalls. ‘Er, ah… Mr Norrell,’ he stuttered, and by the colour of his cheeks, he was very embarrassed indeed.
‘You think you can run that farmhand pony against my fine thoroughbreds and expect him to win?’ Mr Norrell said, twirling his groomed moustache between the tip of his forefinger and thumb.
Bob snarled under his breath, and Mr Norrell gave poor Bob a hefty kick in the belly, causing him to yelp.
‘You can’t come onto my farm and hurt my anim
als like that,’ said Farmer John crossly. The farmer would not normally have the courage to speak to Mr Norrell in such a manner, but he was most upset by his actions.
‘Your farm, you say?’ Mr Norrell laughed once again. ‘We both know it won’t be your farm by next month!’
‘Now how would you know such a thing?’ Farmer John asked.
Mr Norrell winked. ‘Because I’ve spoken to the land owner, and he tells me that you’re struggling to pay your rent. Once you and your animals are cleared from this farm, he promised me I can buy it for my own fine beasts.’
Bob gasped, and Warmheart stomped his hoof. A nearby ram considered butting the tall man with his horns, but thought better of it.
‘Well, I might not have to leave the farm, you know,’ Farmer John said quietly. ‘We might win the Pennydale Annual Race with young Warmheart here.’
‘Warmheart?’ scoffed Mr Norrell. ‘More like Slowheart! If that cob of yours wins the race, I’ll buy the farm for you myself!’
With that, he grasped Farmer John’s hand and shook on it, and was gone, leaving our farmer friend speechless, and Warmheart more determined than ever.
4
THE BIG DAY
In the weeks that followed, Warmheart trained every day. He trained at the break of day alongside the hedgerow, when strings of glistening and gleaming racehorses sailed by. He trained at lunchtime when the sun was high and allowed him to chase his shadow around the perimeter of the field. But Warmheart’s favourite training sessions were with Bob, just as the sun started to set.
At dusk, the summer evening sky turned into a blanket of red, and golden shafts of sunrays gilded the land. It was on one particular evening just like this, when Warmheart beat Bob for the very first time.
Magical Adventures & Pony Tales Boxset (Vol 1 - 6) Page 3