White Horses

Before the gods that made the gods
Had seen their sunrise pass,
The White Horse of the White Horse Vale
was cut out of the grass.

Circa 1000 BC

The druid examined the evening's work with a critical eye.
'Yes,' he said, after a while. 'Yes. Well done. Thoroughly good job.' He waved his hand vaguely. 'Who did the leg?'
A nervous hand went up.
'Well done that man,' said the druid, stroking his flowing white beard. 'Sterling work. Very, mmm, impressive.'
The culprit breathed a sigh of relief.
The druid smiled. 'In a thousand years, gentlemen, we shall be nothing more than lost memories floating in the breeze, but this, this, shall remain.' He closed his eyes reverentially, before scowling. 'Haven't you got any work to do?'
The workers dispersed, muttering under their breath, although not too loudly because they all knew what druids were capable of, whether with dark magic arts or simply with a big wooden stick.
The druid hobbled away, humming a little tune to himself, and died two years later. It wasn't long before he was completely forgotten, just another name lost in the midst of time.
But he lives on in the little hill figure he commissioned, and the White Horse remembers him, even if the Universe doesn't. She remembers his limp, and his lisp and his toothless smile and the White Horse never forgets.

1342

'My father always told me it was a horse,' said Rufus firmly.
Walter shook his head. 'It's a dragon,' he said. 'The one St George killed. He was terrorising England, you see, and running off with beautiful maidens and...'
'Who? Saint George?'
'No, 'course not! The dragon!'
'Killing dragons doesn't seem very saintly to me,' sniffed Michael.
There was a pause.
'That,' said Walter, 'is blasphemy.'
Michael looked startled. 'Is it?'
'Oh, yes,' said Walter, nodding knowledgeably. He wagged a finger in the younger boy's general direction. 'Just you watch out, Michael Carpenter, saying things like that.'
'I expect you'll burn in Hell now,' said Rufus conversationally.
'Shan't,' said Michael, but he sounded worried.
Rufus decided to change the subject.
'Who carved the horse, Walter?'
'Dragon.'
'Dragon, then. Who carved it?'
'King Alfred,' said Walter promptly. 'That's what father says. He got a lot done, did good King Alfred. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he even killed a few dragons in his time.'
'Wow,' said Rufus. 'I wish there were dragons about nowadays.'
'It'd be brilliant!' said Michael enthusiastically. 'I'd ride out against them with my lance, and I'd smite them all!' The little boy bobbed up and down with excitement. Walter was unimpressed.
'No, you wouldn't,' he said. 'You're far too little. They don't let littlies like you fight dragons. Stands to reason.'
Then Michael began to cry and Walter pretended to be a dragon to cheer him up. The little boy giggled and smited him with a nearby twig.
And then it got dark, and Walter and Michael wandered off for supper, and left Rufus alone on the hill.
'It is a horse,' he said. 'I know it is.'
And then he left the vale, and went home. The Horse stayed on the hill, and waited for morning.

1740

The Scouring of the White Horse was held every seven years, and drew visitors from all over. Sally Messenger won the women's race, Edward Kite won the cudgel-play and, in what had been a truly spectacular match, Farmer Evans had bested Martin Baker in the chasing of the pig. The former sat proudly among a throng of admirers, while the latter grumbled bitterly into his ale. The pig had vanished altogether, although no one really seemed to mind.
The hill figure was weeded and cleansed to much applause. Then the girls came out, red ribbons tied to their hair, and there was music and dancing, as there had been every seven years for as long as anyone could remember.
Then Tom Kettle and Jenkin Walsh got a bit tipsy, and played their fiddles to the Horse in a good-natured bid to see if the hill figure would move to the beat. She didn't, of course.
It wasn't her kind of tune.

2011

'Three thousand years old,' said Roger excitedly.
'Mmm,' said Jenny. 'I don't think much of it to be honest. A bit post-modern.'
'Yes,' said Roger, doubtfully. 'Yes, I think I know what you mean. Still,' he added. 'It makes you think, doesn't it? One day, some people just...went out and made...well, this! And it's still here!'
Jenny seemed unimpressed.
'Mmm,' she said.
Roger sighed and cast his eyes back over the vale, where their children were playing. They shrieked and giggled and skipped around the strange drawing, etched into the greenery.
They didn't see a Celtic religious imprint, or a Saxon veneration of an ancient hero, or some random graffiti scribbled onto the hill's canvas by some bored vagabond from years gone by. All they saw was a funny little figure, and a summer that would never end.