Once upon a time long ago, there lived in a coastal town a
little boy named Jock. He was small for
his age, thin and not very strong. The
other children seldom allowed him to join their games. “You’re not big enough to play with us,” they
would say. “You can’t keep up.” So Jock was a lonely little boy who spent
most of his spare time on the beach.
He loved
the sea. The pounding of the waves
seemed to tell him of great strength he could find within himself, and when the
sea was calm, he felt at peace being on his own and not having anyone to
compete with.
But even
more than the sea Jock loved horses.
Almost every morning he got up early and went down to the beach to watch
the race horses exercising on the sands.
He wished one of the riders would call to him, “Hi there! Would you like
a go?” For he knew, he just knew, that the very first time he would
get on a horse he would be able to ride with the best of them. But they didn’t even notice him, alone among
the sand dunes.
One morning
Jock went down to the beach to find the tide in high and the waves mightier
than he had ever seen them before. He
laughed and ran along the hissing edge of the water, and because it was much
too rough for the horses to come down, he ran all the way to the rocks on the
point that marked the end of the beach.
Suddenly he
saw, standing by the rocks, a pure white foal.
Jock gasped, for never had he seen such a beautiful animal. He approached cautiously but the foal wasn’t
at all afraid and let Jock come right up to him. His snowy coat was as fine as spun silk, his
curly mane and tail as soft as combed wool, and his eyes, that Jock thought at
first were black, were blue and green and dark as the deepest part of the sea. He and Jock played together until it was time
for Jock to go to school.
After that
he often met the foal, but only when the tide was in or the waves were
tall. The foal never came when the sea
was calm. Jock would hold on to the foal’s
mane and they would run up and down the beach and in and out of the water.
All this
exercise made Jock’s legs grow strong and soon the other children were asking
him to join their teams because he could run so fast. Jock was happy to do so, but he didn’t tell
them about the white foal. That was his
secret.
One day,
after about a year, the foal, who had grown a lot by then, was standing by a
tall rock and Jock thought that if he climbed up on that rock he might be able
to get on the foal’s back – if the foal didn’t mind.
The foal
didn’t mind at all. When Jock was safely
seated he walked up the beach. And then he cantered, and then he galloped, and
Jock, gripping the foal’s mane hard, shouted into the wind, “I can ride! I can ride!”
Later they dared to join the race horses and had a wonderful time.
“That’s a
nice horse you’ve got there,” said one of the stable boys. “Is he yours?”
Jock didn’t
know what to say. If he said Yes, he
would be telling a lie. If he said No,
they might accuse him of stealing. If he
said he didn’t know they might think the white foal was a stray and try to
catch him.
“He – he’s
my friend,” stammered Jock.
“Oh, he’s
your friend, is he?” said the stable boy.
“Let’s race him. He’s fast!”
One morning
Mr Mansfield, who owned the racing stables, came down to watch his horses
exercising. Jock and the foal didn’t
notice. When it was time for Jock to go
to school he rode the foal back to the rocks, watched him disappear round the
point and trudged back up the beach.
“Hold on there,
boy!” called Mr Mansfield, intercepting him.
“What’s your name? Where do you
live?”
Jock told
him, but with a sinking heart. All that
day he had a terrible feeling that he was in for trouble. In the evening Mr Mansfield came to see Jock’s
father.
“I like
that horse of yours,” he said. “I’ll
give you a good offer for him.”
“I’m sorry,”
said Jock’s father. “There must be some
mistake. I haven’t got a horse!”
“Well, whose
is that horse I see your son riding on the beach?” asked Mr Mansfield.
“My
son? Jock? But Jock doesn’t ride!”
“He
certainly does,” corrected Mr Mansfield.
“Where is he?”
“In his
room dong his homework, I hope,” said Jock’s father. “Jock!” he called. Jock came running.
“What’s
this I hear about you riding on the beach?”
“I was only
playing, Dad,” explained Jock quickly. “I
wasn’t doing anything wrong, honestly!”
“Whose
horse is it?” asked his father.
“I don’t
know,” Jock replied. “He just comes to
the beach sometimes and we play together, that’s all.”
“Playing or
not,” interrupted Mr Mansfield, “your son is a fine little rider and I’d like
to see him start at my stables as an apprentice.”
“Why, that’s
very good of you,” exclaimed Jock’s father, very relieved to learn that his son
was good at something. “I’ll certainly
think about it.”
“Oh, thank
you, Dad!” cried Jock, hugging him.
“Hold it,” his
father smiled. “I haven’t said yes
yet. It will depend on some improvement
in your school work.”
“Yes, Dad!”
Jock laughed, and ran off to finish his homework.
But the
secret of the white foal was out. Mr
Mansfield, after many inquiries, decided the foal was a stray and made plans to
catch him. When Jock heard about this he
ran to his father in tears.
“Dad!” he
cried. “They’re going to catch the
foal! They can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
asked his father. “He’ll go to Mr Mansfield’s
stables and be properly trained. What’s
wrong with that?”
“He’s a
free horse!” Jock tried to explain. “He’s
never had a bit in his mouth. He’s never
known a saddle or a bridle. He has to
stay that way – even if I never see him again!”
“I just don’t
understand you,” grumbled his father. “You
know you can’t have a horse running about without an owner. Mr Mansfield will look after him properly. And of course you’ll see him again. When you start at the stables, as I’ve
decided to let you do, he’ll be there for you to take care of. Now run along. I have to get to work.”
When Jock
got down to the beach he found heavy nets strung across the sands, men crouched
amongst the rocks at the point, others on horseback hiding in the dunes.
“Don’t come
today, white foal,” Jock begged silently.
But the waves were rough and he knew the foal would come – and there he was,
trotting round the point looking for his friend.
The men
made ready at the nets, moved out from among the rocks, blocking the way round
the point, rode up from the dunes with ropes in their hands.
“Run away!
Run away!” shouted Jock, sprinting down to the white foal and waving his
arms. But the foal thought he was
playing a game and frisked about on the sand as pretty as a white cloud in a
summer sky. The men moved closer and
closer.
Jock flung
his arms around the foal’s neck. “No!” he screamed. “You can’t take him! You can’t!” But the men came
on and on.
Just then,
out from the wild waves reared a herd of great white horses, water cascading
from their backs, their nostrils flared, their hooves like polished stone. Quickly they surrounded the foal. One of the mares touched her soft muzzle to
his and they all wheeled and raced back into the sea, the foal with them. And their manes were spray on the leaping
waves, their flashing eyes, deep water.
Jock
collapsed on the sand, sobbing. His
father, who had quietly followed him, sat down beside him and put his arm
around his shaking shoulders.
“Don’t take
it so hard, son,” he comforted. “You
were right. The foal wanted to be
free. Perhaps it’s better this way.”
“No, Dad,
you don’t understand,” whispered Jock. “He
hasn’t drowned. That’s where he came
from, don’t you see. He’s gone home now. And I’ll never see him again.” And he sobbed some more, in both sorrow and
relief.
But Jock
did see the white foal again, often, playing with the others in the
wind-whipped waves, although they never came on the beach again. It was too dangerous.
He went
each day after school to work at the stables and in time became a very famous
rider, which is why today the small, wiry men and boys who ride race-horses are
called ‘jockeys’.
He never
used to whip or spur on the horses he rode.
They always raced their best for him, knowing how much he loved them and
their brothers in the sea.
*****
