Horse of Fire Read online

  So she crept up behind him and grabbed him, winding his long beard round his neck until he was choking for breath, then she tugged the ring off his finger and hid it in her belt.

  She climbed up the mountain, towards the castle. When she couldn’t go any further without wings, she shouted, “Enchanter! I challenge you in the name of Charlemagne, for the life and freedom of the knight Rogero and all your other captives.”

  A small speck emerged from the top window of the tallest tower of the impenetrable castle.

  As the shape flew nearer, Bradamante saw that the mysterious creature was both a horse and a bird. It had the body and legs of a horse, but the head and wings of an eagle.

  It was a hippogriff, gleaming copper and bronze in the sun.

  A man in a starry cloak sat on the hippogriff’s back, holding a long staff and an oval shield covered in a black cloth.

  As they flew lower, Bradamante raised her sword and slashed at the hippogriff and the enchanter.

  The hippogriff swooped and swerved and kept just out of her reach. Bradamante had never fought a duel against a winged opponent before. The enemy stayed above her, moving up and down and round, and none of her blows reached their target. But the enchanter could lean down to strike Bradamante’s head and shoulders with his staff.

  Bradamante knew she couldn’t defeat this flying horse and rider while they were in the air. However, she kept leaping and slashing and stabbing, because she wanted the enchanter to keep attacking her.

  Eventually the enchanter laughed. “Let’s finish this fight!” He jerked the cloth off the shield. Bradamante smiled and slipped the ring onto her finger. A strong white light blazed from the shield, but the ring dimmed Bradamante’s eyes, so she could bear the violence and power of the light.

  Bradamante pretended she had no magical protection. She moaned, dropped her sword, put her hands over her eyes and fell to the ground.

  The enchanter clicked his tongue and the hippogriff landed. Then the enchanter flicked the black cloth over the shield and climbed down from the hippogriff. He walked towards Bradamante’s still body, unwinding the rope he intended to tie her up with.

  Bradamante leapt to her feet and knocked the enchanter to the ground with one punch, then tied him up with his own rope.

  She removed the ring, climbed onto the hippogriff and pulled the enchanter up behind her. They flew up to the tallest tower, where Bradamante entered the impregnable castle and freed every knight held captive there.

  Including Rogero.

  And Rogero was so grateful to Bradamante, and to the emperor in whose name she had challenged and defeated the enchanter, that he never fought for the Moorish prince again.

  In the years that followed, between battles, tournaments, jousts and duels, Bradamante and Rogero flew off on many adventures, on the back of her shining hippogriff.

  And after he wriggled out of the rope, the enchanter spent the rest of his life trying to grow magical wings, so he could escape from his own castle.

  The Unicorns and the Flood

  Ukrainian folktale

  Once upon a time, unicorns lived openly in our fields and forests. They were beautiful beasts, with cream bodies, white manes, silver horns and pearly hooves. And unicorns knew they were beautiful. They spent a lot of time gazing in still pools to admire their own reflections.

  Then came the flood.

  Just before the flood was due, Noah built the ark. When it was finished, Noah sent out word that he would take two of every animal on the ark to keep them safe, so they could rebuild their families, herds, flocks and colonies when dry land reappeared.

  The lion and the lioness were the first to arrive. Followed by two elephants, two raccoons, two wild boars, a couple of turkeys and a pair of foxes.

  Then two unicorns arrived.

  “We received your invitation,” the male unicorn said to Noah, at the bottom of the gangplank leading up to the ark. “It’s on plain parchment, rather than the gold-edged scroll we’re accustomed to, but nevertheless we thought we’d investigate what you’re offering, in terms of accommodation and entertainment.”

  “It’s an ark,” said Noah. “It’s waterproof and it floats. That’s all I’m offering.”

  “Do you have first-class cabins?” asked the female unicorn.

  “There aren’t any private cabins, just stalls, perches and bare floor. I’ve got to fit in a lot of animals and birds, so everyone gets equal treatment.”

  The male unicorn snorted. “I’m not accustomed to equal treatment and neither is my wife. We are accustomed to being special and pampered. We don’t want to live with the muck, stench and clamour of all these other animals. So I think we shall say no this time.”

  “There won’t be another time,” said Noah. “There won’t be another boat. There’s a flood coming and this ark is the only way to stay safe.”

  The female unicorn said, “But you’re filling your ark with snakes, rats and spiders. Why would you do that? Why not just save the pretty animals and the ones that sing nicely? I can understand why you’d want to save the chinchilla, the peacock and the nightingale. But why save the midgie, the warthog and the skunk?”

  “Because this ark is for everyone. And you are welcome, unicorns, but only if you’re prepared to share.”

  “No,” said the male unicorn. “We are not prepared to share with slugs, cockroaches and toads.”

  The female unicorn nodded. “We can swim. We both do a rather elegant butterfly stroke. We’ll take our chances in the water, rather than lower our standards on your ark.”

  Noah said, “I’m sorry to hear that. And I sincerely hope you’re strong swimmers.”

  The unicorns trotted off. They sheltered under a tree when the rain started, then paddled and swam when the waters rose.

