At first, it seemed absurda child challenging a wild horse.
I can ride him, the boy declared.
The crowd burst into laughter.
Some shook their heads and muttered to one another, Thisll end in tears.
Yet the boy remained unmoved. He walked forward with a calm air, almost measured and poised.
The horse, a great dark stallion, lifted his head, alert and wary. He hesitated, sizing up the boy, while a hush fell across the gathered crowd.
Something was off, everyone felt it.
Why hasnt he reared? someone murmured, uneasily.
Mr. Harold Goodman, the horses owner, narrowed his eyes. Who taught you that? he demanded.
The boy locked eyes with him and spoke a single sentenceone that changed the mans expression entirely.
The stallion had flung a dozen grown men in as many weeksnot one of them able to stay upon his back.
One chap left with a broken arm, another had several teeth knocked out, and the last rider was dragged unconscious while the animal battered the iron gate until the bars bent.
Now, folk simply came to watch the spectaclenot for love of horses, but for the thrill of danger.
That late summer afternoon, golden motes swirled lazily in the sunlight over the old Surrey village fairgrounds. The croaky music of an accordion drifted from a battered wireless perched upon the judges platform, blending with the shouts of merchants by their carts. Children, hair tousled, clambered atop rough fence rails for a better look.
And in the centre ring stood the great stallionBlack Prince.
He was huge. Ferocious. Exquisite.
Muscle rippled beneath his coat, black as pitch. Foam flecked his lips, and every so often, he pawed the ground, as though resenting it.
No one dared go near him.
Harold stood watchfully by the fence, thumbs resting in his braces, accepting admiring glances as spectators whispered about the infamous horse.
No one rides the Prince, he had repeated endlessly throughout the week.
Yet the boy stepped forward.
I can.
This was met with raucous laughter.
A farmhand sputtered his cider. Two young lads scrambled for their cameras, eager to capture the disaster. An older woman tutted and wished the boys mother luck.
For, plainly, the boy cut a peculiar figuresmall and slim, perhaps eleven, if that.
His trousers were thin at the knees, boots in a sorry state. His plain brown jumper sagged off his slight shoulders.
He looked utterly ordinary.
Except for his eyes.
They werent intrigued. Nor fearful. He watched the horse as if hed known him all his life.
Harold curled his lip into a half-smile.
Lad, he called, that horse will send you to hospital.
The boy said nothing, slipping through the fence instead.
The laughter faltered.
A subtle anxiety crept amongst the crowd; for Black Prince had noticed himhead high, ears flat, nostrils flared, one hoof scraping a warning in the sand.
Everyone braced for the uproar.
The charge.
The chaos.
But
the horse did nothing.
He simplystopped.
Grains of dust drifted round his ankles in the silence.
The boy advanced, slow and unhurried. No rope, no bridle, no saddle. Not a whisper of trepidation.
The stallion watched him intently.
Then, just barely, he lowered his head, as though recognising him.
A ripple of confusion swept the gathered assembly.
Not right, that
Harolds face clouded.
Because Black Prince abhorred strangers, detested noise, movementeven breathing near him brought trouble.
Yet here, now, the beast stood so still that you could hear the flags crack gently above the ring.
The boy raised a hand, gentle and measured.
The Prince did not stir.
People lowered their cameras. The moment felt far too otherworldly for any sort of recording.
Why hasnt he reared? a voice hissed from the edge.
Harold pressed closer against the fence, his frown deepening.
The boy softly stroked the horses neck.
Black Prince, astonishingly, closed his eyes.
Utter hush settled across the ring.
Harold stared, his brow furrowing.
Who taught you that? he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.
The boy glanced up.
Met his gaze.
And replied, quietly, My father trained himbefore the fire.
The colour ran from Harold Goodmans cheeks in an instant.
Around the ring, murmurs began:
What fire?
What does he mean?
But Harold barely heard the words.
For only three souls knew that Black Prince had existed before the Goodman stable had burned to the ground, more than a decade past.
Harold.
His elder brother.
And the vanished horseman rumoured to have perished among the flames on that fateful night.
The boy rested his forehead gently against the stallions crest.
And, even softer, added,
My dad always said, you left him behind.Harolds lips parted, but no sound came; his eyes shimmered, locked on the boy who wore the ghost of a man Harold had long tried to forget.
For a heartbeat no one breathed.
Then, delicately, the boy grasped Black Princes mane and swung astride the stallions vast back. There was no buck, no battle. Only the quiver of muscle as the horse accepted his weight, as naturally as the rising sun.
Around the ring, awe crashed in slow motiona tide of disbelief, then thunderous applause erupting from every heart.
The boy rode the great horse once round the ringin perfect balancewhile the crowd cheered and called his fathers name, half-remembered, on their lips.
Harolds shoulders sagged; regret etched across his weathered face as memories hed buried pulled at him with gentle, inexorable hands.
As the boy slid down, Black Prince pressed his muzzle against the childs shoulder, a silent benediction for all that had been lost and all that, against the odds, still remained.
The boy lingered by Harold on his way out, voice gentle: Sometimes, all a wild heart needs is to be remembered.
And with that, he was gonevanishing into the golden haze, with a black shadow at his side and the summer fair forever changed behind him.
