Hey guys, it's me again XD I bet you're all getting sick of me by now- I've posted two stories today, because that's totally normal XD Sorry about this!
Rules are the same, no stealing. It's my work (:
This new story is called 'Maybe There's Hope'. I'm really looking for crits/comments on this one, I'm not sure if it's any good so far :c
мαувє тнєяє'ѕ нσρє
||chapter one||
My First Memories
My first memories were happy ones, an erratic confusion of sunny days, carefree joy and the warmth of my mother as I nestled down next to her in our stall at night. I miss those happy days greatly; sometimes, when I lie down at night to sleep, I am almost there, running through the sunlit meadow with my mother, my long, gangly legs barely able to keep up with her fluent stride, the monarch butterflies dancing around our flying hooves. Yet, these are only memories, times which I can never return to.
I was loved at my first home. I was given the finest oats and hay to eat, and sometimes the little girl who lived at the farmhouse stroked us and fed us carrots. Nobody ever spoke a harsh word to us, nobody ever used the bearing rein or any other monstrous equipment used to make horses look fashionable in the corrupt eyes of humans. No, we were well cared for, each and every one of us valued and cared for to the most exceptional standards.
My mother, from the broken shards of my memory, was a truly magnificent creature. Her coat was a lovely shade of light brown; her flaxen mane soft and silky. She had soulful brown eyes which almost glowed with compassion; almost never did a harsh emotion flash through them. She was a placid and gentle creature, with an elegant muzzle and fragile features. My mother was a pureblood Arabian, a truly regal breed of horse originating from the Middle East. I was more like my father in physical appearance, with chestnut brown coat which shone russet when the sun's rays glowed on it. My mane was chestnut, too, and I had four white socks, evenly matched. My father I had never met, but my mother had told me enough of him for me to piece together an uncertain image of how he may have appeared. She always described him as a noble Thoroughbred, chestnut just like me, as fast as lightning. I have always admired my father from what my mother told me, despite the fact I have never met him. My mother told me he won lots of races, won lots of awards for his owner. She told me that's where I got my speed, and my gentleness came from her. Those were carefree days, without the burden of knowledge or what happens to horses in this cruel world, so I did not understand when my mother told me my father got too old to win any more awards, and was 'put to sleep', and that's why I never got the opportunity to meet him.
Back then, in my innocent youth, I thought it meant just that- he'd gone to sleep. But, I was soon to learn otherwise, as I grew older and more aware of the cruelty inflicted on fellow equines by hateful and heartless humans.
***
As I grew older, I found I could run just as fast as my mother, even overtake her, if I really pushed myself to it. I was almost as tall as her, too, and she always told me I had grown into a truly handsome colt.
Soon, it was time for my owner to break me in, which meant to simply get me used to the saddle, bridle and halter. This was an essential part of training, and my owner made sure he did everything right.
We started with the halter first. I still remember that morning, when I had just woken up and was eating my share of the oats which were supplied to us every morning. I still shared a stall with my mother, but I noticed that there wasn't much room anymore, because I'd grown so big. My owner had walked over to our stall, placed a reassuring hand around my neck and led me out. I obeyed him, because he was a kindly man and I wanted nothing more than to please him; the thought of his disapproval made me shudder. He had gave me a handful of oats, which I wolfed down gratefully, nuzzling his warm hand in appreciation as I did so. Little did I know, while I was busy eating the oats, he had slipped a sky-blue halter over my head, and was just buckling it up when I noticed. The feel of the strange material against my skin frightened me, and I snorted in protest and shook my head, trying to get rid of the new object. After a few attempts, it became clear that the halter was firmly attached, and shaking my head was a futile attempt to rid myself of it. My owner had also attached a rope to the halter, and he was standing some distance from me, should I spook and do something unexpected. My ears were laid flat to my head, my eyes were showing the whites. I shifted from hoof to hoof nervously, snorting and grunting, telling him to take it off me. Of course, he could not understand, and falsely interpreted my behaviour as a sign I was going to rear or bolt or buck, and shuffled even further away from me. Then, in my utter frustration, I reared up, kicking my front legs in the air and whinnying loudly. I clashed back down on all fours, my hooves thudding on the cobbles of the stableyard. I tossed my head angrily, my chestnut mane dishevelled and unruly. I stamped, my nostrils flaring.
My owner just watched this episode with laughter in his eyes. “It's all right young colt,” he said, in his deep, yet compassionate, voice. “You'll get used to it in the end, you'll see. You're quite the little fighter, aren't you? There, now, good lad, good lad.”
Very soon, I got used to the halter, and my owner decided it was time to progress onto the bridle. At first, it felt strange, but not much different from the halter. But then, he introduced the bit.
I hated the bit. At first, it scared me very much, and I bucked and stamped so much my owner had to bring out my mother to reassure me. She looked me in the eyes, her expression not one of disappointment but of understanding. “It's okay, son,” she whispered. “I know, I hate it too. But it's nothing to be scared of.”
I hated the feel of the cold, iron bar between my jaws, the feel of its icy smoothness on my tongue. But, watching my mother's calm acceptance of it, I accepted it too, and although I did not particularly like it, I no longer protested when it was used. Next came the saddle- this also came as a shock, the strange feel of it on my back. At first, it felt heavy, but as time went on, and our practice sessions continued, I barely felt it there. But, there was one thing I always felt when this equipment was used- my sense of freedom was taken. I was not free when these things bore me down; I could not run like the wind with the saddle on my back, nor toss my head freely when the bridle was strapped on my head. They were the terrible marks of humans, a reminder that humans had the ability to control a horse with these simple objects. The halter was not so bad; it was fashioned from light material and did not rub against my skin, but I preferred it when I wore none of these items, when I was free.
||chapter two||
Never Look Back
One of the worst times in my life was when I was taken from my mother's stall and give one of my own. That first night was terrible; I missed the warmth and reassurance of her presence. I was scared that night, so petrified I was shaking uncontrollably. It took some time for me to get used to having my own stall, but soon I began to appreciate the space. When I had stayed in my mother's stall, we had been very crowded, and as I grew bigger there was barely space for both of us to lie down. I began to recognize my stall as my own personal territory, my own place where I could be alone. In the stalls next to me was my mother (our owner had thought it convenient if I was moved to a stall next to hers, so I was not completely cut off from her and could still communicate with her), and another horse- a muscular dappled grey stallion called Captain. Captain had a remarkable history behind him; he was an ex-army horse who had witnessed terrible things in his cavalry days, and the scars they left were forever inflicted in his mind, as well as on his body. His coat was criss-crossed with scars, the badges of his victories and his failures. I soon became acquainted with him, and I learned many things about his previous days as an army horse.
“It was terrible,” he told me. “The noise was like thunder, so deafening it would reverberate in your ears, and be imprinted in your mind. Shells and bombs would fall all around you, and you never knew which one would carry your name on it, would never know if you were going to be next. All my fellow horses would fall around me, shrieking in agony, and I never knew if I were going to be subject to that fate. I was scared, so scared I could barely carry my rider across the scarred, rutted, terrible ground of death. Sometimes, as I look back on these things, I wonder why the humans fight, son. Do they do it for justice? Do they try and make the world a better place, by killing? Do they do it out of hatred, out of greed or jealousy? I guess that is one thing that only the humans know, or maybe, they don't even know the reasons for their actions either,”
“What were the stables like?” I asked thoughtfully, mulling over all he had said. Captain was a very deep, philosophical character, very intelligent, too. I often wondered whether that was just how he was, or whether time and the events of his life had shaped him to be the horse he had become.
“They were inadequate,” Captain said sadly. “Nothing more than a few planks of wood, clumsily nailed together, and hopelessly small, held together by rotting beams which the giant trench rats scampered across.”
I shuddered at this idea, feeling even more grateful for the roomy, sweet-scented stall I was so lucky to be placed in.
“One time, a very good friend of mine died in battle,” Captain began, looking ahead wistfully, a look of sadness crossing his gentle eyes. “I mourned very badly, and very nearly made myself ill. Another friend of mine, who, fortunately, survived the war with me, told me I must never look back. Mourning and wallowing in my own despair would not bring my friend back. I must be strong, and carry on, and make my friend proud, if I were to survive...So I took his advice, and my health stopped deteriorating. I remained proud, and I came out the war alive. I will always remember his advice, forever.”
I thought it certainly was a piece of good advice to bear in mind.
***
Little did I know, my life was about to change drastically.
I had lived at the farm for well over three years now, and I was an adult horse now. I had noticed my mother getting more nervous over the past weeks, a haunted look in her eye, which perplexed me greatly. It was unusual of her to be nervous, and whenever I asked her, she either ignored my questions or told me '”Nothing,”', rather irritably, which was uncharacteristic for her.
