Magical Adventures & Pony Tales Boxset (Vol 1 - 6) Read online

  ‘Yahoo!’ cried Warmheart, through puffs and pants. ‘I did it! I did it! Maybe I really can beat those racehorses and save the farm.’

  Bob tried smiling and nodded his head as he caught his breath, choosing not to tell his pony friend of his tired paws and aching joints. The sheepdog was tired, tired from all his training, and all he really wanted to do was lie next to the warm fire and fall asleep – but he didn’t dare upset Warmheart by telling him so. Bob was counting on him. The entire farm was counting on him.

  And so over the next few weeks, the young cob altered in appearance. He looked fitter, and muscles rippled under his chestnut and white coat. He looked stronger, and perhaps braver too. Farmer John washed Warmheart’s coat, mane, and tail, but he could not find it in himself to cut the beautiful long, flowing mane, despite all the racehorses next door having short, smart manes.

  ‘We don’t have to change you into one of them to beat them,’ Farmer John whispered to Warmheart, untangling the knots in his mane. But although the pony enjoyed his grooming immensely, he felt as though a herd of derby horses were galloping around in his stomach. Tomorrow was the day of the big race.

  Warmheart arrived at the races in the back of a cattle trailer pulled by Farmer John’s Land Rover. Our farmer friend tried cleaning the trailer as best he could, but no amount of polish could get rid of the smell of cowpats. He pulled up and parked in between gleaming horseboxes. Tall, fit thoroughbreds shone in the sunlight. Their manes had immaculate plaits neatly rolled along their slender necks. They sauntered around the trailer with their noses high in the air. Farmer John hesitated, wondering whether he should pull his cob out of the race to save further embarrassment. And perhaps he would have, if it were not for Mr Norrell appearing in his tweed trousers, waistcoat, and red bowtie. He stretched out his hand.

  ‘So pleased you turned up and are staying true to our bet. A gentleman never pulls out of a bet,’ Mr Norrell said loudly for the benefit of the onlookers.

  ‘I’m not a betting man; nor did I bet with you,’ Farmer John said, looking towards his wellington-clad feet and fiddling with the buttons on his blue overalls.

  ‘A true gent, ah! Yes, that’s right, we had a gentleman’s agreement, a handshake, if that’s what you prefer to call it. Now how is this little cob of yours looking?’ Mr Norrell asked, full of mischief.

  Inside the cattle trailer, Warmheart trembled. Travelling in the strange trailer had scared him, as it shook and rattled down the country roads. It caused Warmheart to lose his balance and crash against the panels, hurting his sides. Now he was scared of the strange noises, the bellowing crowds, and Mr Norrell’s voice.

  The ramp lowered with a moaning creak, and the sight of so many wonderful-looking racehorses caused Warmheart to whinny in fear, wishing his mother and his best friend Bob were there.

  ‘It’s all right, Warmheart,’ cooed Farmer John, who was equally nervous. ‘You don’t ’ave to be doing this if you don’t want to.’

  Warmheart looked around, and although every part of his body tingled with fear, he knew he had worked too hard to give up before he started. Besides, what choice did the young pony have? If he did not try to race, in the near future he would be sold and would never see his mother, Bob, or his other friends again. So Warmheart gave his farmer a rub with the heart-shaped star upon his head, and the farmer took this as a sign, and entered the pony cob into the race.

  5

  OFF AND RACING

  You may not know this, but before every horse race across the land, horses have to march around a parade paddock for the betting gentlemen and ladies to choose the horse they think will win the race. These people compare the horses’ size and strength and from this, they pick their favourite.

  Poor Warmheart, with his chestnut and white markings, his long, flowing mane and stumpy little legs covered in feathers, generated a lot of interest. But for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Look at that common little thing!’ he heard people call.

  ‘Is this some sort of joke?’ another laughed.

  ‘Is he the mascot?’ a few more wondered aloud.

  ‘What a strange-looking animal; look at those mismatched eyes!’ said another.

