Defiant Angel

T
he pink dust of dawn stole across the sleepy meadows. High in the sky, the fading silhouette of a crescent moon disappeared as the shades of twilight gave way to morn. The sharp, blustery wind whipped through the boughs of stalwart oaks, their bare limbs beginning to show the promise of green buds.

Tiffany crawled from her warm bed to venture forth on this unusually cold March morning to view the new foal Moria had delivered the night before. She quickly donned her clothing and ran from her bedroom. She eyed the newly polished banister that ran the length of the broad, curving staircase. A twinkle gleamed in her brilliant sapphire eyes as she looked over the railing below, finding no one about. Raising her leg over the banister, she straddled it and slid backward down its length, pushing herself off as she reached the end. She turned and headed toward the double oaken front doors.

"And where ye be goin', child, not properly dressed and without a proper breakfast?"

Tiffany turned, her unbound raven tresses cascading about her face. She looked at the old woman, the only female she had known since her mother's death. "Oh, Clarissa, Moria delivered a foal! I must see it before I do anything."

Clarissa was unable to resist the pleading look reflected in the eight-year-old's eyes, and with a shake of her head, she said, "Ye know how yer father is about ye bein' at the stables, lamb." She waddled.over to her charge, pushing errant curls from Tiffany's face. "And look at yer hair; now, ye know yer father is finicky about it not bein' combed and bound, lamb."

"Oh, Clarissa, I'll let you fix it later--I promise. I'll only stay a moment, that's all, I swear." She raised her hand to emphasize her promise.

"Ye just stay out of yer father's way, ye hear me?"

"Oh yes, I will be as quiet as a mouse, I'll not be a nuisance. I'll be as Papa says, 'seen but not heard.' Thank you, Clarissa." She threw her arms about the nurse and hugged her. Then she pulled open the doors and began to leave but was stopped once again by Clarissa.

"And, lamb, ye stop shinnin' down the railing. We don't want another broken wrist."

Tiffany smiled at Clarissa, nodding her head. Closing the door behind her, she bounded down the stone steps two at a time. Lifting up her skirt to her knees, she ran down the crushed stone drive. The wind whipped her hair about and pinkened her cheeks with its bite. Reaching the stables, she paused at its threshold. She dropped her skirts, patted her hair in place, and took a deep, calming breath. She hoped her appearance would pass her father, the earl's, muster. He constantly made her aware of how badly she disappointed him by her dress. She calmly walked into the stable, trying to act demure and feminine when really she'd love nothing better than to burst in and run down its corridor. Suppressing this urge was pure torture for the exuberant eight-year-old.

As she approached the stall where Moria lay, she overheard her father. "Once again, it's bloodlines, I tell you. The dam was unproven. She had no lineage, and the result of it lies here--an unfit colt!"

Hearing him smack his gloves against his leg, she moved cautiously forward, knowing the tone of his voice, a tone he often used when she displeased him. And she displeased him often, for she heard that tone in his voice regularly. She was not proper--knew nothing about decorum or propriety, whatever that was. Tiffany moved quietly to the open door of the stall and was as yet unseen.

"I should never have listened to Percy Engstrom. What the hell does he know about breeding? He let that son of his marry some Irish lass! Hell, he's got the worst stable in all of England!" He threw his hands up in disgust.

Aeyhish El-Kadin, the master stable hand, stood at her father's side. He had been a slave whom her mother had saved from certain death and had felt he owed her mother his life, serving as horse trainer even after her death eight years before. Tiffany could not hear what Aeyhish said to her papa, for he spoke in soft tones as was his habit.

"Bah! No matter that she looked the part, the mare failed. The proof is lying there!" Her father waved his hand across the stall.

"They say from an acorn a mighty oak grows; perhaps he just needs time. There is no harm in giving him time, for his sire's blood is traced to Alexander the Great's stallion, Bucephalus."

"Are you daft? You heathens place everything in the hands of fate. His sire, Ghengis Khan, you say--now, there is a bloodline proven. The mare, nay, she was useless. Look at him." William Courtland pointed and he continued. "Too weak to even raise himself. No, I'll not waste another shilling on him."

For the first time since her arrival, Tiffany moved into the stall. There lying on the floor was Moria. Tiffany thought she was so still, as if sleeping. A few feet away lay a scrawny black colt. Tiffany smiled, never before having seen a newly born foal. In her eight-year-old eyes, the foal was beautiful, bearing a shiny coat as black as her own hair, long, gangly legs much like her own, even a proud, angular face. She fell in love with him on sight.

"Put him out of his misery and haul the dam's carcass out of here as well. I want the kill clean. Use a pistol and do not slit its throat as is your heathen practice."

Upon hearing her father's words, Tiffany involuntarily cried out. "No, Papa, please don't kill him!" She ran to him, clutching his pant leg.

William Courtland glared down at his daughter and, as always, took in her appearance, noting her improper attire, her untidy hair, and her being where she should not be. He pushed her away from his leg. In a disapproving voice he asked, "And where are your manners, young lady? I've told you you're only to speak when addressed. And what are you doing out here? Have I not told you numerous times that the stables are not a proper place for a lady of your breeding?"

"I ... I wanted to see Moria's new foal, Papa," she stammered, but looked him in the eye, raising her chin slightly.

"Well, see for yourself." He waved his hand toward the foal. "A perfect example of what I have been trying to drill into that head of yours. This is the result of a tainted bloodline. A freak of nature, worthless because he has no breeding!"

"But . . . but surely, Papa, he has some value."

"No, my dear child, he has none. He is tainted. His lack of breeding prevents him from rising, for he is too weak. There is none to feed him, and I'll not have him taint my blooded stock." He turned from her and began to give further instructions to Aeyhish.