One day, just as I had woken up and was blinking in the warm summer sunlight which streamed in through the open top door of my stall, my owner came, with the strange rope in hand he had first used to break me in with, and to catch me from the fields to bring me in to my stall at night. His face had a grave, sad expression, which was unusual. The little girl who fed us carrots and turnips stood by him, tears streaming down her face. My mother whinnied, stamping her feet to catch my attention. Captain hung his head, a knowing look in his eye, mingled with great sadness.
My mother looked distraught. I tossed my head in confusion. “What's wrong, mother? Will you tell me?”
She looked at me, with eyes full of despair. “Son,” she said slowly, her voice thick with pain. “It is time for you to go.”
“Go where?” I asked in frantic worry.
She touched noses with me, her eyes full of agony. “You are a stallion now, not a colt or a foal. You are independent, you cannot always be by my side. Our owner does not have enough funds to keep us all, and you are a desirable young stallion, son. He is going to sell you, and we must be parted in order for him to do so. But, before you go, I would like to tell you one more thing. Remember the lessons I have taught you. Be kind, compassionate and true. There are cruel people out there, son, and cruel horses too. Be guarded, do not be gullible. And, my dear, never judge a book by its cover.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, my throat tightening with the agony of saying goodbye to all I have known and loved for all my life.
“It means to never judge by what you see. Judge by what lies inside. For, maybe, if you get to know someone, they might not be so bad after all. This applies for humans too, son. We make humans sound nasty, deceitful creatures. Yes, some of them are, but there are a precious minority who are not. Do not make impulsive judgements, for that is not how I would like you to be.”
My owner was now attaching the rope to my halter, and the little girl was wailing in misery. Even he looked touched by our farewells. “Come on, old fighter,” he said miserably, his eyes welling up too. He tugged gently on the rope, breaking up mine and my mother's final goodbyes.
“Goodbye, son,” my mother said, her voice breaking with every word. “Remember all I have taught you. I hope you shall find happiness, wherever you may end up. Goodbye, I will never forget you.”
Captain coughed, clearing his throat. “Goodbye, son,” he said in his rough voice. “It's a harsh world out there, son, but I am confident you have the strength to deal with it.”
“Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Captain,” I whispered, my heart aching. My owner led me away from them, and I looked back one last time, took in their agonised faces. “I love you,” I whispered again, even though they could not hear me. “I will always love you.”
I looked back over the fields where I used to so happily frolick, running through the long grass with my mother, the butterflies dancing at our thudding hooves.
I followed my owner, my hooves clopping on the cobbles of the stableyard, and I remembered Captain's words of wisdom- never look back.
||chapter three||
Cruelty
The journey to the village market was petrifying, despite my owner's words of reassurance all the way. I had never strayed beyond the boundaries of the fields before. Everywhere there were new sights, new scents, new sounds...the bustle of the market scared me. My ears were flattened to my head as I went along, my hooves clattering on the ancient, worn cobbles.
I was led to a small pen, built from strong-looking wood with a gate which could be locked by looping a rope over the post. A man was standing beside the gate, which was open, eagerly awaiting my arrival. My owner led me into the pen, and closed the gate. I neighed loudly and tossed my head, my eyes round with fear.
“Here you are,” my owner said, signing some documents. “He's a good horse, he's docile and will do anything to please. Quite a fighter, too. Find him a good, caring home, please. He deserves it.”
“Ah, I will, John. I'll find that 'orse a good 'ome. He sure is a a strong 'un.” the man holding the documents said cheerily, patting my neck. I shook my head, snorting in fear and confusion.
My owner straightened up and stroked my forehead tenderly, brushing away my chestnut forelock. “Right, then, it's done.” In a quieter voice, so only I could hear, he said: “Good luck in the world, little fighter.”
Then, he patted me one last time, and, after exchanging a farewell with the man by the gate and taking a wad of ten-pound notes off him, he departed with one sad glance over his shoulder.
***
Throughout the course of the day, I received many interested glances from potential owners. I was probably the most well-cared for horse there; all the others looked old, wounded, ill or miserable. I held my head proud, refusing to wallow in self-pity. Captain was right- you must never look back, must never dwell on things. No, I did not forget about my owner, Captain and my mother, nor the home I had just left behind. I shall never forget about them. The pain inside was like a great, empty abyss had just opened up before me, but I knew I must not let it show.
A few people even pointed at me, and remarked to each other how much of a magnificent beast I was. I basked in these compliments; it helped to ease the loneliness inside. The man who stood by the gate, as I learned, was a horse seller, who bought horses off owners who couldn't manage them or did not want them, and resold them to other people. At this time, he was selling a number of different horses, but it was obvious I was his best.
In the pen next to me was a little pony who looked diminutive next to my towering height. He was quite a character, he was funny and bright. His coat was a lovely black colour, his mane black too, with a white star on his forehead. His name, as I learned, was Coal.
“Hey,” he said to me, in a friendly manner, as we stood in our pens. “What's your name?”
“I haven't got one,” I said. “My owners never did name me.”
Coal looked perplexed. “Never before have I met a horse who hasn't been named,” he mused. “Please, may I refer to you as Chase? I love that name, and you just seem to....fit it.”
“Chase?” I repeated the name, loving how it sounded. “That's great; I love that name! What's yours?”
“Coal,” the little black pony replied. He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “My folk had...bad naming skills,” He laughed. “I wish I had a unique name.”
“Coal's a nice name,” I complimented him. It suited him; his coat was as black as coal.
I knew from this first dialogue that I had found a new friend. We talked well into the afternoon, but our conversation was interrupted when a man approached our seller.
“How much d'you want of these two?” he drawled, eyeing us in admiration. His eye had a cruel, malevolent look to it, and I backed away, snorting. Coal sensed it too, and reacted the same way.
“Two hundred for the stallion, one hundred and twenty-five for the pony. They're quite remarkable, sir, hence the high prices-” our seller replied, looking a little uncertain. This man looked like he came from a rich background; he wore smart clothes and his brown hair was flawless. He looked genuine, but I sensed that he did not care much for animals and wished us nothing but harm, that he would treat us like machines and not animals with emotions.
“No, those prices are too low for these animals,” the man disagreed. “How 'bout three 'undred for the stallion, and one 'undred and seventy-five for the pony?”
Our seller looked taken aback. “Yer not required to pay so much sir-”
Once again, the man interrupted him. “No, dear sir, I insist! These horses are magnificent creatures, they are wonderful!” He took a wad of twenty-pound notes from his back pocket and offered it to our seller.
Only then did I notice the whip he held in his hand- a cruel, malicious whip, and my suspicions were confirmed. This man was nothing but cruel, and intended to harm us into obeying him. “He's going to hurt us!” I whispered frantically to Coal. But Coal just nodded mutely, his eyes round with fear.
Our seller, with a beaming face, opened Coal's pen first and led us out. Coal did not protest, just followed along submissively and allowed the man to attach a rope to his orange halter.
The man moved to open my pen, but I stamped in warning and tossed my head, my nostrils flaring. I would not follow along as submissively as Coal. This man was cruel, and I wasn't going to let him hurt me.
He attached my rope roughly, almost dragging me forward. The money was exchanged, and after a brief farewell with our seller, he hauled us away.
I obstinately would not follow. The man turned around, anger in his eyes. “Come on,” he said impatiently. When I still would not follow, he began to shout. “Come on, stupid horse!” Coal stood placidly by his side, gazing up at me with big brown eyes.
“Just come on, Chase,” he whispered urgently.
“No,” I whinnied rebelliously. “No!”
After more impatient coaxing, it became clear to the man I was not going to follow. Furiously, he raised the whip and brought it crashing down on my body. I shied away from him, tossing my head. Again he hit me, again and again, a rain of blows which stung each time the whip hit me. I withstood his abuse for some time, but then, I could bear the pain no longer. I reared up, thrashing my powerful front legs in the air.
The next events were a blur of confusion. By now, we had accumulated quite a crowd of spectators, watching me and chuckling to each other at my stubbornness. When I reared, I had no intention to harm the man- just to warn him off and let him know he was hurting me. If I had knew he was within close range of being caught by my thrashing hooves, I would have not reared. But, the man (he did not appear to be very knowledgeable about the behavioural aspects of equines) rushed towards me when I reared, despite the yelling of '”No!”' from the horrified crowd. My hooves struck him on the head, Coal let out a high-pitched whinny of sheer terror, and the man fell back on the cobbles, clutching his head and wailing in agony.
