A PLACE TO BELONG
The winter rain was relentless and after six hours Herbie was thoroughly sick of it. His coat and mane were drenched, his forelock clung to his face no matter how much he tried to shake it off and the harness had become slippery and uncomfortable. Still he plodded on, his four massive hooves splashing through the puddles in the muddy lanes of England’s so-called green and pleasant land.
His relief when he finally arrived at Torrington Common was almost tangible. He unfastened the gate with his teeth and pushed through it, the wheels of the brightly-painted gypsy caravan behind him sinking deep into the mud as he dragged it across the sodden field. Ahead, by a cluster of trees, he could see more such caravans and even through the rain he could smell other horses. He lifted his head and gave a whinny of delighted greeting. A few heads lifted and looked towards him, though there was no reply.
With the last of his remaining strength he hauled the caravan to a spot slightly away from the others. Though a traveller too, Herbie did not belong here; he was an outsider in more ways than one, tolerated only because of family ties.
For a minute or two he just stood there, head hanging, every muscle in his massive body aching. Eventually he lifted his head and hollered, “Hey, is someone going to help me out of this damn harness?”
The colts and young stallions, quadruped and biped alike, just laughed and continued talking amongst themselves. Herbie grumbled under his breath and considered just shifting back to biped form without waiting, but he didn’t much fancy falling face-flat in the mud with thirty kilos of collar and harness on top of him.
Eventually a young biped mare approached him, her ears pricked and an excited smile on her face. “Herbie!” she squealed, leaping forward to throw her arms round his massive neck. “You’re back!”
Herbie looked down at her, frowning slightly in confusion. “Lily? Lily Meadows?”
“Yep!” She made a little curtsey and pirouetted before him, showing off her flowing white tail and traditional black and white Gypsy Vanner markings.
“You’ve grown!” Herbie said, surprised. “You were barely more than a yearling last time I saw you.”
“Well, duh,” Lily replied, tossing her head. “You haven’t been back to see us in over two years.” She started to unfasten Herbie’s harness, unhitching him from the caravan, unbuckling straps and finally, with considerable effort, lifting the heavy collar off from over his neck. He did not wear a bridle; Herbie drove himself and didn’t need one.
As soon as he was free of the encumbrance, Herbie began to shift back to biped form. It was a rare gift he’d inherited from his dam and one that had proved useful, but also was one of the features that caused distrust in others; that and his unusual blue colour which, today, was mostly hidden by mud. The transformation took almost half a minute – it always took longer when he was tired – and when it was complete he still towered a good four or five hands taller than Lily. She hugged him again, this time her arms around his waist. “I’m glad you’re back, Herbie, even if the others aren’t. Your mum will be too.”
Herbie smiled back, ruffled her forelock with a broad white human-shaped hand, and climbed into the caravan to get cleaned up and dressed. This took longer than expected because he fell asleep, from sheer exhaustion, and it was almost two hours later before he awoke again. He washed and groomed himself at the little sink, put oilskin wraps round his lower legs and threw on a long leather overcoat and a battered old broad-brimmed hat to keep the worst of the rain off him, though thankfully it had by now relented and was reduced to merely normal rain, instead of torrential.
Finally he grabbed a small sack from the table and tucked it under his arm before heading across the gypsy camp to visit his mother. She was in her caravan, busy with an arrangement of poinsettia flowers, holly and pine-fronds. The inside of the caravan smelled of ginger and oranges and winter-blooming roses. Always roses, for Rosie. Herbie carefully set down the sack and hugged her. She seemed tired and much older than last time he saw her.
“Herbie, my son,” Rosie murmured, holding tight to him.
“I missed you, mum,” Herbie whispered, choking back tears. “Merry Christmas. Sorry I’m late.”
“Oh Herbie,” Rosie replied, her hands on each of Herbie’s cheeks. Like Lily and most of the other horses at the camp, she was a traditional Vanner. “You’re here at last, that’s all that matters to me.”
Herbie picked up the sack and handed it to her. “I brought you a present,” he said, smiling again. She gave an excited giggle like a filly and hurriedly untied it, to reveal three exquisite boxes of hand-carved, polished rosewood. Each bore a word; Tea, Sugar and Biscuits. Rosie was well-known for her sweet tooth.
“Oh, Herbie! These are beautiful! Thank you! Did you make them yourself?” He nodded and she hugged him again. “I have something for you too,” she said, taking a cardboard box down from a cupboard. Herbie opened the box to find a new hat, which he put on his head right away in exchange for the old one, and underneath it an envelope with his name on it. He picked it up. It was brown and business-like.
“Open it,” Rosie said, a subtle smile on her lips.
Herbie opened the envelope and scanned the document, his eyes growing wide at the cheque stapled to it, made out in his name with an unexpectedly large amount of money. “What’s this?”
“Your sire has gone back to Germany. Grange Farm is sold. He didn’t want you to have any of the proceeds from the sale but I insisted and he finally agreed to twenty-five percent.”
Herbie stared at the cheque for a long time. He would likely never see his father again and he wasn’t sure if that made him feel happy or sad. Happy for himself because his father had always hated his freak son, but sad because his mother loved him and he knew she would miss him terribly. And suddenly, Herbie was rich, and he had absolutely no idea what to do with this new-found wealth.
Horse Tales 