  They kept their spirits up by congratulating each other on their sensible decision to keep their distance from the crowded ark, and by chatting about the nice clean shiny world that would emerge when the flood drained away.

  After a few days of swimming, they were too tired to talk, but they kept their heads and horns above water.

  The rain kept falling, the floods rose higher, and the unicorns were almost too tired to swim.

  Finally, the rains stopped and the sun shone on their silver horns.

  The unicorns could see the ark in the distance. They could smell the ark in the distance. They could hear arguments and roars, snaps and growls.

  They laughed, weakly. “No one is happy on that beastly boat!”

  Then they saw birds fly up from the ark, sent out to find land.

  Two seagulls soared in circles high above. When they spotted silver glinting in the sunlight, they swooped down and landed on the unicorns’ horns.

  The weight of the birds was just enough to push the hungry exhausted unicorns under the water…

  Then the seagulls flew away, to look for land elsewhere.

  Most storytellers say that the unicorns never floated back up, and that’s why there have been no scientifically proven sightings of unicorns for a very long time.

  But a few, more optimistic, storytellers say that the unicorns bobbed back up again, coughing and spluttering, then doggy-paddled to a small remote island. They say that a herd of unicorns have been happy on the island ever since, admiring themselves in pools and keeping well away from the smelly noisy crowds of animals and people everywhere else.

  Which ending would you prefer to believe?

  The Headless Horseman of New South Wales

  Australian folktale

  The butcher grinned at the tourists. “These are legendary steaks. This beef comes from the haunted riverlands, where the headless horseman roams, still screaming and moaning. Still regretting the night he stole a few cattle, was chased by the drovers and drowned in the river… Look, you can see his statue in the town square. We’ve been telling tales about that ghost and his trotting grey mare for years. So these are steaks with a story. Worth every cent.”

  The to
urists smiled and paid for the steaks. Then they left the shop and took photos of themselves by the statue of the town’s ghostly headless horseman.

  The girl said, “Let’s camp by that haunted river tonight!”

  The boy said, “But what if the ghost tries to steal us?”

  The mum said, “This ghost only steals cattle.”

  The dad said, “Anyway, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  So they decided to camp near the haunted river.

  The tourists followed the map, pitched their tent, lit their barbecue, cooked their legendary steaks and enjoyed the beauty of the wide starry sky.

  They fell asleep, full and happy.

  Just after midnight, they were woken by a scream. A wailing, ululating, terrifying scream. When the scream died away, they heard thundering hoofbeats. They peered out of the tent and saw a figure galloping past on a dark grey horse.

  The horse was strong and fast, her head and neck stretched out as she galloped. The man on her back was tall and bulky. His hands gripped the horse’s reins. His legs gripped the horse’s ribs. But he had no head. His long cloaked back ended in square shoulders and the stub of a neck.

  He had no head.

  It was the headless horseman!

  The family screamed, scrambled into their car, locked the doors and argued in panicked whispers about whose fault it was they’d camped by a haunted river.

  Five minutes later, the horseman trotted past in the other direction, driving two cows in front of him.

  The tourists heard the horse neighing, the cows mooing and the headless horseman laughing.

  The girl whispered, “How can he laugh when he has no head?”

  But the headless horseman was still laughing when he drove the stolen cows into the shed at the back of the butcher’s shop. He lifted off the cloth-covered frame that hid his head and gave him a long back. Then he unsaddled his grey mare and got ready to restock his shelves for the next day.

  In the morning, the butcher grinned at a new family of tourists. “These are legendary steaks. This beef comes from the haunted riverlands…” The tourists smiled and got out their wallets.

  The Kelpie with the Tangled Mane

  Scottish folktale

  The shore of a loch, like the forest edge or the seaside, is a place where worlds meet. It can be a dangerous place to live and work.

  But Meg was used to living on the lochside, and knew she had to be careful of the creatures that prowled the border between land and water.

  Her family had farmed the land by the water for generations. Their days were filled with hard work and their nights were filled with stories of the creatures that lived in the loch.

  Meg’s father told stories about the kelpies, who were monsters underwater, but became elegant horses or handsome people on the land, luring girls and boys into the loch to drown them and eat them.

  And her grandmother told stories of giant eels, talking salmon and the ancient goddess of the water, though no one had seen her for a very long time.

  Everyone had seen the other creatures that lived in the loch. The magical water bulls didn’t eat people, but they were still fierce and dangerous. The water bulls sometimes came ashore to meet and mate with the farmer’s cattle, and their calves were always hungry eaters with odd notches in their ears. But the water bulls’ calves were also strong and healthy, so they were prized.

  One summer a water bull lingered too long in their fields. Meg’s father offered hay to the water bull and when the animal lowered his head to eat, the farmer slipped a halter around his neck, then locked him in a barn. Meg’s father was considering taking the bull to market, to see if he could get a good price for this magical creature.

  Meg hoped her father would either sell the bull soon or release him, because she could hear the water bull’s angry roars and sad bellows wherever she worked on the farm.

