Merry Christmas, whispered the wintry breeze as it roused the husky voice of the pine needles.
Merry Christmas, groaned the old inn sign, swinging upon a rusty chain.
Merry Christmas, murmured the frozen brook beneath its icy blanket.
Half buried in the December snowstorm the little town looked almost Dickensian. Cobbles lay stark against the warm white backdrop of the snow, scraped aside by industrious spades of happy, cheery neighbours. Still their laughing greeting was left like a candle in the dark -
“Merry Christmas!”
The windows cast halos of golden light onto the snow. Wreaths smiled onto gardens containing snowmen, tall and stiff like sentries with their stick arms spread out wide. And in the snowbound park a single holly tree stood, its berries like rubies in the snow.
There was a contented silence as the village slept beneath a snowy blanket, dreaming sweet Christmas dreams of reindeer and flying sleighs. But as the first star rose in the sky, the same bright star that guided the three Wise Men on the very first Christmas, sweet young voices broke the silence and a small knot of children wandered onto the street. Each carried a lantern, except for one; a tall girl in a long coat, the only one whose hood had been thrown back on her shoulders, with brazen hair tied in a long thick plait down her back. Winifred was the oldest, besides having the loveliest name, so she led the choir. She didn’t have to carry a lantern like the little ones. Instead, she cradled a fine leather-bound book in her arms. It was an old book, the pages yellow and well-thumbed, wrinkled from many years of dog-earing (its ribbon bookmark had long since been chewed off by a wayward pup), and the cover threatened to fall off, but Winifred carried it as if it was as sacred as the Ten Commandments.
In a way Grandma Heatherson’s Carol Book was sacred. It only came out of her big, dusty, glass-fronted bookshelf once a year; on Christmas Eve. And this was the first year that Winifred had had the privilege of carrying it. Reynard had turned eighteen, and discreetly withdrew from the choir.
Timmy, on the other hand, had the wonderful job of carrying the Collection Box. They had instantly chosen Timmy for this job. Nobody could resist his freckles, his quiet green eyes and angelic mop of curly yellow hair.
And of course the most important job belonged to Pedro. Pedro was sixteen years old and had ambled along with the choir since he was four. He had grown from curious, long-legged youth into the quiet dignity of age. And certainly Pedro was a horse to be proud of. He bore himself with a quiet assurance to match that of the greatest of kings. Besides that he demanded respect with his sheer presence.
It’s hard not to have that presence when you stand eighteen hands tall at the wither; over two metes. And Pedro was not only tall, he was massive. He seemed as broad as a car, and he was much taller. His Roman nose gave him a noble air and his feet were the size of dinner plates and covered in long white hair. The smith had had to melt down two horseshoes to custom make one to fit one of Pedro’s massive feet. He was too light to be a chestnut and too dark to be palomino; a sort of golden red, with a beige mane and tail.
He strode along with his impassive dignity beside Winifred, being led by a six-year-old named Will. His owner had bridled him in supple leather that shone like mahogany, adorned with gleaming horse charms. There were ribbons plaited into his mane and a rather ridiculous yellow bow in the end of his tail (that was Timmy’s idea; no one had the heart to stop him).
Pedro’s job was to carry the musician. For some reason the job of carrying the musician was considered much more important than the job of carrying the Collection Box or the Carol Book or even making the music. This was perhaps because it was Pedro who was doing it.
He dwarfed the party. He dwarfed Winifred, looking down at her from his lofty height. He dwarfed the poles the lanterns were slung on. He especially dwarfed Will, who only reached his knee. He even dwarfed a few garden sheds. Pedro was massive.
“What next, Winnie?” inquired Benjamin, the long-legged sixteen-year-old who sat on Pedro’s back with a flute.
“Well... I suppose we go home now,” said Winifred, reluctant. Will and Timmy were beginning to wilt.
“That’s a good idea,” observed Benjamin. “Oi, Tim, come over here.” Winifred gave Timmy a leg-up and, on second thoughts, added Will. Pedro accepted his triple burden happily. Benjamin took the reins. “Tally ho,” he said.
The amateur carollers set off again. Winifred had closed the Book and carried it reverently under one arm. It was only two or three kilometres’ tramp home to their own village, and the roads were well-trodden. But in only a few minutes Benjamin had dismounted and Pedro carried an array of small children. Winifred was giving Will a piggyback. Timmy had fallen asleep with his arms around Pedro’s neck (or halfway around; his arms were too short to encircle Pedro’s huge neck).
“See, we’ve already reached the forest,” said Winifred. “Only a little way to go now.”
But as they reached the shadows of the impassive oaks, Winifred felt a sweet, cold touch on her cheek. Then another on her hand.
“It’s snowing,” Benjamin remarked.
