The Pony

Pain shot though the labourer’s feet with each step. Ewan MacCaig had spent all day and most of the night working with the local Laird’s ewes who were lambing. “Sheep…” he muttered, his Highland accent thickened by exhaustion, “bloody woolly things.”

“Still, at least there’s the moon to guide me. One foot in front of the other till I’m home and done for the day.”

Once he crested the hill, the trees opened up and so did his view. Below lay the loch and the river that fed it, both looking like molten silver in the moonlight. The fields and woods were dark patches in a giant quilt. Ewan paused to catch his breath as he leaned against the trunk of an old tree. Its bark was rough and weathered against his body as he took in the view.

It was nice, he thought, to be the only one awake for kilometers and have all this beauty to himself—even if it meant working until the early hours of the morning.

As he was preparing to set off again, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, some primal sense alerting him to the fact that he was not alone. Holding his breath, he listened for anything moving around him: Nothing but the beating of his own heart.

“You’re too old to believe in fairies,” he chided himself as he pushed away from the tree.

After a few steps, he heard a noise behind him—a scuffling on the dirt road and faint snort. With his heart hammering, Ewan turned around. Lit by the full moon overhead, he saw a black pony, unbridled and unshod.

“Are you lost… or feral?” he murmured.

The pony snorted again and held his gaze, not at all afraid of the man.

Ewan circled around the pony, looking it over.

“Looks strong and healthy… I could use a pony of my own. Sure as hell beats walking.”

Cautiously he reached a hand out to stroke its inky flank. Ewan found that the pony’s coat was sleek and soft, and, oddly, wet. Shivering from how cold his hand had become, Ewan decided it was worth the chill if he could ride the pony home.

“Don’t worry, soon as we’re home I’ll make sure you’re warm and fed,” he promised it, patting it gently.

With a grunt, Ewan heaved his aching body up on the pony’s back. Once he was situated, he prodded it gently in the ribs with his heel. The pony started to go forward as Ewan urged it down the hill toward the loch and home.

Every step the pony took down the hill was faster than the one before it. Ewan gripped its mane tightly and held on for dear life so he would not be thrown off. When they veered off the road toward the water, Ewan tugged on its mane to stop it. Instead of listening, it stubbornly tossed its head. There was a flash of gold that reflected from the pony’s eyes off the water as they splashed through the river toward the loch.

“A kelpie!” Ewan shouted, realizing too late the mistake he had made. Vainly, he attempted to throw himself from its back. Searing pain shot through the parts of his body that touched the beast as they became stuck to it.

The kelpie dived in headlong into the loch, taking Ewan with it. Holding his breath until he thought his lungs would burst, he fought to free himself, punching and kicking at the monster.

Once they were deep enough, the kelpie bucked him off its back with ease and pinned him to the loch’s bottom with its front hooves.

It stared the man down with its glowing golden eyes. After a moment, the monster lowered its head and Ewan felt pain bloom in his chest as its teeth sank into his flesh. Water flooded into his lungs as he screamed in pain and fear.

The next morning, Ewan’s friends and neighbours set out looking for him when he did not turn up for work at the Laird’s estate.

They never found all of him—there was nothing left but a few pieces of entrails and spine, spat out by the monster onto the loch’s shore once it had eaten its fill.