Snow Foal--the perfect Christmas book for children Page 7

  She rubbed her eyes, turned to look at Jude. His shape was hazy against the daylight outside the tree.

  ‘What is that?’ she whispered.

  Jude moved past her, fiddling with the torch. The beam narrowed, became weaker. The fireflies stilled, glimmered like minute stars in the gloom. Addie blinked; closed her eyes. Sparks of colour still danced inside them. She waited a moment, then moved further inside the cavern.

  The now pale torchlight slid across the walls. They were draped with fabric. Peacock blue, vibrant greens and golds swirled across the surface; tiny round mirrors caught the light, glinted among the folds. Sunni’s sari fabric. From her special box.

  ‘Sunni?’ Addie said. ‘Sunni did this?’

  Jude nodded.

  Addie looked back over her shoulder.

  ‘She won’t like us being here,’ she said.

  Jude nudged her elbow. He stared up at her and jabbed at his chest.

  ‘What? Sunni said you could show me?’

  Jude shook his head. He jabbed harder, with both hands now. The torchlight whipped across his face. What was he trying to say?

  Jude pulled at Addie’s sleeve, drew her backwards. He shone the torch to one side of the entrance to the tree room.

  Letters. White. Rough. Carved into the ancient bark. Addie followed the beam across them:

  Jude

  and

  thomas

  Their place.

  ‘This is yours!’ Addie said. ‘Sunni did this for you ?’

  Jude nodded. The fireflies were in his eyes now.

  Addie traced the words with one finger.

  ‘Thomas. Is that your friend?’

  Jude looked away. When he looked back, the fireflies had gone.

  He switched off the torch and scrambled back outside.

  ‘Wait, Jude.’ Addie followed him into the field.

  It was raining again, a wet drizzle that clung to her face like a fine net. The sky was heavy, the early blue vanished and replaced by grey clouds.

  Jude wasn’t wearing his hat. He must have left it in the tree. Tiny droplets of rain were caught in his hair.

  ‘Put your hood up, Jude,’ Addie said. She reached forward and flipped it up on top of his head. Jude flinched; pushed the hood away. He ploughed forward, his head bent low on his chest. Addie wished she hadn’t asked about Thomas. But who was he?

  ‘You can give the foal his milk, if you like,’ she said. ‘He usually only lets me, but he’ll let you too. I know he will.’

  Jude pushed his hands into his pockets. The grey sky filled his eyes.

  Addie had made him disappear again.

  Addie handed the bottle of milk to Jude. The foal studied him from beneath his long lashes, then moved towards him and began to feed.

  ‘Told you,’ Addie said. ‘He likes you.’

  The foal pulled hard on the rubber teat and dragged it from Jude’s grasp. It fell on to the straw. The foal nosed at it; tried to put his lips around the teat again.

  ‘You have to hold it with both hands,’ Addie said. ‘I’ll show you.’ She picked up the bottle, held it out to Jude. ‘He’s getting really strong now. And greedy, too’

  Jude shook his head; folded his arms behind his back.

  ‘You’ve got to,’ Addie said. ‘I need to go and mix his special cereal for afterwards. He doesn’t like waiting. He’s only a baby.’

  She tucked the bottle between Jude’s feet, picked up the foal’s feeding bucket and went to the other end of the barn to fill it from the sacks of meal stored in the last pen. She climbed on top of one of them and peered across the pen walls at Jude and the foal.

  They stood facing one another. Still. Silent. The foal stepped forward, nuzzled close to Jude’s ear, as if whispering to him. Jude stepped back. The foal shook his head, blew down his nose and whinnied softly. Addie saw him stumble a little on his gangly, uncertain legs; heard the scrape of his hooves against the floor. He wanted that milk. She’d better go and see to it herself. She jumped down from the sack of meal, threw handfuls of feed into the bucket and set off back across the barn.

  Wind whistled in the rafters above her. Gabe had warned of a storm; said the cows had come out from under the trees to be safe from lightning. They were never wrong, he said.

  But there was another sound too: gentle, thin. What was it? Addie stopped, put down the bucket, strained to hear between the gusts of wind.

  A small voice rose and fell – soft, husky, barely more than a broken whisper.

  Jude. It was Jude.

  Jude singing.

  Addie crept towards the stall. The singing stopped.

