Stacy Gregg - The Princess and the Foal

Most Arabians have delicate muzzles, but Amina’s nose is not so pretty. She is a Desert Born Arab, with coarser features, a flatter profile and heavier jaw. Amina is built to jump. She is one of the best jumpers in the stables; fast and fearless.

Whenever Haya comes to the stables, she always asks Santi if she can ride her and he always shakes his head saying, “Amina is powerful and highly-strung, too much horse for a little Titch like you.”

“I’m not little,” Haya tries to argue.

But Santi is firm. “You can have a lesson on Dandy,” he says.

Haya doesn’t want Dandy. He is an ill-tempered Shetland gelding with short legs and a bushy mane. He is so little Haya can brush him without using the orange crate to stand on. He tries to bite her when she brushes his flank. He is not the horse for her.

*

One day they visit Al Hummar, just Haya, Grace and Ali. Haya has been coming here every week since Mama died and now she is almost four. Santi is there at the gates as always to welcome them and takes Grace to his office and pours her a coffee while Ali pulls out a record to hand to Santi and Haya takes herself off to visit the horses.

Today she makes her way directly to the second courtyard to see Amina.

Amina’s head is already poking out over the loose-box door, her dainty ears swivelling attentively at the sound of Haya’s approaching footsteps. Santi has left the old orange crate beside Amina’s box for her and Haya props it up against the door, climbing on top of it so that she is tall enough to see inside.

“Amina!”

The mare nickers in reply and nuzzles her. Haya usually feeds the horses with handfuls of alfalfa, but today she has brought Amina something special. She digs into her pocket and pulls out three round white peppermints. Teetering on the orange crate, she extends her hand out flat with the offering and the mare eagerly snuffles her palm, nibbling daintily, brushing her skin with soft lips until all three peppermints have vanished. Haya giggles as Amina’s mouth works furiously, tasting the mints. The mare begins to jiggle her head up and down, her eyes going wide as she chews. Haya’s tiny hands work the bolts on the loose-box door.

Haya climbs up the stable door and this time when she reaches the top rung she throws herself into the air! Amina sidesteps as she feels Haya’s weight land on her back. She gives a snort as Haya begins to tap her with her heels, urging her on like the stone lions at Al Nadwa.

Amina is not cold like the stone lions; her body feels warm between Haya’s bare legs. Haya taps again with her heels and pulls on the guide rope she has strung round Amina’s neck and they set off up the driveway towards the main courtyard.

As they enter the courtyard, other horses stick their heads out over the stable doors to nicker their greetings. Amina is a confident mare and without a glance at the other horses she walks straight up to the fountain and shoves her muzzle deep into the cool trough. Up on her back, Haya is chatting away to the mare, swinging her legs back and forth as Amina snorts and flicks at the water.

Suddenly the door to Santi’s office flies open. Grace is there, looking very anxious. “Haya!” she cries out. She is about to race towards the fountain when Santi grabs her arm.

“She’s OK,” Haya hears him say. “They have made it this far. The mare will not hurt her. Come back and finish your coffee and leave them both a while longer.”

In the car on the way home Haya is no longer silent. She is full of her adventure, already making plans to ride Amina the next time she returns to Al Hummar.

“We shall see,” Grace says, trying to be firm, but so relieved to see the Princess smiling and laughing that she does not say no.

That night, when Baba arrives home, Haya cannot wait to tell him.

“I rode Amina today,” she says as she clambers into bed with Doll under her arm.

Her father raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Did you really?”

“Santi says I am a natural,” Haya says proudly. And then she asks, “What is a natural?”

Baba smiles. “Horses are in your blood, Haya. For many generations the Bedouin have bred the best horses. The Arabians in our stables can be traced back to the first horses, the five mares of Al Khamseh.”

Haya knows the Legend of Al Khamseh. Her father has told it to her lots of times before, but she wants it again. She lies back on the pillow and her father tucks the blankets tight around her before he begins.

“Two thousand years ago your ancestor, Mohammad, Peace Be Upon Him, wanted to create the perfect horse, one with the stamina, speed, courage and loyalty to carry him across the great deserts. So he gathered together a hundred of his very best mares and set a test. For three long days he kept the horses under the hot desert sun, penned without food or drink to test their stamina. Then he released the mares, and let them gallop to the waterhole of a distant oasis.

“The mares galloped on, closer and closer to the oasis. Then, just when they had almost reached the water’s edge, he raised his battle horn to his lips and blew, calling the mares back to him once more.

“Of the hundred mares, only five were courageous and loyal enough to turn round and return to his side. These mares became known as ‘The Five’. Each of them was a different colour – a grey, a black, a roan, a chestnut and a bay. It is said that their noble blood is in the veins of every true Bedouin Arabian.”

“Why was it only mares?” Haya asks. “Weren’t there stallions too?”

“Oh, yes, there were a great many stallions,” her father says. “But to the Bedouin it is the mothers – the mares – who matter the most.”

“Did Mohammad, Peace Be Upon Him, have a favourite mare?” Haya asks.

“They say that he loved the bay best of all,” her father replies.

“Amina is a bay,” Haya says. She is quiet for a moment and then she asks, “Do camels have noble blood?”

Her father smiles again. “Camels are magnificent creatures. Without them, the Bedouin could not have conquered the great desert. But horses are bonded to us, deep in our hearts. In the desert, a Bedouin will leave his camels outside his tent, but his horse sleeps with him inside, kept safe by his bed.”

“I want to do that,” Haya says. “I wish Amina could come here and sleep in my bedroom with me.”

“I think Amina might prefer her loose box,” her father says. “And I don’t think Zuhair would be very pleased to see hoofprints on the carpets.”

The King tucks Haya in more tightly and strokes her hair. “Sleep well, my Bedouin Princess.”

That night, for the first time in ages, Haya does not cry. She lies back on her pillow and stares at the stars, imagining galloping on Amina. She can hear the battle horn and feel the surge of the mare’s speed, as she grips on tight with her legs, spurring Amina forward. Bare skin against silky fur, the coarse rope of the mare’s mane tangled in her hands and Amina’s wonderful, warm, sweet smell filling Haya’s senses as she drifts off to sleep.

ne morning at breakfast Haya’s father tells her that Grace is leaving.

“Grace’s mother is very sick,” the King explains, “and there is no one else to care for her. Grace needs to go home.”

Grace’s mother lives a long way from Amman so Grace cannot stay at the palace to look after Haya and Ali.

“Will the new nanny bake biscuits?” Haya asks Grace.

Grace smiles. “I am sure she will.”

“But how will she know how I like them?” Haya asks.

Grace gives Haya a hug and wipes the tears off her hot little cheeks. “Perhaps she will make them differently,” she tells Haya, “but I am sure you will like her biscuits too.”