People surged forwards, horror etched on every face I saw. People grabbed the rope still swinging from my halter, but I dodged them and leapt forwards, bolting in my terror. Our seller was yelling, people were rushing after me, horses were rearing, spooked by my terror...but I was the son of a Thoroughbred champion, and I was rapid. I raced forwards, my strides long and eating up the distance towards home. Coal had also managed to break free from the man's grasp and was rushing after me on his short little legs. Unfortunately, speed wasn't his strength and he was soon caught by the chaos of people. I, however, ran on, ears flat to my head, the rope still perilously swinging around my hooves, threatening to trip me up. In my blind terror, I had not considered this point, and the rope caught around my hooves.
I lurched forwards and fell, scraping my knees and one side of my face on the cobblestones. Blood stained the monotonous grey. My side, which I had landed heavily on, throbbed with agony, and pain lanced up my spine.
A moment's hesitation was all the humans needed to catch up with me. They formed an uncertain circle around me, afraid that I might suddenly bolt again. But no, I could not run any further. My knees throbbed; the blood kept flowing from the open wounds. Eventually, when it became clear I would not bolt or rear, a man bravely approached me and grasped the rope which had tripped me. “You poor horse,” he whispered. “He was hurting you, wasn't he? No one'll take you now, not with those knees and that face, poor fellow. A magnificent horse, too. Unfortunately, humans only look for attractive horses, not for what really lies inside. I'd take you, poor fellow, but I already own a horse and can't afford another. And I suppose if I took you, I'd have to take your friend, too,” He gestured towards Coal, who was whinnying and stamping in terror.
“We humans,” he sighed sadly. “Always judging a book by its cover. If only someone could get to you know, poor fellow, they'll find a wonderful companion. You seem like one,”
There was that quote again- never judge a book by its cover! They seemed like significant words of wisdom at this moment in time. I respected the man's speech to me, he seemed like a kindly man, not the like one who was going to buy me.
The man who was going to by me staggered up to me, yelling in blind fury. “I'll kill you, you dumb beast!” he raged, raising that monstrous whip again...I shied away, snorting and tossing my head.
“No!” the kind man shouted, standing before me almost protectively. “Strike that whip against that horse, young fellow, and I'll report you for animal abuse!”
“It's a stupid animal!” the man who I'd struck with my hooves yelled at the man who was protecting me. “It...it hurt me!”
“You were hurting him,” the kind man said in a cool, collected manner.
At that moment, our seller ran up to us. “Are you okay?” he asked the man frantically. “Do you need an ambulance-”
The cruel man interrupted our seller's flurry of questions impatiently. “I'm fine,” he replied icily. “But I demand that I have my money back. I'll not be buyin' these two unruly horses. You told me they're remarkable. They're worthless!”
Silently, our seller handed back the wad of twenty-pound notes, a look of despair crossing his face as he watched the man snatch it from his hand. He dusted himself off; already I could see the ominous shadow of a bruise appearing on his forehead. I snorted; he deserved everything he got. I was not repentant for my actions.
***
We were led back to our pens, snorting and sweating with the exhilaration of my rebellion. Coal's mane had become dishevelled and messy, his flanks heaving with exhaustion. “Good work, Chase!” he panted, his eyes gleaming. “That man was nothing but evil, I knew it! He was going to hurt us!”
“I know, Coal,” I said quietly. I was not filled with joy at the success of my rebellion. I was too busy fretting about our future than to be elated. I was shaking; our seller had not bothered to bandage my wounds, nor to rub me down. The injuries stung and throbbed, and I knew I would be scarred for life.
A crowd of people had surrounded my pen, peering at me with faces of fear and wonder. A smartly-dressed old man with a monocle pointed at me to his companion and shook his head. “What an unruly horse!” he gazed disapprovingly at me. “And what an unattractive one too, with those scars. I'll not have any horse in my stables looking like that!”
An aristocratic woman with a intricate dress sneered at me. “He's obviously not been brought up well. He's bound for the slaughter house, he is. No one'll have a horse like that!”
I hung my head in shame at their criticism. Nobody had ever called me 'unattractive' before, and the term weakened my pride. I began to regret my uprising against the evil man. Was it worth it, at this cost? I had hurt him, hurt myself, and now my chances of finding a new home were slim. Nobody would want a horse with a scarred face, no matter of my abilities. It was just another of the human's corrupt ways of preferring attractiveness over anything else.
Coal had more of a chance of finding a new home, but I could tell people were not really interested in a small pony who could not pull their carriages and was more of a pet than a workhorse. Only then did I realise the true cruelty of these people. They treated horses like machines, not like living animals with emotions. In the eyes of humans, we were just tools, an animal created for their own advantage.
This thought made me angrier, and I tossed my head and whinnied. People scowled at me, some even rushing away in terror. Our seller looked at me in disgrace. “Shut up, yer fool,” he hissed. “Just dashed my chances of findin' enough cash to afford a Shire horse. Y'know what, I might as well take yer down for sale right now. No one'll want yer, fella, not anymore, with that face of yours. Scarred for life, you are. It's a shame, though. Was a good horse, a good horse. Now you've given yerrself quite a reputation.”
If I had the phenomenal power of human speech, I would have said in response: “I still am a good horse!” But, I was speechless, with no voice of my own. No voice to speak up with, and it was awful.
Coal nuzzled my flank in comfort. “Ignore them, Chase. They're fools, all humans are. To me, it doesn't matter that you've got a scarred face. It doesn't matter that you've got wounded knees. You'll always be my friend, Chase.”
||chapter four||
Miracles
I tossed my head and pawed the ground anxiously, observing Coal's reaction. He, too, was shuddering with fear; his breathing accelerated.
“Hey, don't do a runner like yer did the other day. Very nearly got me in a spot of trouble, yer did. Quite the fighter, yer are, just like our John said. Quite right he was, quite right.” our seller drawled, brushing away my long forelock from my eyes. “I'd 'ave yer myself, if I could take yer, but not got the money. Quite a remarkabe 'orse, in fact, I think yer look quite handsome with that scar down yer face, silly old 'orse. Beautiful creature, beautiful.”
He gave Coal a loving pat too. “Yer a little angel, yer are. Not like that silly devil over there. An adorable little pony. Well, I'm very sorry I've got to do this, my friends, but I've got to keep my job, or else there'll be no money bringing the food in. I'll regret it, I know I will. But there's nowhere for yer to go, nowhere-”
“Sir,” a soft, calm voice enquired politely. “Dear sir, may I enquire about the prices of these magnificent animals?”
Our seller whipped around, his cheeks burning crimson. “Ah, sorry about that, sir. Did you want the prices for these 'orses? Well, the stallion's two hundred, the pony's one hundred and twenty-five."
The man who had first spoken was an old man, with a withered face and windswept grey hair, his leathery hands clutching a wad of twenty-pound notes. He had sparkling blue eyes which expressed his kindly manner, and despite the fact his clothing was only simple farmer's clothes, he seemed to have a cheery, well-off lifestyle.
Holding his other hand was a little girl, with long fair hair plaited with red ribbons which were echoed in the flowers on her sky-blue dress. She had a beaming face as she analyzed us, then looked up hopefully at the old man, her eyes gleaming.
“Can we have them, Grandpa?” she begging, tugging at his shirt sleeve. “Both of them? Please, Grandpa. You heard what the man said. They're going to the Slaughter House. Please, Grandpa. You can't leave them!”
Her grandpa peered at us, contemplating whether to take us or not. He took a step up to me, admiring my height and long legs. He patted my shoulder, running his hand along my neck, until he came to my face and traced his finger around my scar. “How'd you get this scar?” he asked me, and although it was a rhetorical question, our seller answered.
“He got it in an accident he had the other day, sir. It's nothing compared to what he's really like-”
“No, no, no. I do not care whether he is scarred or not. He's still magnificent in my eyes.” the old farmer said, smiling broadly.
He moved on to Coal, examining him, too. “He's a gorgeous little horse,” he complimented him. “He'll do well to pull my grandaughter's little cart, and to be her pet. You've always wanted a black Shetland pony, haven't you, Melissa?”
“Yes, Grandpa, I would love him! But please can we take the big horse, too? He's a lovely horse!” Melissa, the little girl, exclaimed hopefully.
“Hm,” her grandpa said, gazing at us thoughtfully. Then, his face brigtened, and I knew he had made up his mind.
“We'll take them both,”
***
I could not believe it- we had been saved from our near fate at the Slaughter House! I was practically delirious with excitement as our new owner signed legal documents and handed the money over. Melissa's face was a portrait of sheer elation as she stood beside Coal and I, petting us and lavishing us with love, kissing our muzzles and patting our necks.
Melissa led us away from our horrid pens after the sale was confirmed, and we did not protest one bit. I followed along obediently, nuzzling her shoulder ever now and then to express my gratitude for rescuing us from our fate. Coal seemed exuberant and full of zest for life, just as he was when I first met him. My spirits too were raised, and I felt like a young foal again, just as estatic as the times when I galloped freely beside my mother in a field full of daisies and monarch butterflies.
