Stacy Gregg - The Princess and the Foal

That night Haya does not leave her Baba’s side. Even when Baba has to go on the radio and tell the whole country that the Queen has died, he keeps her close to him. She sits on his lap as he writes the words that he will say to the nation. When he speaks on the radio, a soft, fuzzy noise can be heard in the background. It is the sound of Ali’s breath drawing in and out as he dozes peacefully in the King’s arms.

That night Haya sleeps with Ali in the big bed with Baba. When she wakes up, the storm is gone. And so is Mama.

At first, she does not truly believe it. Any moment now, Haya expects Mama to walk in, with her arms open wide, her voice lilting and musical as she calls out Haya’s name.

She will come back , Haya thinks. She cannot really be gone .

But there is no Mama at breakfast or to brush her hair or choose her clothes, and Ali will not stop crying. He cries because he does not understand why Mama won’t come to him.

“Shhh, Ali, it’s me. I am here.” Haya lowers the rail on the cot and climbs in beside her brother. Ali’s tiny face is streaked with tears and his little hands clutch tightly on to his blanket. Haya lies down with him and holds him until he stops crying.

By dinnertime, Haya has decided that it is all her fault. She is the reason that Mama is gone, but it is OK because she can fix it. That night, when her meal is served, she eats all her meat. She almost gags as she chews the steak, but she cleans her plate and she is pleased with herself. That will do the trick. Now Mama will come back.

But the meat doesn’t work. And even the next night when she eats her meat all up again, plus Brussels sprouts as well, there is still no Mama. Haya is beginning to think that no matter how much meat she eats, Mama will not come home. By the third night, Haya pushes her plate aside and stares at the steak as if it now silently carries the blame. She will never eat it again.

Every night Baba stays at her bedside and strokes her hair until she sleeps, but he cannot stop the nightmares that wake her, leaving her alone in the darkness, sobbing. They are nightmares about her Mama in the storm. Haya sees the moment when the lightning struck. Was Mama afraid when she fell from the sky? Did it hurt?

In the first days after the crash the palace was stunned into silence. Now it becomes noisy as the whirl of preparations begin for the state funeral. Dignitaries from across Arabia and around the world come to pay their respects. Haya’s aunts and cousins are so very kind to Haya and Ali; in a strange way it is almost like a party with everyone here together. And then suddenly everyone is gone once more and the palace feels cold and empty without Mama’s laughter.

Haya’s footsteps echo through the corridors. The palace has changed. She tries to bake biscuits like she used to, but it is weird how Ismail never, ever gets cross, even when she is in his way. He keeps looking at Haya, his eyes misty, as if he is about to cry. There is so much sorrow here that Haya cannot stand it.

“It’s OK,” Baba says. “I know a place where we can go.”

When the Mercedes arrives, Grace, Haya and Ali pile into the back seat and the King sits upfront with his bodyguard as they cruise out of the palace gates into the grounds of the Royal Compound.

There is a checkpoint at the edge of the compound and their driver pulls over to speak to the guards at the gate. The guards salute and wave them on and very soon they have left the compound and the suburbs of Amman behind them and they are climbing the hills into the forest. The road twists and winds through the pine trees. It is a hot day, but inside the air-conditioned car they are cool.

Grace tries to talk, but Haya turns her head away and stares out at the tree shadows flickering shafts of sunlight on the tinted windows, her thoughts lost in the woods. She has no words left. She does not want to talk, not about anything and especially not about Mama.

At the crest of the hill there is a pair of white posts with bright blue wrought-iron gates. The car turns here and there are tall palm trees bordering the driveway on both sides, and ahead of them the whitewashed buildings of Al Hummar, the Royal Stables.

The stables look like a white Spanish castle, the doors and windows trimmed in bright blue paint. Brilliant red flowers spill out of terracotta pots and purple vines climb the archways that lead through to the stables. There are two courtyards, and in the first of these is a drinking pool with blue painted tiles and a fountain in the middle so the horses can pause in the yard each day to take their fill. The ground around the fountain is hard as rock, baked by the sun and worn smooth by horses’ hooves. The only thing that grows here is an ancient grey-green olive tree, its twisted boughs providing shade in the heat of the day.

Around the edge of both courtyards are the loose boxes, hidden beneath the shade of Spanish arches. And inside the loose boxes are horses.

The horses at Al Hummar are the most beautiful in all of Arabia. To Haya they are enchanted creatures, with silken manes, muzzles soft as velvet and dark eyes that can see into her soul.

There are fifty horses here and all are pure-bred Arabian. Santi is in charge of Al Hummar. His real name is Mr Santiago Lopez and he built these stables for Haya’s father, modelling them on his own back home in Spain. There is always music pouring out of Santi’s office in the first courtyard. “It makes the horses want to dance,” Santi says and Haya is not sure whether to believe him or not.

Titch . That is what Santi calls her and now he says, “Ah, Titch, thank goodness you have arrived. The horses have been asking me all morning when you would come!”

Haya does not say a word, but Santi is undaunted by her silence.

“You talk too much, Titch!” he tells her. “Be quiet, little one, you will scare the horses with all your noise!”

And Haya cannot help but smile just a little bit. Santi does not fuss over her the way they do at the palace. He does not look at her as if she is an object of pity. He leaves her to roam the stable yards as he talks with the King while Grace sits in the sunshine with Ali asleep, cradled in her arms.

Santi always has a pot of hot cardamom coffee on the hotplate beside his desk. He pours a cup for the King and Grace and puts the needle down on the record player, the strains of Spanish music filling the courtyard.

They sit outside the office and watch the young fillies gather at the water trough like a group of girls sharing secrets. When these fillies with their slender, dainty legs like ballerinas grow up, the rose-grey dapples on their rumps will fade and they will be pure white, like their mothers who stand in the shade of the loose boxes watching over them.

The mares, fillies, colts and stallions all live together. Haya knows most of them by name and she makes her rounds to say hello. She is too little to look over the doors, so she has to climb up to see inside the loose boxes, hanging on to the wooden rails as she pays each horse a visit.

Of course she has her favourites. There is the chestnut mare Jamila who looks like a seahorse with flared nostrils and a wide forehead. Jamila has a pretty white blaze and a golden mane that hangs down all the way past her shoulders. She has won many ribbons and rosettes because of her beauty. Beside Jamila is Bahar, an elegant, freckled grey stallion with enormous brown eyes rimmed with long black lashes that flutter like a movie star. Bahar is aloof, he does not always want to say hello, but Haya persists, holding out a handful of alfalfa until he finally deigns to take it from her.

The last box that Haya visits is that of her most favourite of all, a mare named Amina.

Amina’s box is down the driveway in the second courtyard. She is a bay mare, with a deep red coat and lustrous jet-black mane. Black stockings run up her legs all the way to her hocks.