  And if that was not bad enough, the digs and sniggers from the purebred thoroughbreds nearly brought Warmheart’s blue and black eyes to tears. For despite all his training, despite how fit he looked within the gentle fields of Pennydale Farm, compared to the surrounding athletes, Warmheart felt like nothing more than a common cob. But a bell rang and in a flurry of activity, Warmheart followed the others in a loping canter to the starting post. His heart thudded as quickly as his little legs galloped, while he tried to keep up with the pace.

  So our young friend Warmheart already knew he was outclassed. While the other racehorses walked calmly in circles to await their start, Warmheart puffed and panted. He had used so much energy simply trying to keep up with the other horses’ long canter strides to get to the starting post. Looking around discreetly, Warmheart wondered if any other horses were breathing as hard as he was. To his disappointment, he was the only one. Warmheart blinked his eyes, trying to stop the tears from escaping. But it was no good. A small teardrop trickled from his pale blue eye, travelled down the side of his ginger and white face, and caught on his thick whiskers.

  Away from the safety of his friends and farm, Warmheart had never felt so out of place. He looked around one last time, hoping to catch a warm, welcoming eye – but all he saw was mean snarls.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea why you want to make a fool of yourself and run in this race,’ said a big black rippling stallion.

  ‘You are either very stupid or have ideas above your station,’ a horse as white as snow laughed, looking down her long nose at him.

  This went on for a few more moments, although to poor Warmheart it seemed a lot longer than that, until he could no longer take the jokes and sly remarks and spoke out.

  ‘I’m trying to save my farm,’ he said with glistening eyes, his voice only a whimper.

  ‘A farm?’ laughed the white horse. ‘You live on a farm?’

  Now Warmheart did not understand why this was such a strange place to live. He had no idea all racehorses lived in smart stables, with smart yards and clock towers. So, he carried on regardless.

  ‘Yes, Pennydale Farm. My farmer can’t afford to keep paying for the land. He has already sold some of my friends and I simply couldn’t bear it if he had to sell me and my mother and my best friend, Bob.’

  ‘Pennydale Farm, you say?’ asked a mahogany-red horse. ‘I know you. You practise racing alongside my trainer’s gallops every morning, don’t you?’

  Warmheart looked away shyly, feeling foolish.

  ‘Well, we will have no more name-calling towards this young lad,’ the mahogany horse said with authority. All the other horses straightened their backs and paid attention. ‘What he lacks in traditional racehorse looks, he makes up for in heart. I have watched him every day, and I’ve seen him get faster and try harder, with nobody but himself to train him. We will race fair and square, but we will not poke fun at the little dab.’

  If Warmheart had had the time to thank the stallion, he would have, for his heart filled with joy. But there was no time. The starter’s flag was down. The race had started, and Warmheart was swept up in a wave of galloping hooves and pounding hearts.

  The sound was deafening. The speed was electrifying. The landscape whizzed past Warmheart’s eyes in a blur of greens and yellows. Warmheart thought of nothing else other than trying to keep up with the others. Like a windmill in a strong gale, his stumpy, feathered legs whirled around faster and faster. His breath got shorter and shorter, and he panted like an old steam train on full steam ahead. Bunched in between other horses, their momentum kept him going. He felt himself get shunted from side to side, and suddenly felt a sharp pull behind him as hooves stood on his long flowing tail.

  ‘Owwww!’ he groaned.

  ‘It’s your fault for ha
ving such a long tail,’ a voice called out as it passed him swiftly. Then another horse passed him, then another and then another. Soon, Warmheart had no horses beside or behind him. He was alone, chasing the horses ahead of him who only got farther and farther away.

  Warmheart cursed his long flowing tail, and then he cursed his long flowing mane. He was hot and sticky and sweaty; if only he had less hair he was sure he would be faster. The pony cursed his thick feathery legs and his short compact body, and wished he did not have the entire burden of the farm upon his pony shoulders. Warmheart felt himself slowing, but worse than that, he felt himself giving in.

  But then, something stirred his soul. He rounded a corner, and with the sun high in the sky, his shadow cast out ahead of him.

  ‘I’m not alone!’ he panted, remembering all the times he chased his shadow to keep fit. He sped up.

