Free A Horse Called Hero by Sam Angus Page B

of a cobalt sky but the ground was stiff with frost. A fringe of glistening icicles
hung like dinosaur teeth from the stable roof. Hero was now tall enough to reach his neck over the stable door, and would always be there, watching the kitchen door, waiting for Wolfie. Hero now
shared the same winter quarters as Scout, though they were separated by a stall. Scout would rest her whiskery head on the wooden bar, following Hero’s every movement with her gentle amber
eyes. She never looked out into the yard, her eyes were always on Hero. Wolfie didn’t approve of Hero being in a stable. He said that Hero missed the prancing and the chasing he could do
outside. Wolfie turned from the window and went to the larder, saying, ‘Hero will have apples today and celery and a carrot. That’s his Christmas treat. But he does not like to be in a
box. He is restless in a box.’
    Thoughts of Hero always came with thoughts of Pa: Hero would have carrots and apples and celery for Christmas, but what would Pa have? Wolfie left the larder and joined Father Lamb at what they
called the church window.
    ‘You see, Wolfie –’ Father Lamb gestured down to the churchyard where you could pick out, through mist that still clung to the hollows, the white sheep and the gravestones
– ‘there’ll not be far for me to go when the time comes, only Hettie’s redcurrants between me and the grave.’ Father Lamb smiled. ‘Beneath that rowan there, all
red and silver, is where I’ll lie . . . The rowan, you see, is not only the tree of the moor, but also the tree that stands sentinel at heaven’s gate.’
    It took Wolfie a minute or so to digest the thought of Father Lamb lying beyond the redcurrants, below the sheep and the rowan. He looked at Father Lamb’s rosy cheeks and white beard and
decided that he was not entirely serious. Eventually he took Father Lamb’s hand and asked, ‘What do you do if you are in your barracks on Christmas day?’
    ‘We’ve not heard from your pa for a while, have we? We’ll pray for him today.’ He put an arm around the boy’s shoulder, rumpling Wolfie’s thick hair.
‘Will you ever be tidy, you tatterdemalion child?’
    Wolfie looked up at him, bewildered.
    ‘Must you always look as though you’ve slept the night in a manger, with the ass and oxen?’
    ‘I will . . .’ began Wolfie, patting ineffectually at his hair.
    ‘Come the Resurrection,’ said Father Lamb with a smile.
    The door opened and Samuel entered. There was no day of rest for Samuel.
    ‘They’ve gone, sir, two more gone. They were down in the cleave and they’ve gone – young ones – two fillies.’
    Father Lamb buried his face in his hands. After a minute he looked up and said, shaking, ‘Well, Wolfie, we’ll not tell Hettie today I think, nor Dodo.’ To Samuel he said,
‘Who’s taking them? They’re obstinate as camels – who is it do you think? It’s surely a local?’
    Samuel shook his head. As he turned to the door, he saw an envelope on the mat that he’d missed in his rush.
    ‘We’ll guard them every day,’ Wolfie was saying. ‘Every day when we’re not at school.’
    Samuel handed the envelope to Father Lamb. Wolfie leaped forward.
    ‘Is it another one from Pa?’ There was a Christmas card from Pa waiting to be opened on the table.
    Samuel glanced at Father Lamb, shaking his head. ‘It came by hand.’
    Father Lamb put the envelope on the Christmas breakfast table with the small group of envelopes that waited there. He embraced Samuel and wished him and his family a merry Christmas.
    When Hettie and Dodo joined them, the fire was lit, the boiled eggs ready and waiting. Father Lamb said nothing about the missing ponies.
    ‘It’s lucky Hero’s not a London horse, isn’t it?’ Wolfie said as he ate his egg. ‘London horses don’t get honey and eggs.’
    Hettie took an envelope from the pile on the table. ‘Ten pints is a lot of milk for one horse in a time of war and rationing,’ she