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than the bored endurance which she had imagined was fortitude in the time before he came to her. Courage made her generous. She wept too. And then she started planning.
    A week or so later, during their comfortable evening meal, her husband was gently bemoaning the inconvenience of a task he had to do. He was planning some coppicing deep in the forest. But if he took the wagon with him in the morning, what could he do with the horse all day? If he had to come home to get the wagon, he would waste half a day’s work. He could not think of anyone with the time to help him. There were lots of solutions really, and she knew he would think of one of them. She was about to offer to drive the cart up herself in the afternoon when Thumbling piped up:
    ‘I’ll drive the cart up, Father.’
    His father laughed. ‘Oh yes, little one, and how would you go about that? You could not manage the reins to start with, and you might get lost.’
    ‘You could tell me the way. And . . .’ She could see he was thinking fast. ‘. . . and if Mother put me in the horse’s ear I could tell it which way to go.’
    Before her husband could laugh again, she said, almost breathless in her haste, ‘That’s a brilliant idea.’
    Both father and son looked at her, amazed. Their surprise made her feel ashamed.
    So the next day, in the afternoon, she lifted her tiny son up and tucked him into the ear of their faithful horse. It was dark and velvety inside, warm and safe as her own lap, and she heard the high joy in his voice as he called out, ‘Giddy-up and through the gate.’ She watched the wagon, with no visible driver, cross the bridge and turn neatly up the track into the forest. It disappeared into the trees and she went back into her silent, empty house and cried a little.
    It was a desolate four hours before she heard the clip-clop of hooves and she ran out into the yard. Her husband was driving up from the bridge and she could see from his posture that something was wrong. She waited while he turned the wagon into the yard, but not until he climbed down.
    ‘Where is he? Where’s Thumbling? What’s happened?’ She could hear the shrillness in her own voice.’
    ‘It’s all right,’ he said slowly. He climbed down and led the horse into the barn while she stood there. Soon he came out again, carrying a heavy bag in one hand. He put his arm round her shoulder and led her into the warm kitchen.
    He dumped the bag on the table and she heard the clink of gold coins.
    He looked at her, questioning something, obviously thinking as he looked.
    ‘I sold him,’ he said.
    She could not speak; she could not even think. Loss. Rage. Shock. All of them at once. They struck her dumb.
    ‘He asked me to. Some idiots saw the horse driving itself and heard his instructions. They followed the wagon and saw me take him out of the horse’s ear. They were fascinated. You know what’s he’s like – he was showing off, full of himself; he made them laugh, dancing on my shoulder. They offered me a small fortune for him. They wanted to take him to the city and exhibit him. Of course I said no. So they offered me a large fortune for him. I was about to say no again, when he whispered in my ear that I should accept the offer and he’d go with them and then escape and come home and we could all be rich. So I said I would.’
    She wanted to hit him; she wanted to howl. She managed to say, ‘But what if . . .?’
    ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I do know. But he has been weeping in the night for his freedom.’
    She stared at him. After a sombre pause, he said heavily, ‘I had to let him try.’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, almost in a whisper, ‘yes, you did.’
    He took her into his arms then and she wept and he comforted her as best he could.
    It took a terrible three days for Thumbling to get home. She was desperate.
    On the third night she could not sleep. Nor could he. They lay rigid beside each other in the bed, not daring to speak. Then they heard some