Stacy Gregg - The Princess and the Foal

Many years ago, once upon a time in Arabia …

wo lions stand guard at the entrance to the Royal Palace. They stand upright on all fours, alert and ready. Their powerful, sleek bodies are golden in the afternoon sun.

If the lions turned round, just a whisker, then they would see the little girl who stalks up silently behind them. But they do not move; their eyes stay trained on the stairs below.

The girl tiptoes forward in one-two-three quick strides. She has chosen her lion and in a bold leap she vaults up his rump and on to his back. Heart racing, she reaches out with both hands and grasps his mane tight and then she digs her tiny heels into the lion’s flanks.

“Go!” she commands. “Go now!”

Leaning low over his mane, she kicks him on, the way she has seen her uncle ride his polo ponies. Just ten metres away there is a massive stone wall that borders the palace compound. If she can ride fast enough then the lion will leap the wall and they’ll keep riding out across the green lawns of the Royal Court. Then beyond the next wall until the pink limestone buildings of Amman disappear and all that is left is the bleached, sunburnt sand of the Arabian desert. A lion can travel swiftly across the sand on his padded paws, but first they must leap the wall!

She is pressing the lion on, crouching low, legs kicking and arms pumping, when she senses a tall, dark shadow looming over her.

“Your Royal Highness.”

The little girl looks up and smiles at the kindly face of Zuhair, head of the Royal Household Staff.

“Princess Haya,” Zuhair says, “Queen Alia is looking for you.”

Haya swings her leg over and then slides down the rump of the statue, landing neatly on her feet and running on ahead of Zuhair. She is three years old, with bright brown eyes and shoulder-length dark hair. Small for her age, her skinny arms are only just strong enough to push open the massive front doors of the palace that are made of heavy teak studded with brass orbs the size of her head.

In the hallway the portraits of Kings look down on her as she skips along, her feet pattering against the cool marble floor. She likes the way their eyes follow her as she runs by. Her father is King, but he is not on the wall. Whenever they have tried to hang his portrait, her Baba always says no thank you, he has no wish to stare at himself all day. He prefers photos of tanks and boats, and horses of course. Her Baba loves horses, just like Haya.

They call her father the Lion of Jordan, but Haya has never heard him roar. He is a soft-spoken man, handsome with short-cropped dark hair and a moustache. His dark eyes are bright with intelligence and his smile is gentle and kind.

But today, when Haya peeks in from the hallway through the door of his office, her Baba is not smiling. He sits at his desk, his brow furrowed deep with concern. In the centre of the office there is a large bearskin rug and her Mama is there too, standing on the bear and holding her little brother Ali on her hip.

“I have spoken to the officials in Tafilah,” the Queen says. “Conditions there grow more desperate by the hour. Refugees are pouring in. Many of them are women and children and they need food and medicine. The hospital staff are exhausted. There are no beds left. People are sleeping on floors and without blankets. They cannot wait another day. I should go there this afternoon in the helicopter and take them medicines and supplies while you meet with the foreign delegates in Aqaba.”

Prince Ali squirms on the Queen’s hip as she speaks. Only this afternoon he stood up for the first time and now he is reluctant to be restrained by his mother’s arms any longer. His sturdy little legs kick out as he wriggles in a bid for freedom.

The worried expression does not leave the King’s face at his wife’s suggestion. “Alia, we agreed at breakfast that you would take the car. It is too dangerous to fly with a storm coming.”

“If I take the helicopter then I can be home again by nightfall,” the Queen says. And then before her husband can object she adds, “Badr Zaza has offered to fly me.”

Badr Zaza is the King’s own pilot and in all of Jordan there is no one better. The King nods in agreement at his wife’s plan. “If Badr Zaza is willing to undertake the journey then I know you will be safe …”

“I want to come too.”

It is Haya. She is standing in the doorway, eyes bright with excitement.

“Haya,” her Mama cautions. “What did I say at dinner last night? I told you, if you wanted to come with me, you had to eat your steak and your Brussels sprouts.”

“Ali didn’t eat his either!” Haya offers as her defence.

“Ali is staying home too,” her Mama says, rocking Haya’s brother gently on her hip. “Grace will take care of you until I get home and next time, if you eat everything on your plate, then you may come with me, OK?”

There is a storm coming, but right now the sun still shines on the palace. On the lawn, not far from the pomegranate tree where Haya played that morning with her mother, a helicopter roosts like a sleeping dove.

“Are you going to fly away?” Haya asks her mother.

“Yes,” the Queen says, “but Grace will look after you while I am gone.”

Grace, their nanny, stands beside them on the balcony that leads to the lawn. She is holding Prince Ali in her arms. Grace is nice; she bakes biscuits.

Haya frowns. “Will you tuck me in?”

“Not tonight. Baba will be home in time to put you to bed and I will be there when you wake up in the morning.”

Grace reaches out to take Haya’s hand. It is time to say goodbye.

“Be good, Haya,” her mother whispers in her ear as she bends down and kisses her.

The Queen kisses Ali too and then sets off across the lawn towards the helicopter.

“ Wait! Mama! ” Haya shouts, but the helicopter engine roars to life and drowns her words. Grace’s hand is clasped firmly over hers, anchoring her to the balcony. Then suddenly Grace’s hand is empty. Haya has broken free and is running helter-skelter after her mother across the flat, green lawn.

The Queen has almost reached the helicopter by the time the little princess catches up with her.

“ Mama! ” Haya’s tiny hands clutch at the Queen’s trouser leg. Startled, her mother looks down and sees Haya standing there beside her. Above their heads the blades of the helicopter begin to turn. The dove is waking.

Haya has something to tell her Mama, but her voice is too light as the engines of the helicopter thrum overhead. Her words are lost the moment they leave her lips. “ Don’t go! ” she shouts. “ Stay with me. I love you, Mama .” And then she looks up into her mother’s eyes and Haya realises that she does not need to say anything because her mother understands.

The Queen bends down and picks up her daughter, taking her in her arms and hugging her tight. She kisses her one last time, and Haya feels the softness of Mama’s skin. Then Grace is beside them and her mother is passing her over into the nanny’s arms. Grace, who is still holding Ali, manages to straddle Haya on one hip and Ali on the other as she walks back to the garden terrace.

The helicopter blades turn slowly and then faster and faster until they are a blur. The wind gets stronger and whips at Haya’s hair, flattens the flowers in the gardens below.

At first, the helicopter rocks up off the ground and bumps back down again as if it cannot make up its mind. Then, suddenly, it lifts up like a leaf caught by a gust of wind, rising straight into the air. It hovers for a moment and then arcs away, clearing the high palace walls and the tops of the trees beyond, setting a flight path towards the distant hills.