  Then, one sunny afternoon, Meg finished her day’s work early and had a few moments to herself before it was time to make supper. She sat by the loch, looking at the silver ripples on the water.

  A voice said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Meg looked up and saw a handsome young man, with wild blond hair and a slow smile.

  “I love to look at the loch,” she said, “but I know never to go in.”

  “The water is beautiful, but it’s not as lovely as you,” he said with a wider smile.

  Meg blushed, and couldn’t think of a sensible reply.

  “May I sit beside you?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  They sat together and watched the light slide across the loch.

  The young man asked Meg if she had a comb.

  “Yes, in my apron pocket.”

  “Would you mind combing my hair? It gets tangled on a day wandering the hills.”

  Meg nodded and he laid his head in her lap. She started to untangle his long golden hair. In the warm afternoon sun, with her fingers gentle on his scalp, the young man dozed off.

  As she combed, Meg found strands of waterweed in the man’s hair.

  Waterweed? But he said he’d spent the day wandering the hills. How could he have waterweed in his hair?

  Then she remembered those night-time stories about the creatures from the loch. The stories about the kelpies, who could become elegant horses to lure you into the water, but could also disguise themselves as handsome people.

  Was she sitting on the lochside with a kelpie?

  Meg looked at the young man’s clothes. Everything he wore was rich and fine, but all the fabrics were green and blue, the colours of the loch in the sunlight. His buttons were silver like the ripples on the water. And his hair was softly waving in the breeze, like waterweed under the surface.

  She was sitting on the lochside with a kelpie…

  How could she get away, without waking him?

  Meg untied her apron and slid herself out from under the sleeping kelpie, pillowing his head on the apron and the grass beneath.

  She started to creep towards the farm. After a dozen slow, soft, scared steps, she looked behind her.

  The young man was yawning and stretching. He was waking up!

  Meg stopped walking slowly and softly. She started to run as fast as she could in her long skirts and heavy boots.

  She heard a yell of anger behind her. Then she heard hoofbeats.

  She glanced over her shoulder, and she saw a huge pale stallion with a long golden mane, one section smooth and combed, the rest all tangled with waterweed.

  The massive stallion was galloping straight towards her.

  Meg picked up her skirts and sprinted.

  But the horse was much faster, so fast that she could already feel his hot breath on her neck.

  She was still a long way from the safety of the farmhouse. But she was almost at the barn where the water bull was locked up.

  Then the horse caught her.

  Meg felt teeth biting at the back of her dress. She turned to the side, out from under those hooves, and jerked away. She felt the collar of her dress rip.

  She rolled to the ground and hauled herself up on the latch of the barn door. Then she dragged the door open and leapt out of the way.

  The furious water bull burst out of his prison and collided with the furious kelpie.

  Meg sheltered behind the wall of the barn as the two water beasts fought. The kelpie fought with his speed and his hooves; the bull fought with his weight and his horns.

  They kicked and bit, gouged and gored, wrestled and charged, screamed and roared. The kelpie’s rage at losing his prey and the water bull’s rage at being imprisoned fuelled a vicious fight.

  The two angry water beasts battled each other right to the edge of the loch. Meg watched as they both toppled into the water and, with one great splash, the horse and the bull were gone.

  Neither of them was ever seen again on the shores of that loch.

  So Meg’s father never took a water bull to market.

  And Meg had her own tale
to tell about the creatures of the loch, when her family shared stories in the dark of the night.

  The Wise Colt

  Jewish folktale

  There was once a father with twelve sons, who also owned a beautiful mare with twelve foals. So he allowed his twelve sons, in order of their birth, to choose a horse each. The youngest son was left with the smallest colt.

  The smallest colt was skinny, scabby, bald in patches, knock-kneed and a bit smelly.

  His brothers laughed at the youngest son and his pathetic colt, but the boy smiled at the horse. “Don’t mind them. I’ll look after you.”

  The horse whispered back, “And I’ll look after you.”

  The boy jumped in surprise, but the colt spoke again. “If you take me into the woods, I’ll guide you to a magical waterfall where I can wash, then I won’t be such an embarrassment to you.”

  So the boy rode the colt to the waterfall, where the bony patchy horse stood under the rushing water, and was washed clean and healthy. When he was dry, the boy brushed and combed him. Now the colt’s flanks were spotless and clear, his mane was long and glistening, his legs were strong and perfect, his neck was arched and he was the most beautiful and fragrant horse in the world.

  After that the boy took the colt’s advice on everything.

  Until one day the boy saw a long shape gleaming in the grass in front of his horse’s hooves. He leapt off the horse’s back and picked up a golden feather, shining with the warmth and beauty of a summer’s day.

  The colt said, “Put that down.”

  The boy said, “But it’s so beautiful.”

  “It is beautiful, but it’s also trouble. That golden feather will bring you worry and fear and pain. Put it down.”

  The boy shook his head. “If I put it down, it might be lost forever. Any object this precious and beautiful should be treasured, and kept among other splendid objects.”

  So the boy held the feather carefully as he rode the colt to the king’s palace, where he offered the golden feather as a gift to the king.