“Can we introduce them to Captain today, Grandpa?” Melissa asked in her sweet, innocent voice.
“We'll put them in the field next to Captain's, Melissa. I think the new horses will need time to settle in.” her grandpa replied.
Melissa nodded in agreement. Then, she turned to look at me, stroking my neck. “Can we still keep Captain, Grandpa? You might not keep him because we've got two new horses now,”
Her grandpa laughed. “No, Melissa! I would not sell Captain for the world,”
My ears perked up at the name 'Captain'. It stirred a memory of Captain, the ex-cavalry horse, who I had been good friends with at my first home. Surely it couldn't be him? I shook my head, clearing my mind of the absurd thought. Of course it wouldn't be him! There were probably hundreds of other horses called Captain, and this Captain was probably a different one.
Melissa suddenly stopped and unlatched a wooden gate which led down an avenue of birch trees. I noticed the dramatic change in scenery- we had now come to a wild, rural, hilly place, a contrast to the busy market we had just departed from.
I snorted in excitement, shifting from hoof to hoof. Melissa smiled excitedly at me and proceeded to lead me down the avenue of flourishing birch, with her grandpa leading Coal. Melissa chatted to us, barely pausing for breath until we reached a cosy-looking farmhouse with whitewashed walls. A traditional oak door peeked out of a tangle of pink roses; it had a horseshoe knocker. The front garden was neatly clipped and was vibrant with the colours of an array of different plants. The garden had a huge oak tree towering towards its right, the grandeur of the place. One of the branches had a simple, yet efficient, rope-swing tied on it.
The front door opened and a woman and a small boy ran out. The mother had fair hair like Melissa, with azure blue eyes which sparkled with joy. She was wearing a pale pink apron which echoed the hue of the rosesl; it was smeared with flour and butter and smelt delicious. Melissa gave a cry of: “Mother! Sam! Look at the new horses me and Grandpa have just bought!”
The little boy, Sam, did not have fair hair like his mother and sister, instead his hair was a very dark brown, and could be mistaken for black. He had startling green eyes and a jovial face. “Melissa!” he cried. “They're wonderful!”
“That chestnut is magificent!” the mother said, reaching forward to pat me. I leaned forward, rubbing my muzzle on her apron, relishing the scent. The whole family burst into laughterat my antics as the mother gently pushed me away, laughter in her eyes.
“Let's take them to the stables, Grandpa,” Melissa said. “Then they can become accustomed to their new home. Can we give them some oats, Grandpa?”
“Yes, that's a brilliant idea, Melissa. I am sure they shall be hungry after walking all this way.” At this, the old man's eyes gleamed. “I'm very sure they shall like their new home, too.”
Suddenly, a raucous barking interrupted the family moment of our homecoming. Two dogs came rushing down the path which led from the front door through the front garden. One was a collie, with a plumy tail and a patch over one eye; the other was huge wolfdog, with tawny brown eyes which unnerved me. I drew back, snorting with fear.
Melissa stroked me reassuringly. “It's okay, horse. It's only Patch and Kiara. They're the family dogs. They help round up the sheep and goats. They won't harm you, no matter how ferocious they look,”
I calmed as the dogs milled around the grandpa's feet, and only peered at me curiously, never coming in mine or Coal's vicinity.
“Come on,” Sam said. “Shall I take hold of the black pony's rope, Grandpa?”
“Yes, my dear,” the grandpa said, handing Sam the rope. Despite his young age, he handled Coal quite easily, and did not seem afraid of the pony. With a sure confidence, he led Coal around the side of the farmhouse with Melissa following behind, leading me.
I gasped at the sight which met my eyes when I rounded the side of the farmhouse.
If I thought the front area was beautiful, it was nothing compared to this. Rolling hills, dotted with fluffy white sheep, towered up into a blue sky, with a rustic stableyard nestled between two ancient-looking buildings. The fields were huge expanses which stretched off into all directions, some golden with wheat and corn. The horse paddocks had trees for shade and long, lush grass just waiting for me to consume it. In one field, far in the distance, I could make out the form of a dappled-grey horse, and my heart skipped a beat. It reminded me of Captain from the old stables. No, it couldn't be him, could it? And grazing beside the dappled-grey was a dun horse, smaller than the dappled grey. Melissa led me over to the gate of that very field, turning to Sam. “Let's put them in the field whilst we get their stables prepared.”
So Coal and I were released into the field. I felt invigorated by the feel of grass beneath my hooves again, the feel of running free under a clear blue sky again. I glanced at Coal; he was frolicking about, eyes wide with the very beauty of our new home.
I noticed the shapes of the two horses coming closer and closer, and my heart missed a beat with excitement. What would they be like? Would they be friends or foe? I was very sure we would all get along fine in our new, wonderful home.
Soon, the horses came close enough for me to make out features. I gasped in sheer astonishment. No, it couldn't be, it couldn't be him!
Yet, my eyes were not deceiving me. Sure enough, Captain, the horse I had been brought up with, was trotting steadily towards me, with the dun mare at his side.
The two horses came closer, then stopped warily a few feet away. I bounded forwards, my tail flowing behind me, my hooves thudding on the ground. “Captain!” I cried. “Captain!”
Captain's ears perked up at the sound of his name. “It's...it's not you, is it? It can't be you. John said you'd been sold,” he said incredulously. Then he looked at me, and came galloping towards me, the muscles in his chest rippling. “It is you, little fighter!”
We touched noses, still in shock at our reunion. “How...how did you get here?” I asked, breathless from the exhilaration of my run.
“John couldn't keep me,” Captain explained. “So he gave me to Charlie, Melissa's grandpa. Charlie is his best friend from childhood; he knew I'd have a safe home here. I just can't believe you're here too!” Captain tossed his head.
Coal had approached beside me, his head down shyly. “Coal, this is Captain,” I began to introduce him, aware of the little pony's uncomfort near this fearsome-looking horse which he had never met before. “Captain, this is Coal. He is my friend; we met whilst we were in the market. He was in the pen next to me,”
Captain dipped his head in greeting. “Welcome, Coal,” he said. “You are very welcome here,”
Before Coal could say his greetings, Captain looked around. The dun mare was standing beside an oak tree, shifting from hoof to hoof. She, too, was very shy and quiet, it seemed.
“Echo,” Captain called to her. “Come and meet my old friend from my old home, and his companion.”
Echo nodded and without a sound, trotted over to us. She stood beside Captain as if seeking his protection. She was a very pretty mare, with delicate features and big brown eyes.
“Hi,” I said, bowing my head before her as Captain had done. Coal trotted up to us, seeming smaller than usual compared to our heights.
“Hey,” Coal said to Echo. He looked up at us. “This is a wonderful place, isn't it?”
“Hello,” Echo said quietly. Captain nudged her, and she said: “This is a beautiful place, I agree.” She spoke with an accent which suited her primitive colouring.
“Echo came from a home which abused her very badly,” Captain said, as if accounting for Echo's reserved manner. “That's why she's so quiet. Can't blame her, really, not after all she's been through. Now, if you come and stand under the oaks, you can tell us your story...”
***
It did not take us long to become fully accustomed to our new home. At first, sleeping in the stalls felt strange after being confined to a pen. But we soon got used to the feel of being loved and cared for again. Echo, Captain, Coal and I got along very well indeed, and within the first week we became inseparable. But, there was no possibility of us being separated at all. Here, at Charlie's farm, we were loved and valued, and Charlie vowed that none of us would ever be sold, not even in the most dire of situations.
Our days were happy, running in the lush meadows, dozing under the shade of the oaks when the scorching heat became too much for us, grazing contentedly on the nutrious, rich grass...I was happy once more. I had a plentiful diet of hay, oats, carrots, grass and various other items, all of the best standard and taste. My coat became glossy once more, my mane and tail silky-soft. I was to the best of health, and happiness, too. Life was perfect at Charlie's farm, and I know I have found a forever home. Even Echo came out of her shell for us, and her true character shone. She was honest, loyal, kind and funny, all the qualities I could ask for in a friend.
Sometimes, when I doze underneath the oaks with my new friends, I remember the times when I used to run with my mother through sunlit meadows, our hooves thudding on the ground with the impact of our velocity, the feel of the wind running through my mane, my tail streaming out behind me, with the monarch butterflies dancing at our hooves. Sometimes, I get a feeling of bittersweet nostalgia as I look back on these happy times of my early life, but I do not dwell on it, because I know I have found happiness again here.
If there is anything I have ever learned from my experiences, it is that no matter how terrible things get, there is always one last fragment of happiness in a world of despair, if only you never give up hope.