  The foal lay in the straw, legs tucked beneath him. Jude was kneeling beside him, stroking his white muzzle. The empty feeding bottle stood beside him.

  Addie held her breath.

  ‘Thomas – has – milk,’ Jude said. He jumped, as if startled; glanced up at Addie. His chin trembled. He looked back down at the foal.

  Addie breathed out. Her heart beat in her ears. Jude singing. Jude talking.

  What if she broke the spell? Made Jude’s voice go away again?

  She knelt down next to him, fondled the foal’s velvet ears. ‘Is . . . is Thomas a baby too, then?’

  Jude nodded.

  ‘What, your baby brother?’

  Jude’s chin sank on to his chest, as if his head was suddenly too heavy for him. He stared up at Addie. A tear slid from one eye. It clung to his cheek: silver, perfect, clear as melting ice. ‘Thomas likes songs,’ he said.

  ‘Where is Thomas?’ Addie said. ‘Is he with your mam?’

  Jude shook his head, covered his face with his hands.

  His sobs echoed around the barn, echoed inside Addie; became part of the rain and the wind. Part of the wildness of winter. Part of the gentle breath of the sleeping foal.

  Jude slid round the barn door. He turned, pressed both hands against it, and tried to heave it shut. His boots slid backwards on the dusty flagstones. The door groaned, shifted just a little. Jude groaned too and gave up. He sauntered over to Addie, hands in the pockets of his duffel coat.

  ‘Can’t do it,’ he grunted.

  Addie glanced at the partially closed door. A beam of light had followed Jude inside. It stretched like a stage spotlight towards them, warmed Addie’s arms.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I needed a bit more light and it’s not cold today.’

  Addie loved this soft spring light. It made everything on the farm look bright and new, as if the bitter snows had washed the world clean in readiness for better things to come. Tiny new bulbs pushed green shoots through the earth under the hedgerows; delicate snowdrops already showed their brave white flowers. There were green buds on the trees and shiny yellow cowslips in the fields.

  Jude was talking: a little more every day.

  Hope blossomed inside Addie. Mam would feel better too, now spring was here. Addie just knew she would.

  She turned back to the foal, began moving a wide silver comb through his mane. It caught almost immediately. Addie stopped, gently teased two thick strands of hair from its metal teeth

  Jude’s small, serious face tilted towards her, still scarlet with effort. ‘What’s his name?’ he asked. His words seemed to echo around the barn. His eyes widened, as if the sound of his voice was as much a surprise for him, as it sometimes still was for Addie.

  ‘He doesn’t have a name,’ she said. ‘He’s a wild pony. Wild animals don’t have names.’

  ‘Do so.’ Jude inspected the straw, scuffed at it with his foot. ‘Simba does. An’ he’s a lion.’

  The foal shook his head, stretched his neck round and nudged at Addie’s arm.

  ‘And Sam’s cows,’ Jude added. He nodded his head emphatically. ‘They got names.’

  Addie thought of Sam’s ‘girls’: Betsy, Josephine and the rest, with their strange, staring eyes and flared nostrils; their low, eerie calls. ‘Cows aren’t wild animals, Jude,’ she said, not entirely sure that she was right. �
�And Simba’s made up. In a film. That’s different.’

  Jude folded his arms across his chest. ‘Well, the foal wants a name. A special name,’ he added, in a whisper.

  Addie ran her hand down the foal’s nose, felt his leathery lips open and close against her skin. ‘You’re OK, aren’t you, boy?’ she said. ‘You know who you are.’

  She put the comb in her pocket and crouched down in front of Jude.

  ‘We can’t give him a name, Jude. He doesn’t belong to us. He doesn’t belong on a farm with people and cows and snuffling pigs in pens made out of brick. He belongs to his mam. He belongs to the forest and the moor and the big wide sky out there.’ She stood up again. ‘He’s a wild animal, like I said. He doesn’t want to stay here, so he doesn’t want a name, all right?’

  Jude’s chin sank. ‘Doesn’t look wild,’ he muttered. He blinked. Once. Twice. Was he going to cry again?

  Addie sighed. What was it about Jude that squeezed at her heart like a fist?

