Stacy Gregg - The Princess and the Foal

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.

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