♥♡♥
||the e n d ||
Rules are the same, no stealing. It's my work (:
This new story is called 'Maybe There's Hope'. I'm really looking for crits/comments on this one, I'm not sure if it's any good so far :c
мαувє тнєяє'ѕ нσρє
||chapter one||
My First Memories
My first memories were happy ones, an erratic confusion of sunny days, carefree joy and the warmth of my mother as I nestled down next to her in our stall at night. I miss those happy days greatly; sometimes, when I lie down at night to sleep, I am almost there, running through the sunlit meadow with my mother, my long, gangly legs barely able to keep up with her fluent stride, the monarch butterflies dancing around our flying hooves. Yet, these are only memories, times which I can never return to.
I was loved at my first home. I was given the finest oats and hay to eat, and sometimes the little girl who lived at the farmhouse stroked us and fed us carrots. Nobody ever spoke a harsh word to us, nobody ever used the bearing rein or any other monstrous equipment used to make horses look fashionable in the corrupt eyes of humans. No, we were well cared for, each and every one of us valued and cared for to the most exceptional standards.
My mother, from the broken shards of my memory, was a truly magnificent creature. Her coat was a lovely shade of light brown; her flaxen mane soft and silky. She had soulful brown eyes which almost glowed with compassion; almost never did a harsh emotion flash through them. She was a placid and gentle creature, with an elegant muzzle and fragile features. My mother was a pureblood Arabian, a truly regal breed of horse originating from the Middle East. I was more like my father in physical appearance, with chestnut brown coat which shone russet when the sun's rays glowed on it. My mane was chestnut, too, and I had four white socks, evenly matched. My father I had never met, but my mother had told me enough of him for me to piece together an uncertain image of how he may have appeared. She always described him as a noble Thoroughbred, chestnut just like me, as fast as lightning. I have always admired my father from what my mother told me, despite the fact I have never met him. My mother told me he won lots of races, won lots of awards for his owner. She told me that's where I got my speed, and my gentleness came from her. Those were carefree days, without the burden of knowledge or what happens to horses in this cruel world, so I did not understand when my mother told me my father got too old to win any more awards, and was 'put to sleep', and that's why I never got the opportunity to meet him.
Back then, in my innocent youth, I thought it meant just that- he'd gone to sleep. But, I was soon to learn otherwise, as I grew older and more aware of the cruelty inflicted on fellow equines by hateful and heartless humans.
***
As I grew older, I found I could run just as fast as my mother, even overtake her, if I really pushed myself to it. I was almost as tall as her, too, and she always told me I had grown into a truly handsome colt.
Soon, it was time for my owner to break me in, which meant to simply get me used to the saddle, bridle and halter. This was an essential part of training, and my owner made sure he did everything right.
We started with the halter first. I still remember that morning, when I had just woken up and was eating my share of the oats which were supplied to us every morning. I still shared a stall with my mother, but I noticed that there wasn't much room anymore, because I'd grown so big. My owner had walked over to our stall, placed a reassuring hand around my neck and led me out. I obeyed him, because he was a kindly man and I wanted nothing more than to please him; the thought of his disapproval made me shudder. He had gave me a handful of oats, which I wolfed down gratefully, nuzzling his warm hand in appreciation as I did so. Little did I know, while I was busy eating the oats, he had slipped a sky-blue halter over my head, and was just buckling it up when I noticed. The feel of the strange material against my skin frightened me, and I snorted in protest and shook my head, trying to get rid of the new object. After a few attempts, it became clear that the halter was firmly attached, and shaking my head was a futile attempt to rid myself of it. My owner had also attached a rope to the halter, and he was standing some distance from me, should I spook and do something unexpected. My ears were laid flat to my head, my eyes were showing the whites. I shifted from hoof to hoof nervously, snorting and grunting, telling him to take it off me. Of course, he could not understand, and falsely interpreted my behaviour as a sign I was going to rear or bolt or buck, and shuffled even further away from me. Then, in my utter frustration, I reared up, kicking my front legs in the air and whinnying loudly. I clashed back down on all fours, my hooves thudding on the cobbles of the stableyard. I tossed my head angrily, my chestnut mane dishevelled and unruly. I stamped, my nostrils flaring.
My owner just watched this episode with laughter in his eyes. “It's all right young colt,” he said, in his deep, yet compassionate, voice. “You'll get used to it in the end, you'll see. You're quite the little fighter, aren't you? There, now, good lad, good lad.”
Very soon, I got used to the halter, and my owner decided it was time to progress onto the bridle. At first, it felt strange, but not much different from the halter. But then, he introduced the bit.
I hated the bit. At first, it scared me very much, and I bucked and stamped so much my owner had to bring out my mother to reassure me. She looked me in the eyes, her expression not one of disappointment but of understanding. “It's okay, son,” she whispered. “I know, I hate it too. But it's nothing to be scared of.”
I hated the feel of the cold, iron bar between my jaws, the feel of its icy smoothness on my tongue. But, watching my mother's calm acceptance of it, I accepted it too, and although I did not particularly like it, I no longer protested when it was used. Next came the saddle- this also came as a shock, the strange feel of it on my back. At first, it felt heavy, but as time went on, and our practice sessions continued, I barely felt it there. But, there was one thing I always felt when this equipment was used- my sense of freedom was taken. I was not free when these things bore me down; I could not run like the wind with the saddle on my back, nor toss my head freely when the bridle was strapped on my head. They were the terrible marks of humans, a reminder that humans had the ability to control a horse with these simple objects. The halter was not so bad; it was fashioned from light material and did not rub against my skin, but I preferred it when I wore none of these items, when I was free.
||chapter two||
Never Look Back
One of the worst times in my life was when I was taken from my mother's stall and give one of my own. That first night was terrible; I missed the warmth and reassurance of her presence. I was scared that night, so petrified I was shaking uncontrollably. It took some time for me to get used to having my own stall, but soon I began to appreciate the space. When I had stayed in my mother's stall, we had been very crowded, and as I grew bigger there was barely space for both of us to lie down. I began to recognize my stall as my own personal territory, my own place where I could be alone. In the stalls next to me was my mother (our owner had thought it convenient if I was moved to a stall next to hers, so I was not completely cut off from her and could still communicate with her), and another horse- a muscular dappled grey stallion called Captain. Captain had a remarkable history behind him; he was an ex-army horse who had witnessed terrible things in his cavalry days, and the scars they left were forever inflicted in his mind, as well as on his body. His coat was criss-crossed with scars, the badges of his victories and his failures. I soon became acquainted with him, and I learned many things about his previous days as an army horse.
“It was terrible,” he told me. “The noise was like thunder, so deafening it would reverberate in your ears, and be imprinted in your mind. Shells and bombs would fall all around you, and you never knew which one would carry your name on it, would never know if you were going to be next. All my fellow horses would fall around me, shrieking in agony, and I never knew if I were going to be subject to that fate. I was scared, so scared I could barely carry my rider across the scarred, rutted, terrible ground of death. Sometimes, as I look back on these things, I wonder why the humans fight, son. Do they do it for justice? Do they try and make the world a better place, by killing? Do they do it out of hatred, out of greed or jealousy? I guess that is one thing that only the humans know, or maybe, they don't even know the reasons for their actions either,”
“What were the stables like?” I asked thoughtfully, mulling over all he had said. Captain was a very deep, philosophical character, very intelligent, too. I often wondered whether that was just how he was, or whether time and the events of his life had shaped him to be the horse he had become.
“They were inadequate,” Captain said sadly. “Nothing more than a few planks of wood, clumsily nailed together, and hopelessly small, held together by rotting beams which the giant trench rats scampered across.”
I shuddered at this idea, feeling even more grateful for the roomy, sweet-scented stall I was so lucky to be placed in.
“One time, a very good friend of mine died in battle,” Captain began, looking ahead wistfully, a look of sadness crossing his gentle eyes. “I mourned very badly, and very nearly made myself ill. Another friend of mine, who, fortunately, survived the war with me, told me I must never look back. Mourning and wallowing in my own despair would not bring my friend back. I must be strong, and carry on, and make my friend proud, if I were to survive...So I took his advice, and my health stopped deteriorating. I remained proud, and I came out the war alive. I will always remember his advice, forever.”
I thought it certainly was a piece of good advice to bear in mind.
***
Little did I know, my life was about to change drastically.
I had lived at the farm for well over three years now, and I was an adult horse now. I had noticed my mother getting more nervous over the past weeks, a haunted look in her eye, which perplexed me greatly. It was unusual of her to be nervous, and whenever I asked her, she either ignored my questions or told me '”Nothing,”', rather irritably, which was uncharacteristic for her.