  ‘Come on, Jude,’ she said. ‘You can help me. I’ll show you how. You’ll be a good hairdresser.’ She picked up a flat, round brush. ‘Like this. Watch.’ She swept the brush in gentle downward strokes over the foal’s flanks. ‘Don’t press too hard.’ She held the brush out to Jude.

  Jude took it, turned it over in his hands. His shoulders lifted a little.

  ‘And if you really want to,’ Addie said, ‘I suppose you could think of a name. Then you could call him that. In your head.’

  Jude looked up. Light flickered across his face. His mouth twisted to one side. He brightened, smiled his small smile. ‘Feather,’ he announced. ‘Feather.’ He pointed the brush at the narrow patch of white hairs on the foal’s forehead. ‘Cos he’s got one. There.’

  Addie traced the shape with her finger. When had it first appeared? It hadn’t been there to begin with and now it was. Curled like the feathers that drifted from the henhouse and lifted on the breeze. Snow-white, like the feather that she had once found on her bedroom windowsill at home. An angel had left it there. That’s what Mam said. Addie had kept it under her pillow for weeks.

  Jude moved closer. The foal nosed at his pocket. ‘I don’t got sweets today,’ he whispered. He glanced over his shoulder at Addie.

  ‘He knows you have, though, Jude!’ Addie shook her head. There was always something in those pockets, despite Ruth’s eagle eyes and a new hiding place for the treats tin in the kitchen.

  Jude’s cheeks flushed pink. He leaned in, squinted at the foal’s head. ‘Might not be a feather,’ he said. ‘Might be a snowflake. Is it, Addie?’

  Addie shrugged. ‘We’ll have to wait and see, as he grows.’ She thought of those first Exmoor snowflakes again: fragile and gentle on her skin as she set out to escape the farm, to find her way back to Mam. She remembered her desperation; her fear at being separated from Mam for even one more day; her fear of this unfamiliar wild world. She hadn’t thought she could survive any of it. But she had. So far.

  They had. Addie and the snow foal. Together.

  ‘Snowflake wouldn’t be the right name for him, Jude,’ she said. ‘Snowflakes are delicate. This foal is tough. And strong.’ She leaned forward and wrapped her arms round his arched neck. ‘And brave. Very, very brave.’

  Jude moved away. He dropped the brush on to the straw; stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. He tucked his chin down low, like the shy pigeons in the rafters above his head.

  ‘Aren’t you helping then?’ Addie said.

  ‘When will I be brave?’ he muttered into his coat.

  ‘You already are,’ Addie said. ‘Every day. Now come on, let’s get this little one looking his best. Sam says it’s time to take him outside for a bit.’

  She took the foal’s face between her hands. ‘You’ll have to be brave all over again when Sam comes,’ she said. ‘But me and Jude will help you, so you’ll be OK.’

  The foal stared back at Addie. His eyes still and trusting.

  But going outside meant wearing straps round his face, being pulled at; led away on a rein or rope, Gabe had said. What would a wild foal make of all that? Addie wondered.

  And what would he make of leaving his soft bed of straw and the safety of the low-lit barn; of the yard with its noisy cobbles, scuttling hens and huge, rusted red tractor?

  Addie already knew the answer. But if the foal was ever going to get back to his moorland home, back to his mam, he had to cope.

  Was there a way to make it easier for him?

  She dragged the foal’s feed bucket close to his nose and bundled some handfuls of fresh hay into it. ‘Come on, Jude,’ she said. ‘You can do your hairdressing later. I’ve got an idea.’

  Addie searched among the coats hanging in the hallway and found her long striped scarf underneath Sam’s yellow waterproof jacket. ‘Got it,’ she said. ‘Right, back to the barn, Jude.’

  Ruth called from the kitchen, ‘Addie. Jude. Come on in now. There’s a snack for you. Wash your hands, please.’

  Jude stared at Addie. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said.

  Addie sighed. ‘OK, but we have to be quick.’

  Gabe and Ruth were at the table surrounded by a pile of books.

  Gabe looked up. He flopped back in his chair, mopped his brow. ‘A rescue party. At last!’ he said. He closed the lid of his laptop.

  ‘We’re nearly done here,’ Ruth said. She ruffled Gabe’s hair. ‘But not quite.’ She opened the laptop again. ‘Your turn this afternoon, you two.’ She smiled at Addie and Jude. ‘We’ll make it fun, I promise!’