Tiffany pulled at his hand, causing him to turn to her. "Did I not tell you to leave?" he ground out sternly.

"Papa, please, I will care for him. You need not spend another shilling on him." She saw him narrow his eyes, but ran on anyhow. "I promise I will practice my scales diligently, I'll even eat the meat at dinner, and I'll fold my napkin." Seeing a weakening in her father, she quickly added, "Why, I'll give up my bonbons for a whole month, just please don't kill him."

The earl considered her words and promises. He was about to reply when a servant informed him of the arrival of his solicitor. "Do what you will, daughter, but he'll die, mark my words, and if he does, I'll nonetheless hold you to your promises. His survival, it's meaningless; if he lives or dies matters not, for he cannot bring me the promised coin any longer." With that, the earl left, dismissing both the fate of the foal and his daughter.

Tiffany stood to the side as Aeyhish directed the stable hands to remove the dead mare. After they left, she struggled to lift a fresh bale of hay. Aeyhish helped her, bringing it to the stall, where she spread it abundantly on the floor.

Tiffany stood back, watching the foal, who still had not risen and lay, his chest heaving. She turned to Aeyhish, asking softly, "Do you think he'll live?"

Aeyhish smiled at her, thinking how she resembled her mother, a mother she never knew. He did not much like the earl, finding him to be a cold, hard man, as evidenced by his handling of Tiffany. Aeyhish had stayed at Courtland Manor because of Amelia's daughter, finding in the little girl a spirit and courage her mother had only partially possessed. "It is in the hands of a power greater than ours, child," he said softly. "But we could not do harm in helping, although the outcome we cannot control."

His words gave her a flicker of hope, which gleamed in her blue eyes. "I'll do whatever you say; why, I'll even appeal to your Allah."

He silently prayed Allah would intervene and save the colt, for he knew the price her promises to her father would cost her. She was full of life, full of spirit and courage. She would one day be a woman of strong passions, and he hoped she would find a man who could cherish and cultivate her essence, not stifle it as her father tried to do. He watched her kneel on the newly strewn straw and place the foal's head on her lap, stroking his muzzle. Silently he left.

"Why, you feel just like the soft velvet of my dinner dress." She tentatively raised her small hand and touched his forehead. She saw his small body shivering with the cold and laid her body on him to share her warmth. She whispered to him in her child's voice, "You know you must get up. All horses are supposed to do so. Why, it will be impossible for us to ride like the wind with you lying this way."

Throughout the day, she kept a watchful vigil over him, offering comfort and company to the abandoned foal. She never left his side; he was not alone.

By afternoon, when most had given up on the colt, Tiffany held on. She told him stories, made plans for him, gave him warmth. By early evening, all had given up, but only she continued to coax him to take nourishment into his weakened body; when he shivered, she shared her warmth, and when he would have let go, she gave him strength. And when he struggled to a sitting position, his flanks heaving with the exertion, she encouraged him and never lost hope, even when he lay back down.

As darkness began to fall, all that could be done, had been; his fate lay with God. Salty tears streamed down Tiffany's cheeks. The foal was still, as if dead. Cradling his head in her arms, she cried softly. "Please don't leave me. You can't leave me alone." She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I believe in you. I'll name you after the magical kingdom of Xanadu that I believe in and love. It is a place of kings. Don't leave me, stay, we will ride there, you and I. I love you," she sobbed.

Aeyhish stood quietly in the passageway, concealed by the lengthening shadows of dusk, tears filling his eyes as he watched the child willing her spirit into the dying colt.

The colt's breathing was shallow, his sides barely rising. He opened his large, liquid black eyes, and gazed up at Tiffany. A tremor shook his frail body, and with a surge of strength, he pushed into a sitting position, and with the spirit drawn from his mistress, he righted his wobbly front legs, bringing his hindquarters up. Standing shakily, he nuzzled Tiffany's face.

It was as if they shared a soul; both cast motherless and alone into an unkind world, which had no meaning or place for them until they found each other. It was destiny that a lonely girl and an orphan colt should find each other.

They grew together, complemented each other, shared common traits of spirit and determination. As youngsters, they were unruly, mischievous, needing a firm but gentle hand. As adolescents, they were high-strung, temperamental--seeking understanding and encouragement. Through their growth, there was an ever-present, unquenchable need for freedom. Xanadu's pursuit of it was purely instinctive, while Tiffany's quest was fired by self-preservation.

On a blustery March morning, as rider and mount moved rhythmically over the endless hills, their black manes flying out behind them, the wind roaring in their ears, and the blood coursing through their veins, they sought their elusive butterfly.

In a burst of spring, they raced across the lush new grass up to flower-laden fields to pursue it and found it in a flower chain necklace hung regally about the horse's neck.

They glimpsed their butterfly on a warm July day under a scorching summer sky and chased it into the cool woods, grasping it as they frolicked and splashed in the ice-cold waters of a brook.

It caught them as horse and rider moved from a canter to a flowing gallop, racing the autumn breeze and leaves. And over every hedge and wall they jumped, they chased it. They saw it hide as they watched the squirrels forage, the birds fly south, and the earth prepare to sleep.

Their endless pursuit of it took them across the crest of a hill, silhouetting them against an autumn night lit by a harvest moon. And when the earth was shrouded in a blanket of white, the snow-laden branches of a tree would beckon them to find it. And they found it while a rider sat catching snowflakes on her tongue and a horse with lowered head blew inquisitively at the snow-covered ground. They hadn't really needed to seek it, for it had always been with them--it was interred in their souls.