One day, just as I had woken up and was blinking in the warm summer sunlight which streamed in through the open top door of my stall, my owner came, with the strange rope in hand he had first used to break me in with, and to catch me from the fields to bring me in to my stall at night. His face had a grave, sad expression, which was unusual. The little girl who fed us carrots and turnips stood by him, tears streaming down her face. My mother whinnied, stamping her feet to catch my attention. Captain hung his head, a knowing look in his eye, mingled with great sadness.
My mother looked distraught. I tossed my head in confusion. “What's wrong, mother? Will you tell me?”
She looked at me, with eyes full of despair. “Son,” she said slowly, her voice thick with pain. “It is time for you to go.”
“Go where?” I asked in frantic worry.
She touched noses with me, her eyes full of agony. “You are a stallion now, not a colt or a foal. You are independent, you cannot always be by my side. Our owner does not have enough funds to keep us all, and you are a desirable young stallion, son. He is going to sell you, and we must be parted in order for him to do so. But, before you go, I would like to tell you one more thing. Remember the lessons I have taught you. Be kind, compassionate and true. There are cruel people out there, son, and cruel horses too. Be guarded, do not be gullible. And, my dear, never judge a book by its cover.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, my throat tightening with the agony of saying goodbye to all I have known and loved for all my life.
“It means to never judge by what you see. Judge by what lies inside. For, maybe, if you get to know someone, they might not be so bad after all. This applies for humans too, son. We make humans sound nasty, deceitful creatures. Yes, some of them are, but there are a precious minority who are not. Do not make impulsive judgements, for that is not how I would like you to be.”
My owner was now attaching the rope to my halter, and the little girl was wailing in misery. Even he looked touched by our farewells. “Come on, old fighter,” he said miserably, his eyes welling up too. He tugged gently on the rope, breaking up mine and my mother's final goodbyes.
“Goodbye, son,” my mother said, her voice breaking with every word. “Remember all I have taught you. I hope you shall find happiness, wherever you may end up. Goodbye, I will never forget you.”
Captain coughed, clearing his throat. “Goodbye, son,” he said in his rough voice. “It's a harsh world out there, son, but I am confident you have the strength to deal with it.”
“Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Captain,” I whispered, my heart aching. My owner led me away from them, and I looked back one last time, took in their agonised faces. “I love you,” I whispered again, even though they could not hear me. “I will always love you.”
I looked back over the fields where I used to so happily frolick, running through the long grass with my mother, the butterflies dancing at our thudding hooves.
I followed my owner, my hooves clopping on the cobbles of the stableyard, and I remembered Captain's words of wisdom- never look back.
||chapter three||
Cruelty
The journey to the village market was petrifying, despite my owner's words of reassurance all the way. I had never strayed beyond the boundaries of the fields before. Everywhere there were new sights, new scents, new sounds...the bustle of the market scared me. My ears were flattened to my head as I went along, my hooves clattering on the ancient, worn cobbles.
I was led to a small pen, built from strong-looking wood with a gate which could be locked by looping a rope over the post. A man was standing beside the gate, which was open, eagerly awaiting my arrival. My owner led me into the pen, and closed the gate. I neighed loudly and tossed my head, my eyes round with fear.
“Here you are,” my owner said, signing some documents. “He's a good horse, he's docile and will do anything to please. Quite a fighter, too. Find him a good, caring home, please. He deserves it.”
“Ah, I will, John. I'll find that 'orse a good 'ome. He sure is a a strong 'un.” the man holding the documents said cheerily, patting my neck. I shook my head, snorting in fear and confusion.
My owner straightened up and stroked my forehead tenderly, brushing away my chestnut forelock. “Right, then, it's done.” In a quieter voice, so only I could hear, he said: “Good luck in the world, little fighter.”
Then, he patted me one last time, and, after exchanging a farewell with the man by the gate and taking a wad of ten-pound notes off him, he departed with one sad glance over his shoulder.
***
Throughout the course of the day, I received many interested glances from potential owners. I was probably the most well-cared for horse there; all the others looked old, wounded, ill or miserable. I held my head proud, refusing to wallow in self-pity. Captain was right- you must never look back, must never dwell on things. No, I did not forget about my owner, Captain and my mother, nor the home I had just left behind. I shall never forget about them. The pain inside was like a great, empty abyss had just opened up before me, but I knew I must not let it show.
A few people even pointed at me, and remarked to each other how much of a magnificent beast I was. I basked in these compliments; it helped to ease the loneliness inside. The man who stood by the gate, as I learned, was a horse seller, who bought horses off owners who couldn't manage them or did not want them, and resold them to other people. At this time, he was selling a number of different horses, but it was obvious I was his best.
In the pen next to me was a little pony who looked diminutive next to my towering height. He was quite a character, he was funny and bright. His coat was a lovely black colour, his mane black too, with a white star on his forehead. His name, as I learned, was Coal.
“Hey,” he said to me, in a friendly manner, as we stood in our pens. “What's your name?”
“I haven't got one,” I said. “My owners never did name me.”
Coal looked perplexed. “Never before have I met a horse who hasn't been named,” he mused. “Please, may I refer to you as Chase? I love that name, and you just seem to....fit it.”
“Chase?” I repeated the name, loving how it sounded. “That's great; I love that name! What's yours?”
“Coal,” the little black pony replied. He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “My folk had...bad naming skills,” He laughed. “I wish I had a unique name.”
“Coal's a nice name,” I complimented him. It suited him; his coat was as black as coal.
I knew from this first dialogue that I had found a new friend. We talked well into the afternoon, but our conversation was interrupted when a man approached our seller.
“How much d'you want of these two?” he drawled, eyeing us in admiration. His eye had a cruel, malevolent look to it, and I backed away, snorting. Coal sensed it too, and reacted the same way.
“Two hundred for the stallion, one hundred and twenty-five for the pony. They're quite remarkable, sir, hence the high prices-” our seller replied, looking a little uncertain. This man looked like he came from a rich background; he wore smart clothes and his brown hair was flawless. He looked genuine, but I sensed that he did not care much for animals and wished us nothing but harm, that he would treat us like machines and not animals with emotions.
“No, those prices are too low for these animals,” the man disagreed. “How 'bout three 'undred for the stallion, and one 'undred and seventy-five for the pony?”
Our seller looked taken aback. “Yer not required to pay so much sir-”
Once again, the man interrupted him. “No, dear sir, I insist! These horses are magnificent creatures, they are wonderful!” He took a wad of twenty-pound notes from his back pocket and offered it to our seller.
Only then did I notice the whip he held in his hand- a cruel, malicious whip, and my suspicions were confirmed. This man was nothing but cruel, and intended to harm us into obeying him. “He's going to hurt us!” I whispered frantically to Coal. But Coal just nodded mutely, his eyes round with fear.
Our seller, with a beaming face, opened Coal's pen first and led us out. Coal did not protest, just followed along submissively and allowed the man to attach a rope to his orange halter.
The man moved to open my pen, but I stamped in warning and tossed my head, my nostrils flaring. I would not follow along as submissively as Coal. This man was cruel, and I wasn't going to let him hurt me.
He attached my rope roughly, almost dragging me forward. The money was exchanged, and after a brief farewell with our seller, he hauled us away.
I obstinately would not follow. The man turned around, anger in his eyes. “Come on,” he said impatiently. When I still would not follow, he began to shout. “Come on, stupid horse!” Coal stood placidly by his side, gazing up at me with big brown eyes.
“Just come on, Chase,” he whispered urgently.
“No,” I whinnied rebelliously. “No!”
After more impatient coaxing, it became clear to the man I was not going to follow. Furiously, he raised the whip and brought it crashing down on my body. I shied away from him, tossing my head. Again he hit me, again and again, a rain of blows which stung each time the whip hit me. I withstood his abuse for some time, but then, I could bear the pain no longer. I reared up, thrashing my powerful front legs in the air.
The next events were a blur of confusion. By now, we had accumulated quite a crowd of spectators, watching me and chuckling to each other at my stubbornness. When I reared, I had no intention to harm the man- just to warn him off and let him know he was hurting me. If I had knew he was within close range of being caught by my thrashing hooves, I would have not reared. But, the man (he did not appear to be very knowledgeable about the behavioural aspects of equines) rushed towards me when I reared, despite the yelling of '”No!”' from the horrified crowd. My hooves struck him on the head, Coal let out a high-pitched whinny of sheer terror, and the man fell back on the cobbles, clutching his head and wailing in agony.