  Then, there was a loud noise.

  A bark!

  ‘Bob!’ He recognised him at once as a blur of black and white whizzed past his eyes.

  ‘Come on, Warmheart!’ Bob barked happily. ‘Keep up!’

  And with that, the sheepdog enticed the pony cob along.

  Warmheart had never been so pleased to see his friend and stooped a little lower, galloped a little harder and stretched his legs out a little further.

  ‘You don’t have to do this alone! Come on, let’s get them!’ Bob barked, and Warmheart tried even harder.

  The pony cob pinned his ears down with concentration. He closed his eyes, trying with all his might to summon the energy to go faster and faster. He remembered the wonderful summer mornings and autumn evenings when he galloped along his beautiful farm for fun. And soon, he was having fun again.

  ‘Yahoo!’ he called in delight. Warmheart and his best friend galloped head to head. Tears streamed from their eyes with windy speed. They were getting closer to the herd of galloping horses. But there was not far to go until they reached the winning post. He only had a few more moments left to try.

  So, try he did. Warmheart stretched his neck out as far as it could possibly go. The sound of hooves in front of him told Warmheart that he was getting closer to the others. He closed his eyes and galloped with all his might. He heard the cheering from the crowd getting louder, so he knew they were close to the finishing line. But with his blue and black eyes shut tightly, he had no idea how far behind the other horses they were. Still, he enjoyed the familiar sound of his friend’s paws padding alongside him. It reminded him of the times when he was a young foal dancing and prancing in the summer meadow. He did not slow down; he galloped and galloped and galloped. He did not slow down even when the sound of other horses’ hooves disappeared, to be replaced with cheering.

  Warmheart was afraid to stop galloping, but was even more afraid to open his eyes to see just how far behind he had finished. So, he peeked out of his one blue eye. He saw no horses in front of him.

  ‘I must have lost by a long way. I can’t see a single horse,’ he cried out to Bob as he puffed, and slowed to a trot then staggered to a walk. The crowd screamed, jumped up and down, and threw their hats into the air.

  Bob, his pink tongue hanging from his panting mouth, smiled widely. Then, in between breaths, he said, ‘There’re no horses… in front of you… because… you’ve won, Warmheart! You’ve won the race!’

  Warmheart looked behind him and saw the other racehorses finally pass the winning post. They were all breathing too heavily to utter a word to him – all except the big mahogany stallion.

  ‘Well done, Warmheart, well done indeed!’

  In reply, Warmheart squealed with delight. He jumped up in the air and pirouetted, in a not entirely graceful way. His heavy hooves thudded to the ground as he did so.

  ‘We did it!’ he squealed to Bob. ‘We did it!’ And Warmheart attempted to rear up, but he was too tired to do it properly. So instead, he shook his head and neck, his long mane flowing and shimmering in the afternoon sun.

  6

  HUMBLE ENDINGS

  Not many moments later, our champion cob was in the winner’s enclosure, with a wreath of flowers around his neck. Hundreds of people cheered and clapped, and Farmer John was given rather a lot of money for first prize. The farmer wrapped his arms around Warmheart’s sweaty neck.

  ‘You’re such a ruddy good boy!’ he called. ‘I ruddy knew it when I first set my eyes upon you.’

  He stroked the heart-shaped star upon his pony’s head and said quietly, ‘You got the farm safe for a few more months, my friend.’

  ‘A few more months?’ Mr Norrell boomed as he put his arm around Farmer John’s shoulder. Much to the farmer and the pony’s surprise, Mr Norrell proceeded to pat Warmheart’s sweaty neck. ‘What a fantastic race!’

  Farmer John stared in amazement, for Mr Norrell looked positively happy.

  ‘Indeed!’ Mr Norrell continued, fumbling in his pocket to produce a rather important-looking document. ‘A gentleman always honours his bets! I told you if your pony could beat my fleet of racehorses, I would buy you the farm! So here!’ Mr Norrell thrust a piece of paper into Farmer John’s hand, which declared Farmer John the owner of Pennydale. ‘I always keep my word!’

