The piebald horse picked his way down the mountain, slowed by the deep snow. He felt the low rumble far beneath his hooves, but his nature was placid and he experienced no fear.
The widow, who had never ridden a horse before, wound her fingers tight in his mane. At first the children expressed wonder at being so high up, but within a half hour they fell silent, the steady motion putting them all in a kind of trance. The baby slept. The donkey trailed behind.
An hour passed. The air warmed. The snow, which in the cold had been light as sifted flour, grew heavy and wet and harder to push through.
They entered the woods below the cottage. Although less snow had reached the ground, the trees grew close together, and the ground was stony. The horse had to pick his way and progressed more slowly. They hadn’t gone far before the earth shuddered, instantly awakening the ogre in the horse. Fee fi! He stopped because that seemed safest, since every step would be treacherous, but the donkey bolted. The baby and the three-year-old wailed.
The shuddering was noiseless, but a crack split the air ahead as a tree toppled and narrowly missed the donkey, who surged ahead.
A great groaning and whirring came from above them on the mountain. His Lordship guessed rocks and snow were skidding down. Fo fum! Let the slide not reach them!
It didn’t, but, in the distance, someone screamed.
His Lordship knew he couldn’t investigate the cry, not with as many as he could carry already on board. He wished he could.
The widow whispered into his neck, “Thank you.”
But she gave him too much credit. He knew they’d merely been lucky. In his mind he became a horse again and continued the slow, careful descent.