People surged forwards, horror etched on every face I saw. People grabbed the rope still swinging from my halter, but I dodged them and leapt forwards, bolting in my terror. Our seller was yelling, people were rushing after me, horses were rearing, spooked by my terror...but I was the son of a Thoroughbred champion, and I was rapid. I raced forwards, my strides long and eating up the distance towards home. Coal had also managed to break free from the man's grasp and was rushing after me on his short little legs. Unfortunately, speed wasn't his strength and he was soon caught by the chaos of people. I, however, ran on, ears flat to my head, the rope still perilously swinging around my hooves, threatening to trip me up. In my blind terror, I had not considered this point, and the rope caught around my hooves.
I lurched forwards and fell, scraping my knees and one side of my face on the cobblestones. Blood stained the monotonous grey. My side, which I had landed heavily on, throbbed with agony, and pain lanced up my spine.
A moment's hesitation was all the humans needed to catch up with me. They formed an uncertain circle around me, afraid that I might suddenly bolt again. But no, I could not run any further. My knees throbbed; the blood kept flowing from the open wounds. Eventually, when it became clear I would not bolt or rear, a man bravely approached me and grasped the rope which had tripped me. “You poor horse,” he whispered. “He was hurting you, wasn't he? No one'll take you now, not with those knees and that face, poor fellow. A magnificent horse, too. Unfortunately, humans only look for attractive horses, not for what really lies inside. I'd take you, poor fellow, but I already own a horse and can't afford another. And I suppose if I took you, I'd have to take your friend, too,” He gestured towards Coal, who was whinnying and stamping in terror.
“We humans,” he sighed sadly. “Always judging a book by its cover. If only someone could get to you know, poor fellow, they'll find a wonderful companion. You seem like one,”
There was that quote again- never judge a book by its cover! They seemed like significant words of wisdom at this moment in time. I respected the man's speech to me, he seemed like a kindly man, not the like one who was going to buy me.
The man who was going to by me staggered up to me, yelling in blind fury. “I'll kill you, you dumb beast!” he raged, raising that monstrous whip again...I shied away, snorting and tossing my head.
“No!” the kind man shouted, standing before me almost protectively. “Strike that whip against that horse, young fellow, and I'll report you for animal abuse!”
“It's a stupid animal!” the man who I'd struck with my hooves yelled at the man who was protecting me. “It...it hurt me!”
“You were hurting him,” the kind man said in a cool, collected manner.
At that moment, our seller ran up to us. “Are you okay?” he asked the man frantically. “Do you need an ambulance-”
The cruel man interrupted our seller's flurry of questions impatiently. “I'm fine,” he replied icily. “But I demand that I have my money back. I'll not be buyin' these two unruly horses. You told me they're remarkable. They're worthless!”
Silently, our seller handed back the wad of twenty-pound notes, a look of despair crossing his face as he watched the man snatch it from his hand. He dusted himself off; already I could see the ominous shadow of a bruise appearing on his forehead. I snorted; he deserved everything he got. I was not repentant for my actions.
***
We were led back to our pens, snorting and sweating with the exhilaration of my rebellion. Coal's mane had become dishevelled and messy, his flanks heaving with exhaustion. “Good work, Chase!” he panted, his eyes gleaming. “That man was nothing but evil, I knew it! He was going to hurt us!”
“I know, Coal,” I said quietly. I was not filled with joy at the success of my rebellion. I was too busy fretting about our future than to be elated. I was shaking; our seller had not bothered to bandage my wounds, nor to rub me down. The injuries stung and throbbed, and I knew I would be scarred for life.
A crowd of people had surrounded my pen, peering at me with faces of fear and wonder. A smartly-dressed old man with a monocle pointed at me to his companion and shook his head. “What an unruly horse!” he gazed disapprovingly at me. “And what an unattractive one too, with those scars. I'll not have any horse in my stables looking like that!”
An aristocratic woman with a intricate dress sneered at me. “He's obviously not been brought up well. He's bound for the slaughter house, he is. No one'll have a horse like that!”
I hung my head in shame at their criticism. Nobody had ever called me 'unattractive' before, and the term weakened my pride. I began to regret my uprising against the evil man. Was it worth it, at this cost? I had hurt him, hurt myself, and now my chances of finding a new home were slim. Nobody would want a horse with a scarred face, no matter of my abilities. It was just another of the human's corrupt ways of preferring attractiveness over anything else.
Coal had more of a chance of finding a new home, but I could tell people were not really interested in a small pony who could not pull their carriages and was more of a pet than a workhorse. Only then did I realise the true cruelty of these people. They treated horses like machines, not like living animals with emotions. In the eyes of humans, we were just tools, an animal created for their own advantage.
This thought made me angrier, and I tossed my head and whinnied. People scowled at me, some even rushing away in terror. Our seller looked at me in disgrace. “Shut up, yer fool,” he hissed. “Just dashed my chances of findin' enough cash to afford a Shire horse. Y'know what, I might as well take yer down for sale right now. No one'll want yer, fella, not anymore, with that face of yours. Scarred for life, you are. It's a shame, though. Was a good horse, a good horse. Now you've given yerrself quite a reputation.”
If I had the phenomenal power of human speech, I would have said in response: “I still am a good horse!” But, I was speechless, with no voice of my own. No voice to speak up with, and it was awful.
Coal nuzzled my flank in comfort. “Ignore them, Chase. They're fools, all humans are. To me, it doesn't matter that you've got a scarred face. It doesn't matter that you've got wounded knees. You'll always be my friend, Chase.”
||chapter four||
Miracles
I tossed my head and pawed the ground anxiously, observing Coal's reaction. He, too, was shuddering with fear; his breathing accelerated.
“Hey, don't do a runner like yer did the other day. Very nearly got me in a spot of trouble, yer did. Quite the fighter, yer are, just like our John said. Quite right he was, quite right.” our seller drawled, brushing away my long forelock from my eyes. “I'd 'ave yer myself, if I could take yer, but not got the money. Quite a remarkabe 'orse, in fact, I think yer look quite handsome with that scar down yer face, silly old 'orse. Beautiful creature, beautiful.”
He gave Coal a loving pat too. “Yer a little angel, yer are. Not like that silly devil over there. An adorable little pony. Well, I'm very sorry I've got to do this, my friends, but I've got to keep my job, or else there'll be no money bringing the food in. I'll regret it, I know I will. But there's nowhere for yer to go, nowhere-”
“Sir,” a soft, calm voice enquired politely. “Dear sir, may I enquire about the prices of these magnificent animals?”
Our seller whipped around, his cheeks burning crimson. “Ah, sorry about that, sir. Did you want the prices for these 'orses? Well, the stallion's two hundred, the pony's one hundred and twenty-five."
The man who had first spoken was an old man, with a withered face and windswept grey hair, his leathery hands clutching a wad of twenty-pound notes. He had sparkling blue eyes which expressed his kindly manner, and despite the fact his clothing was only simple farmer's clothes, he seemed to have a cheery, well-off lifestyle.
Holding his other hand was a little girl, with long fair hair plaited with red ribbons which were echoed in the flowers on her sky-blue dress. She had a beaming face as she analyzed us, then looked up hopefully at the old man, her eyes gleaming.
“Can we have them, Grandpa?” she begging, tugging at his shirt sleeve. “Both of them? Please, Grandpa. You heard what the man said. They're going to the Slaughter House. Please, Grandpa. You can't leave them!”
Her grandpa peered at us, contemplating whether to take us or not. He took a step up to me, admiring my height and long legs. He patted my shoulder, running his hand along my neck, until he came to my face and traced his finger around my scar. “How'd you get this scar?” he asked me, and although it was a rhetorical question, our seller answered.
“He got it in an accident he had the other day, sir. It's nothing compared to what he's really like-”
“No, no, no. I do not care whether he is scarred or not. He's still magnificent in my eyes.” the old farmer said, smiling broadly.
He moved on to Coal, examining him, too. “He's a gorgeous little horse,” he complimented him. “He'll do well to pull my grandaughter's little cart, and to be her pet. You've always wanted a black Shetland pony, haven't you, Melissa?”
“Yes, Grandpa, I would love him! But please can we take the big horse, too? He's a lovely horse!” Melissa, the little girl, exclaimed hopefully.
“Hm,” her grandpa said, gazing at us thoughtfully. Then, his face brigtened, and I knew he had made up his mind.
“We'll take them both,”
***
I could not believe it- we had been saved from our near fate at the Slaughter House! I was practically delirious with excitement as our new owner signed legal documents and handed the money over. Melissa's face was a portrait of sheer elation as she stood beside Coal and I, petting us and lavishing us with love, kissing our muzzles and patting our necks.
Melissa led us away from our horrid pens after the sale was confirmed, and we did not protest one bit. I followed along obediently, nuzzling her shoulder ever now and then to express my gratitude for rescuing us from our fate. Coal seemed exuberant and full of zest for life, just as he was when I first met him. My spirits too were raised, and I felt like a young foal again, just as estatic as the times when I galloped freely beside my mother in a field full of daisies and monarch butterflies.
