A Horse Called Hero by Sam Angus Read Free Book Online Page A

forearm, around the large bone of the knee, closing his hand, wonderingly, in a ring around the long cannon bone of a leg. He measured the length of his own arm
against Hero’s foreleg, then felt the surprising softness of a young hoof.
    Then he scooped out a finger of honey and swirled it into the jar of water Dodo had prepared. He extended his hand and Hero’s head turned, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. Wolfie
inched his palm closer and waited. Hero drew his head closer, nostrils wide and rosy pink. Wolfie’s hand was still, his eyes watching as the velvet ears flickered.
    Hero’s head drew closer still, the dark almond eye watching, then closer still, and Wolfie felt the soft muzzle on his palm, felt the lips open and snuffle, snuffle again, finding the
honey, then snorting and slurping. Wolfie poured more honey mixture and held out his palm, watching Hero as Hero watched him. Straightaway Hero snuffled and snorted again at his palm.
    When there was no more water, Wolfie took a torch from the basket and poked around the walls of the building. Finally he found a feed scoop in a bucket by the door. He broke the egg on to it,
then some condensed milk. Hero lifted his head, suspicious and wary, then inched it round slowly, nostrils twitching, and suddenly slurping at the strange new food, then snuffling and blowing and
slurping and then nuzzling Wolfie for more, almost knocking the condensed milk can from his hand as he upended it over the scoop. Again Hero wet his snout and blew and slurped and sloshed, and
Wolfie laughed with the sweetness of it.
    Hero was tiring. Like a baby, Wolfie thought, seeing the eyelids droop, the long straight lashes dark against the pale furry coat. Wolfie placed his hand on Hero’s narrow forehead. His
lips were twitching. Dreaming of milk and honey, Wolfie thought to himself. His hand followed the crest of Hero’s neck, down to the withers. He felt the muscles relax and soften under his
stroking. He ran his hand down the shoulder, along the rib, and felt there, beneath his hand, the pulse of a heart beating.
    He drew the blanket slowly over Hero, then lay down, there, beside his horse, in the quiet of night, in the prickle and smell of straw, the dark stable as peaceful as the calm of a church, the
silence full as a prayer.
    The cuffs of his pyjamas sticky and sweet with milk, Wolfie grew warm and drowsy, edging closer to Hero. He laid his head on the straw, and watched Hero’s ears flicker and then,
eventually, still, the eyelids half close. He grew conscious in the stillness of the beating of his own heart, and the ribcage beside him that rose and fell, rose and fell. Over the barn door hung
a night more starry than he’d ever known.

Chapter Eight
    When Dodo woke, it was too late. She yanked her shoes on and raced down the stairs. She’d wanted to get to Windwistle, to drag Wolfie back before Mrs Sprig woke but
she’d fallen into a deep sleep just before dawn.
    Mrs Sprig was downstairs, already busy. The fire was lit under the round-bottomed copper, Mrs Sprig all a fever of washing and boiling. Dodo eyed the front door and hesitated.
    ‘Where’s Wolfgang? Tell him to hurry,’ called Mrs Sprig’s voice from a cloud of steaming and boiling laundry in the small room beyond the kitchen. Dodo glanced again at
the door. It was flung open and Wolfie erupted into the room, straw in his hair, straw clinging to his pyjamas. Mrs Sprig stepped into the kitchen, a wet sheet in her arms, and looked at him,
open-mouthed.
    ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
    Wolfie avoided her and sat quickly on the bench at the table. Dodo sat beside him and hurriedly picked out some straw from his hair.
    ‘Can I ask . . . ?’ began Mrs Sprig.
    But Wolfie could contain himself no longer. ‘Dodo! Dodo!’ he burst out. ‘He ate it all, all of it . . .’
    ‘Who ate what?’
    ‘Hero – there’s a – I’ve got a foal.’
    ‘Go and get dressed, Wolfie.’ Dodo was pushing him