The Little Wooden Horse

It was Thursday and the clock on the mantle was edging it’s hands toward 9.23 as cook bustled Martha out of the kitchen with words that stung like a pin cushion. She would not have the child underfoot on a Thursday with milk curdling in the pan and over 6 pounds of cheese to make ready for the cold store. Martha tucked in her bottom as she ran ahead of cook, fearing the flat of her floury hand on her skirts even more than the dark insides of the bread oven. Mother would not forgive her meddling so easily. She had been chided already this week for going through the hidden door beneath the stairs to the kitchen. But that subterranean world bustling with life and energy felt so much more exciting and colourful than her own buttoned up existence.
She crept up the dimpled stone stairs towards the hall, sounds of life diminishing with every turn in the stair, clutching her little wooden rocking horse in her hand.  He had such a brave countenance she took confidence from his presence but in truth he could go nowhere without her.  She had hoped to scare up a wooden clothes peg and dress it in uniform from her scraps box so that the little horse would have a gallant Russian prince to ride him but that looked hopeless now.
A loud clatter made her start just as she gained the top step and Martha tumbled through the door and back into the echoing marble hall crashing headlong into Will Stoner.  He was usually to be found in the gardens but as Demitri was visiting his mother this week she guessed Stoner had just finished laying the fires.  His eyes always seemed alive with nature and were the colour of polished chestnuts, his voice as mellow as cocoa.  She imagined he could charm the birds from the trees with his soft trusting manner.
“Whoa there little Miss, where are you off to in such a hurry”
“I’m looking for a rider for my horse, he wants to join the cavalry charge” she said, holding up the rocking horse in her hand for him to see. Stoner stroked the smooth neck of the polished wooden horse thoughtfully.
“Not every horse is meant to go to war Missy.  This horse for example, I can see he is a fine brave horse, but do you see his short back and strong legs? He is a carriage horse, See his fine red and green livery? This little horse could pull the winter sleigh of the Tsar. Yes, look, see how his poor tail has been clipped so that it does not fly in the driver’s face?” Martha listened to this recreation of her story being spun, wrapped with new imaginary possibilities. Stoner took a piece of twine from his pocket and with the skill of a rope-wright created a halter and tracers for the little horse and handed it back to Martha.
“Thank you Stoner, that is most kind.  He will be tired after all that work, I will go and take him to the stables for some oats and meadow hay and a good brush of his fine coat. Such a fine horse deserves only the best don’t you agree?”
“Exactly as it should be Miss.”
Stoner smiled started at his eyes and he watched the little girl gallop away allowing himself an indulgent chuckle.  She was a dear girl and so caring.
Over the next few days Martha happily played with her reinvented horse between lessons and loved it  all over again.
A few weeks later on the occasion of her seventh birthday Stoner came to the house and waited for her under the stairs, knowing she would be likely to sneak down to the kitchens to see what delights were being prepared for her tea and sure enough she came. He pulled from his pocket a cotton wrapped parcel and handed it to her.
“Happy Birthday Miss Martha.”
Martha unwrapped the cloth to find inside a finely whittled piece of Silver Birch in the likeness of a sleigh, the perfect size for her brave wooden horse.
Tears glistened in her eyes as she flung her arms about Will Stoner’s neck and kissed his ruddy cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “this is my favourite present ever”. And Martha Keplinsky treasured that little wooden sleigh until the end of her long and remarkable life treasuring always the simple kindness that had brought it to her.