“Can we introduce them to Captain today, Grandpa?” Melissa asked in her sweet, innocent voice.
“We'll put them in the field next to Captain's, Melissa. I think the new horses will need time to settle in.” her grandpa replied.
Melissa nodded in agreement. Then, she turned to look at me, stroking my neck. “Can we still keep Captain, Grandpa? You might not keep him because we've got two new horses now,”
Her grandpa laughed. “No, Melissa! I would not sell Captain for the world,”
My ears perked up at the name 'Captain'. It stirred a memory of Captain, the ex-cavalry horse, who I had been good friends with at my first home. Surely it couldn't be him? I shook my head, clearing my mind of the absurd thought. Of course it wouldn't be him! There were probably hundreds of other horses called Captain, and this Captain was probably a different one.
Melissa suddenly stopped and unlatched a wooden gate which led down an avenue of birch trees. I noticed the dramatic change in scenery- we had now come to a wild, rural, hilly place, a contrast to the busy market we had just departed from.
I snorted in excitement, shifting from hoof to hoof. Melissa smiled excitedly at me and proceeded to lead me down the avenue of flourishing birch, with her grandpa leading Coal. Melissa chatted to us, barely pausing for breath until we reached a cosy-looking farmhouse with whitewashed walls. A traditional oak door peeked out of a tangle of pink roses; it had a horseshoe knocker. The front garden was neatly clipped and was vibrant with the colours of an array of different plants. The garden had a huge oak tree towering towards its right, the grandeur of the place. One of the branches had a simple, yet efficient, rope-swing tied on it.
The front door opened and a woman and a small boy ran out. The mother had fair hair like Melissa, with azure blue eyes which sparkled with joy. She was wearing a pale pink apron which echoed the hue of the rosesl; it was smeared with flour and butter and smelt delicious. Melissa gave a cry of: “Mother! Sam! Look at the new horses me and Grandpa have just bought!”
The little boy, Sam, did not have fair hair like his mother and sister, instead his hair was a very dark brown, and could be mistaken for black. He had startling green eyes and a jovial face. “Melissa!” he cried. “They're wonderful!”
“That chestnut is magificent!” the mother said, reaching forward to pat me. I leaned forward, rubbing my muzzle on her apron, relishing the scent. The whole family burst into laughterat my antics as the mother gently pushed me away, laughter in her eyes.
“Let's take them to the stables, Grandpa,” Melissa said. “Then they can become accustomed to their new home. Can we give them some oats, Grandpa?”
“Yes, that's a brilliant idea, Melissa. I am sure they shall be hungry after walking all this way.” At this, the old man's eyes gleamed. “I'm very sure they shall like their new home, too.”
Suddenly, a raucous barking interrupted the family moment of our homecoming. Two dogs came rushing down the path which led from the front door through the front garden. One was a collie, with a plumy tail and a patch over one eye; the other was huge wolfdog, with tawny brown eyes which unnerved me. I drew back, snorting with fear.
Melissa stroked me reassuringly. “It's okay, horse. It's only Patch and Kiara. They're the family dogs. They help round up the sheep and goats. They won't harm you, no matter how ferocious they look,”
I calmed as the dogs milled around the grandpa's feet, and only peered at me curiously, never coming in mine or Coal's vicinity.
“Come on,” Sam said. “Shall I take hold of the black pony's rope, Grandpa?”
“Yes, my dear,” the grandpa said, handing Sam the rope. Despite his young age, he handled Coal quite easily, and did not seem afraid of the pony. With a sure confidence, he led Coal around the side of the farmhouse with Melissa following behind, leading me.
I gasped at the sight which met my eyes when I rounded the side of the farmhouse.
If I thought the front area was beautiful, it was nothing compared to this. Rolling hills, dotted with fluffy white sheep, towered up into a blue sky, with a rustic stableyard nestled between two ancient-looking buildings. The fields were huge expanses which stretched off into all directions, some golden with wheat and corn. The horse paddocks had trees for shade and long, lush grass just waiting for me to consume it. In one field, far in the distance, I could make out the form of a dappled-grey horse, and my heart skipped a beat. It reminded me of Captain from the old stables. No, it couldn't be him, could it? And grazing beside the dappled-grey was a dun horse, smaller than the dappled grey. Melissa led me over to the gate of that very field, turning to Sam. “Let's put them in the field whilst we get their stables prepared.”
So Coal and I were released into the field. I felt invigorated by the feel of grass beneath my hooves again, the feel of running free under a clear blue sky again. I glanced at Coal; he was frolicking about, eyes wide with the very beauty of our new home.
I noticed the shapes of the two horses coming closer and closer, and my heart missed a beat with excitement. What would they be like? Would they be friends or foe? I was very sure we would all get along fine in our new, wonderful home.
Soon, the horses came close enough for me to make out features. I gasped in sheer astonishment. No, it couldn't be, it couldn't be him!
Yet, my eyes were not deceiving me. Sure enough, Captain, the horse I had been brought up with, was trotting steadily towards me, with the dun mare at his side.
The two horses came closer, then stopped warily a few feet away. I bounded forwards, my tail flowing behind me, my hooves thudding on the ground. “Captain!” I cried. “Captain!”
Captain's ears perked up at the sound of his name. “It's...it's not you, is it? It can't be you. John said you'd been sold,” he said incredulously. Then he looked at me, and came galloping towards me, the muscles in his chest rippling. “It is you, little fighter!”
We touched noses, still in shock at our reunion. “How...how did you get here?” I asked, breathless from the exhilaration of my run.
“John couldn't keep me,” Captain explained. “So he gave me to Charlie, Melissa's grandpa. Charlie is his best friend from childhood; he knew I'd have a safe home here. I just can't believe you're here too!” Captain tossed his head.
Coal had approached beside me, his head down shyly. “Coal, this is Captain,” I began to introduce him, aware of the little pony's uncomfort near this fearsome-looking horse which he had never met before. “Captain, this is Coal. He is my friend; we met whilst we were in the market. He was in the pen next to me,”
Captain dipped his head in greeting. “Welcome, Coal,” he said. “You are very welcome here,”
Before Coal could say his greetings, Captain looked around. The dun mare was standing beside an oak tree, shifting from hoof to hoof. She, too, was very shy and quiet, it seemed.
“Echo,” Captain called to her. “Come and meet my old friend from my old home, and his companion.”
Echo nodded and without a sound, trotted over to us. She stood beside Captain as if seeking his protection. She was a very pretty mare, with delicate features and big brown eyes.
“Hi,” I said, bowing my head before her as Captain had done. Coal trotted up to us, seeming smaller than usual compared to our heights.
“Hey,” Coal said to Echo. He looked up at us. “This is a wonderful place, isn't it?”
“Hello,” Echo said quietly. Captain nudged her, and she said: “This is a beautiful place, I agree.” She spoke with an accent which suited her primitive colouring.
“Echo came from a home which abused her very badly,” Captain said, as if accounting for Echo's reserved manner. “That's why she's so quiet. Can't blame her, really, not after all she's been through. Now, if you come and stand under the oaks, you can tell us your story...”
***
It did not take us long to become fully accustomed to our new home. At first, sleeping in the stalls felt strange after being confined to a pen. But we soon got used to the feel of being loved and cared for again. Echo, Captain, Coal and I got along very well indeed, and within the first week we became inseparable. But, there was no possibility of us being separated at all. Here, at Charlie's farm, we were loved and valued, and Charlie vowed that none of us would ever be sold, not even in the most dire of situations.
Our days were happy, running in the lush meadows, dozing under the shade of the oaks when the scorching heat became too much for us, grazing contentedly on the nutrious, rich grass...I was happy once more. I had a plentiful diet of hay, oats, carrots, grass and various other items, all of the best standard and taste. My coat became glossy once more, my mane and tail silky-soft. I was to the best of health, and happiness, too. Life was perfect at Charlie's farm, and I know I have found a forever home. Even Echo came out of her shell for us, and her true character shone. She was honest, loyal, kind and funny, all the qualities I could ask for in a friend.
Sometimes, when I doze underneath the oaks with my new friends, I remember the times when I used to run with my mother through sunlit meadows, our hooves thudding on the ground with the impact of our velocity, the feel of the wind running through my mane, my tail streaming out behind me, with the monarch butterflies dancing at our hooves. Sometimes, I get a feeling of bittersweet nostalgia as I look back on these happy times of my early life, but I do not dwell on it, because I know I have found happiness again here.
If there is anything I have ever learned from my experiences, it is that no matter how terrible things get, there is always one last fragment of happiness in a world of despair, if only you never give up hope.
♥♡♥
||the e n d ||
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