Magdalen Nabb - The Enchanted Horse

“Have you thought what you’d like?” her mother asked. “You know we mustn’t be long, we’ve a lot to do.”

Irina tried to think. It’s nice to be able to choose anything you want but it’s nicer still when your present is a surprise. So she stared at the big dolls in boxes and then at the dresses and then at the tinsel and the silver bells decorating the window. She wanted to choose something that would please her mother. Then she remembered the fat little boy and his cheerful red scarf and so as not to keep her mother waiting and make her angry she said, “I like the red velvet frock …”

“And where do you think you’ll go in it?” said her mother impatiently.

“I don’t know …” It’s hard to please your mother when you don’t know exactly what she wants you to say. Then she turned and saw her father coming.

“Well?” he said. “Have you finished shopping? It’s about time we were getting back.”

“Irina hasn’t chosen her present,” said her mother crossly. “And to look at her face you’d think it was a punishment instead of a treat.”

Irina wanted to say, “I don’t want anything. I’m not asking for anything. I’d rather go home.” But she didn’t dare.

Then her father said, “Come on, let’s have a look in that toy shop. There must be something you’d like.”

“She’s spoilt, that’s what she is,” her mother said. “She doesn’t know what it means to want for anything.”

The band in the square was playing “Silent Night” very quietly. The sadness of the music, the growing darkness, and the cheerfulness of all the other families made Irina want to cry.

“I don’t want anything,” she said to herself fiercely, “I don’t—” But just as they were coming to the toy shop she stopped.

“Come on,” said her father, “you’re not going to find anything there.”

But Irina didn’t move. She was staring in through the window of the junk shop, trying to make something out in the gloom.

“Irina!” said her mother. “For goodness’ sake, we have to get home.”

But Irina, always so quiet and obedient, for once took no notice.

“The horse …” she said, “look at the poor horse.”

“What horse?” said her father.

“I can’t see any horse,” said her mother. And they both peered into the gloomy junk shop. Beneath a jumble of dusty broken furniture they could just make out the head and tattered mane of what was probably a rocking horse.

“I see it now,” her father said. “Well, come on, let’s get on. You don’t want that old thing for Christmas.”

“I should hope not,” her mother said. “It looks filthy.”

But Irina stared up at them bright-eyed, and the tears that had started with the sad carol and the growing darkness and the cheerfulness of all the other families spilled over and ran down her cheeks.

“It’s being crushed,” she cried. “It’s lonely and frightened and being crushed under all those things!” And before her parents could stop her, she had run inside the shop and all they could do was to follow her.

Once inside, Irina stood still, wondering what to do. She’d never seen such confusion in a shop before. It didn’t really look like a shop at all, more like the untidiest house in the world. The piles of old furniture reached right up to the ceiling and it was difficult to pass between them. There were ornaments, too, and brass buckets and lampstands and old stoves and typewriters and objects you couldn’t tell the use of, and everything was thickly coated with dust, including the one bare light bulb which left most of the room in shadow.

“What can I do for you?” asked a voice in the gloom.

Irina looked about but she could see no one. She felt frightened, but she stood where she was and waited.

“Anyone at home?” said her father’s voice behind her.

A voice chuckled. “I am,” it said, “if you want to call this home. Past the big dresser on your left.”

Irina looked round. At first she could make nothing out but then she noticed a huge armchair with carvings on it as big as a throne, and the profile of a man’s head just visible.

“See me now?” But the head didn’t turn and the eyes were shut. “I suppose it’s getting dark, but I can’t see and I don’t know why I should pay out good money so that others can see. There’s nothing much worth looking at, though I make a living after a fashion. What was it you wanted?”

“The rocking horse,” Irina said, as loudly as she dared, and she went closer to the huge carved chair. The man seated there was almost as small and slight as herself, and his closed eyes were sunk in his white face so that he seemed to have no eyes at all. He wore a black overall and his pale hands rested on his knees as quietly as mice.

“Irina …!” protested her mother in an angry whisper. Irina stood where she was, her fists clenched in fear and determination.

“She saw the horse in the window …” Irina’s father began, but the blind man took no notice of him.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his face lifted towards Irina.

“Irina.”

“Irina,” he whispered. “Come closer to me.”

Irina was frightened of the blind man, but she had to rescue the horse. She went closer. The blind man lifted his mouse-like hands and touched her face, feeling her eyes, her thin cheeks, her mouth and her chin in turn.

“Irina,” he said again, and he patted her face gently. “You’re a very sad little girl. Why don’t you play and be happy?”

“Because there’s nobody to play with,” Irina said.

“And that’s why you want Bella? To play with?”

At first Irina didn’t answer because she didn’t know who Bella was, but then she thought and said, “Is Bella the name of the horse in the window?”

“That’s right,” said the blind man.

“Then I don’t want her to play with,” said Irina boldly. “I want to look after her because she’s dirty and lonely and crushed under all those heavy things in your window.”

“In that case,” said the blind man, “you’d better take her home with you.”

Irina stood still and waited, wondering if her mother would say she couldn’t, but nobody spoke until the blind man said, “Would you like to know why I call her Bella?”

“Yes,” said Irina. “Did she belong to another girl who called her that?”

“I don’t rightly know,” the blind man said, “who she belonged to, but I’ll tell you her story, such as it is. Do you remember a wicked farmer who used to live hereabouts who was known as Black Jack?”

“No,” said Irina, “I don’t.”

“Well, well,” said the blind man, “you’re very young and it was all before your time.”

“I remember him,” said Irina’s father, coming closer. “He kept horses.”

“He did,” said the blind man. “And the most beautiful one of all was named Bella because Bella means beautiful. But he was an evil man and treated his animals badly, very badly. They never got more than a handful of oats a day, barely enough to keep them alive, and Bella, who was as finely bred and elegant as a racehorse, was forced to pull him around in that dirty old cart of his. They say he whipped her until she bled. No one knew where he got her, but some said he captured her himself from a wild herd that sometimes passes by this way.”

“And what happened to her?” Irina asked.

“I don’t know,” the blind man said. “But I can tell you what happened to Black Jack. He died.”