Pedro’s opinion was a low snort through his nose.
It started suddenly. Soon the world was a white curtain. Winifred could make out nothing beyond a big old yew a few metres away. She stopped, puzzled. Pedro halted beside her, flicking his great ears to and fro.
“Winnie? Have we lost the road?” whispered Benjamin.
“I’m afraid so,” hissed Winifred. “What shall we do?”
Benjamin’s merry mouth did not lose its perpetual half-smile, but the grey eyes beneath the mop of brown curls were grim. “When this storm blows over we ought to know where we are. Let’s hole up somewhere for the night.”
Pedro snorted again, very softly.
“Here’s a good place,” said Benjamin a few minutes later, pushing aside a curtain of frosty willow leaves. The leaves were so thick that not a snowflake had penetrated them, and a warm, leafy haven awaited within. Winifred and Benjamin held the leaves apart for Pedro to come in. He lowered his head, almost banging it on a branch.
“Good lad, Pedro,” Winifred said in what she hoped was a comforting voice. She tethered the big horse to a branch. Between them, Benjamin and Winifred managed to get most of the little ones comfortable. They were too tired to care where they were, and soon fell asleep in a warm heap.
“It’s bound to blow over soon,” murmured Benjamin as he and Winifred sat together with their backs against Pedro, who had lain down and started nibbling a few blades of grass.
“Bound to,” whispered Winifred.
Neither of them said that these blizzards sometimes held out for days.
Neither of them mentioned the scanty ration of Christmas cookies in the bottom of Benjamin’s rucksack.
Neither of them spoke of this Merry Christmas that had become a miserable one.
But all of them thought it.
Winifred must have fallen asleep, because she awoke when Pedro got up. Benjamin snorted to wakefulness beside her. The big horse stamped his great iron-shod hoof and nickered through his nose.
“What’s going on?” yawned Winifred.
“Restless horse,” grumbled Benjamin, turning over.
“What’s the time?”
“Dunno. Half past six AM,” Benjamin confirmed, glancing at his watch. “Has the blizzard gone?”
Winifred pushed aside the willow curtain. A gust of wind blew her breath from her throat. She hurriedly withdrew.
“Still going,” she said.
Benjamin whistled softly between his teeth. He got up and patted Pedro’s neck. “What’ll we do? Around here if it comes for more’n five hours or so it’s staying for days.”
“Shall we stay here or try to find home?”
Benjamin shrugged. “We have to be close to home, Winnie. We must just find it.”
Winifred thoughtfully pulled a frond of willow from the branches and started rubbing down Pedro’s frosty coat. The horse nickered softly and blew down her jacket. He pulled at his reins and stamped his massive hoof again.
“Yes, lad, I know,” murmured Winifred. “We’ll be home soon.” And she looked down at the little bundle of dozing children and wished she knew her words were true.
Pedro shifted anxiously from hoof to hoof. He raised his plate-sized muzzle and neighed, loudly, shaking the willow’s branches and trembling the earth like a small earthquake.
“Pedro!” hissed Winifred as the little ones began to stir. “Hush!”
Pedro tugged now at his reins, his ears laid back.
“What is the matter with that horse?” growled Benjamin, sitting up.
“I don’t know. Easy, boy… I think I should untie him,” Winifred added anxiously. “He might pull the tree over.”
“He probably will, too,” snorted Benjamin as Winifred loosened the knot. The great mountain of a horse tossed his head. Pedro whinnied again, but softly this time. His huge, limpid brown eyes had a spark in them. He arched his neck and chewed fervently at his bit. Then from outside another whinny answered him; clear and sweet and silver, like the sound of sleigh bells jingling on a beautiful snowy day, the echoes of laughter in a forgotten playroom, or the glimmer of a candle left on the mantelpiece for the children.
Winifred led Pedro (or perhaps Pedro led Winifred) to the willow curtain. Pedro shoved it aside with one shrug of his shoulders. Where a moment ago there had been howling gales and tumbling snowflakes, now there was a calm, white, Christmas world, the great oaks carrying cold burdens on their outstretched arms, and a clear blue sky laughing up ahead with the pale winter sun dreaming in it.
Pedro nickered again, a deep honey sound, to greet a friend. But Winifred would never know where he found such a friend as the one who stood in the clearing, her dainty hooves buried in the snow.