  Our farmer was too surprised and delighted to do anything other than stare open-mouthed at his neighbour.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Norrell,’ Farmer John said, once he regained his composure. ‘But I think Warmheart may win a few more races yet. Then we can buy the farm ourselves.’

  ‘Ah! A true gent. I shall look forward to our next encounter. And please, fellow trainer, do call me Charles.’ Charles Norrell embraced him like a friend and continued to pat Warmheart on the neck.

  Warmheart was so happy he jumped up into the air, and neighed as loudly as he possibly could. Bob began howling in celebration, and the crowd cheered. Both Farmer John and Charles Norrell laughed to see the pony cob and sheepdog dancing on the spot.

  ‘Dear Warmheart!’ Charles Norrell said. ‘You may not be the handsomest horse in the world, but you are perhaps the bravest!’

  ‘And the fastest,’ said Farmer John, as he packed up his prize-winning pony into the cattle trailer, and headed back home to their farm.

  THE RUNAWAY PONY

  “The pony showed more speed than she ever had before, dashing through the twilight evening, and Princess Sophia was at once both terrified and exhilarated.”

  1

  THE WOODEN BRIDGE

  There once was a grand wooden bridge, only now it is worn and weathered. It creaks at the slightest pressure of a fox’s light skipping paws, and even sways with wind caused by a butterfly’s passing wings. Nobody uses this footbridge anymore. Ferns grow through it, grass grows over it, and clouds often cover it from view completely, such is its height. But once, this bridge was the most important bridge in the land, for it joined the land of Faerie and a county known as Loveheart Heath.

  Loveheart Heath is the land of the royal. We have met some of these kingly kind before, when a young princess tried to seize ownership of a peasant’s pony, Sonnet. Do you remember? When we first met this particular princess, she was spoilt and mean. But soon, everything in her life changed. And in doing so, so did she.

  Princess Sophia had ridden towards her castle home with her father the king, her groom, and armoured men, and felt as blue as blue could be. Her cheeks were blushed red from utter embarrassment, as she had failed to show the ability to ride the country’s finest pony. She also felt a rage in her stomach because, instead of riding her new pony, she had no choice other than to ride her old pony home – and she was rather bored of her old pony.

  This pony was called Sky, named so because of the beautiful cloud-like markings, or dapples, across her grey and white coat. Sky, however, was also bored. Bored of being a spoilt royal pony, bored of being so precious and clean, and bored of being kept in a small stable instead of roaming free. But most of all, Sky was bored of always having to do as she was told. She idled onwards slowly, making the princess kick her in t
he ribs every few strides. Sky cared little for this. Really, the constant kicks around her ribcage felt like little more than a summer fly upon her skin. So mostly, she had taken to ignoring the princess’s demands and duly followed the other, bigger horses in line.

  Then they came to the wooden bridge.

  The horses filed across it to the sound of blunt thuds. Their hooves echoed across the valley as they hit the solid wooden floor suspended high above the great lake below. Steep, almost vertical, grassy hills peppered with daisies made their way down to the turquoise water far below. There were folk laws and legends claiming that this lake was once home to great mythical creatures called Gallow Dragons; great water dragons as big as a country inn that swam just beneath the surface. Instead of fire, they breathed tidal waves, and instead of gold, they collected children. But these stories were never backed up with any solid evidence, so nobody paid much heed. These days, the stories were relayed by the older, wiser town folk simply to scare young children from playing in the potentially dangerous cold waters.

  As always, once over the bridge the fleet of horses took a left turn onto a wide grassy verge towards the castle. Nobody ever ventured into the darkened, dense woodland ahead as, on the rare occasion some fool did, they would never again return. For through the wood was the land of Faerie, and as everybody knows, Faerie is a treacherous and dangerous place.

  The problem for our royal parade was that at the very moment all the king’s horses turned left for home, Sky took it upon herself to do something entirely different. Knowing the horses thought her to be idle, she slowed and slowed until she was at the very back of the string. Then, with Princess Sophia kicking and kicking upon her sides, Sky pulled her head up sharply, smelt the wild winds blowing from the woodland, and galloped off in that direction.