  Jude climbed on to his chair, stared expectantly at Ruth.

  ‘Over on the range, Addie,’ Ruth said. She pointed to a tray of golden flapjacks. ‘Bring them over, sweetheart.’

  They did look good. They smelled wonderful too: warm and sweet and syrupy. Addie supposed they had time for one. Or two.

  Flo hopped out of her basket as Addie carried the tray to the table. She positioned herself beside Gabe and stared her amber stare. She knew better than to waste her time with Jude. When Gabe didn’t give in, Flo turned her attention to Addie.

  No wonder she could make Sam’s sheep do whatever she wanted, Addie thought, as she dropped a chunk of flapjack under the table.

  ‘Flo, basket,’ Gabe said. ‘Go. No more hypnotising Addie.’

  Flo slunk away, dragging the trailing end of Addie’s scarf part of the way with her, as if in defiance.

  Gabe retrieved it. ‘Not cold are you, Addie?’ He grinned. ‘I’m out there in my T-shirt now the snow’s gone.’

  ‘And your hat,’ Jude said, through a huge mouthful of food.

  ‘Always.’ Gabe nodded. ‘You’d look pretty good in a beanie yourself, Jude.’ He pulled a purple one from his back pocket. ‘Here. Try this’.

  Jude shrank away, placed his hands over his head.

  ‘He doesn’t want to,’ Addie said. ‘He doesn’t like purple.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Gabe whisked the hat away. ‘So last season.’

  Addie brushed crumbs from her hands. She had important things to do. And less time than she’d thought to do them, now that Ruth was planning school work for after lunch.

  ‘Come on, Jude,’ she said. ‘You’ll burst if you eat any more flapjack.’

  Jude prodded at his stomach. ‘Won’t,’ he said. But he wiped his hand across his mouth, slid down from his seat, and went to wash the stickiness from his face and fingers.

  Addie noticed that he no longer had to stand on tiptoes to reach the taps. He was growing, just like the foal.

  Addie rolled her scarf into a bundle, held it close to the foal’s nose. He nudged it. His nostrils opened and closed. He pushed his face against it.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said.

  ‘What you doing, Addie?’ Jude whispered.

  ‘Shhhh!’ Addie looked over her shoulder at him, held a finger to her lips.

  She unrolled the scarf, stroked it along the foal’s warm cheek and over his forehead. His eyes narrowed a little, as if he might
be sleepy. Addie laid the scarf across the base of his neck. He turned and nosed at it; looked at Addie, his head tipped to one side.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘You’re doing really well.’

  ‘What’re you doing, though?’ Jude’s legs jiggled with impatience.

  Addie looped the ends of the scarf together and stepped away. The foal shifted from foot to foot, bent forward and took a long drink from his water trough. His ears stood straight and stiff, but he lifted his head and stared at Addie, as if asking the same question. Then he was still. So far, so good.

  She crossed the fingers of both hands for a moment, then reached for the loop of scarf. She took a step back. And another. The fabric became taught. The foal’s head jerked in alarm. He backed towards the rear of the stall, stretching the scarf tighter against his neck.

  ‘Those sweets, Jude,’ Addie said, ‘in your pocket. Hold one out for him.’

  Jude delved into both pockets, brought out a packet of Polo mints and a handful of fruit bonbons welded together in a clump. ‘Polos,’ he said. ‘Polos are his favourite.’

  He held out two in an outstretched palm.

  ‘A bit closer,’ Addie said.

  It worked. The foal sniffed the air, stretched out his neck, took a step forward. Then another. He drew his sweet prize into his mouth, crunched it between his flat teeth.

  ‘Well done,’ Addie said. ‘Good boy.’ She fondled his ears.

  ‘Hold out some more, Jude,’ she whispered, ‘only this time, don’t let him get them so quickly. Just keep moving away. Towards the door. Slowly. Really slowly.’

  There was only one mint left by the time they reached the door.

  ‘Open it a bit, Jude,’ Addie said. ‘Just a little bit.’

  The foal stopped in his tracks, nostrils flaring at the slow scrape of the door, the influx of light and new smells on the air. He tossed his head, pulled back. Addie felt his hot, panicked breath on her face and hands. He showed no interest in Jude’s mints.

  ‘He’s scared,’ Jude said. ‘Don’t make him, Addie.’