She was not massive, like Pedro, but she was a fair-sized beast. She stood about fifteen three hands at the wither, and it was all muscle. Her long legs spoke of speed, and when she moved it was as if she was holding herself in, as if she was yearning to leap into a gallop with a moment’s notice. She might have been a horse, but not quite. Her coat was silver; not iron grey or white, but silver like the sweet wild dreams of a star. Her eyes were blue as a summer sky. Her face was perfectly dished like that of a champion Arab, but no Arab could move like she did now; striding across the clearing, more dancing than walking, springing deliciously off her pasterns. As she broke into a slow trot she paused for a heartbeat at every stride, balancing, her silver hooves hanging in the air, as if to savour the grace with which she moved. And the thing that marked her perfectly as not a horse but a unicorn was the long horn that spiralled from the silken hairs of her forelock: a horn as if of diamond carven, broad as Winifred’s palm at the base, sharp as a sewing needle at the tip.
The unicorn stopped a few paces away and called again like the tolling of a silver bell on Christmas morning. And in a way, that was what her whinny really was.
“Go to her, Pedro,” whispered Winifred, inching the bridle from the horse’s head. “Go to her.”
He was beside her in a moment; dancing, skittish as a colt, prancing like a young stallion. And as he pranced a change came over him, too. His mane seemed to grow, but in moments it was brushing his shoulder, and it was not beige but silver. His coat was burnished gold, his socks white as the snow he trod in. Gold flashed on his hooves instead of iron. Like an arrow firing a horn grew from his forehead, too, gold as goodness, gold as the halo of an angel.
Then Benjamin, Winifred and all the other children could no longer keep track. There were hundreds. The unicorns came pouring in from earth and sky. Silver, gold, white, sable, crimson, emerald, sapphire, whimsical purple; in a rainbow of colour they gathered in the clearing. There was a whole collection of them. Some were big, but none as big as Pedro; some were tiny, the size of Shetland ponies. All were beautiful. They whinnied, and danced, flickering to and fro; graceful as dancers upon the stage, light as a boy’s whistle on a spring day. Some had wreaths of flowers around their necks. One had great grey wings that he folded gracefully by his sides. The children could only watch. They had never seen such a lovely sight as a hundred unicorns dancing, twirling with the joy of life and the joy of Christmas.
After a while – half an hour? An hour? An eternity? – Pedro (was that his real name?) detached himself from the herd. He whinnied loudly, calling their attention. Beckoning to the children, an oddly human gesture, he called again to the unicorns.
There were eleven children. Ten unicorns came away from the herd. As the carollers nervously approached, they dropped to their knees, their manes sweeping over playful eyes and beautiful faces. Pedro gave a joyous neigh and knelt with them. Winifred stared at them, puzzled. Then with a laugh she realised it. She pushed the bridle into her rucksack beside the Carol Book, and rushing to Pedro seized a handful of his mane and slid onto his back. He lurched to his feet and neighed happily to the others. Soon all the children were mounted on the glorious beasts, holding their manes, taking great care to let their heels hang away from the unicorns’ sides. Benjamin was on the silver mare. There was a very tiny unicorn pony with Will on his back. Timmy was on a matching creature resembling a pedigree Welsh pony with a curly golden mane even more angelic than his. Then away!
The unicorns were swift as thought. Only Winifred was an experienced rider; but none of the children were afraid, because the unicorns bore their precious burdens so smoothly and carefully that it was nary impossible to fall off. Winifred’s memories of the wild Christmas ride were all stamped with one trademark: freedom. For they were not tame beasts. They carried the children of their own accord and nobody attempted to stop or steer or speed them up; Winifred had the idea that it would be a useless attempt in any case. It was like riding a west wind or riding a storm, or riding laughter. It was impossibly wonderful.
Everyone was laughing – even the unicorns, in tinkling voices – when they stopped. It was still early in the morning. Hardly any time seemed to have passed. Only ten or twenty metres away was their own dear village, the one they knew so well.
Winifred was the first to slide reluctantly off Pedro’s back. The unicorns, as soon as they had all dismounted, turned and wandered off again, like jewels in the snow. Winifred in that lovely moment felt a pang of heartbreak. She knew that Pedro would never come back.
But Winifred was wrong. When they were only a few metres away, Pedro stopped. He turned his head over his shoulder and looked at the little knot of children with his limpid brown eyes. Then he turned around and, dragging his hooves through the snow, ambled back.
He only stopped again when the silver mare whinnied to him. Then he walked on.
By the time he reached Winifred he was a horse again with hay-smelling breath and a long shaggy coat. Winifred stroked his neck. The unicorns stood, waiting. Pedro nudged at the girl. She made her decision. Dropping her rucksack on the ground, she took the bridle out. Pedro held his mouth open and stood willingly while she put it on.
“Thank you, Pedro,” Winifred whispered.
She could have sworn that the big horse smiled. For the last time he turned back to the unicorns. He tossed high his head and uttered a neigh like a church bell, a neigh to the earth and the sky, a neigh that was not in English but that Winifred understood –
“Merry Christmas!”
And it was the merriest Christmas they had ever had!
(2946 Words)
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