Five years old, adventurous and bold, I would wander: exploring any surrounding I found my small self in. We were staying with my Aunt for the summer, and I had claimed her home as my own (my playground, my private kingdom). I found lost cities in the dining room; magic in the library; submarines in the bathroom (giant squids lurking in the manufactured wave foam), and a soft world of dreams and comfort in my nursery. I approached ogres in the shape of my older siblings and a changeling in the form of the baby; my toys became faithful allies (who battled by my side, emerging victorious) or worthy adversaries (who I conquered every time); and my parents became immense giants, living mountains creaking as they bent to guide me on my travels. Mother was the tamed countryside: all brown-of-earth and gold-of-wheat, all the gentle colours that filled my gaze when we travelled. Father was the wilderness, seen only from a distance: fir-capped mountains with steep icy slopes, unforgiving but awe-inspiring and beloved.

Then I found the monster.

Set apart from the main body of the house were a small set of buildings, leaning against one another (like dominoes) in a long conjoined row. They were built of dark and moss-stained wood, and roofed with corrugated iron that had streaked red with age: each booth had only half a door, below an open square of black shadow. From a distance it was like half a dozen empty mouths gaping, waiting to swallow up young children such as myself. It did not discourage me. It was to these buildings that I escaped, one day when my parents were busy attending the hatchling (my younger sister was a year old, and already a rival troublemaker).
I made my way towards the crowd of rudimentary sheds, curious and spurred on by the chance of being apprehended any moment – I was an explorer in an undiscovered land, without food or a way of defending myself and no clue as to the dangers I might encounter. I was venturing into unchartered territory, but I was unafraid.

Then I heard the sound.

It came from one of the buildings, which looked more like cells close up. Was this some sort of prison? Was I to encounter a thief, a master criminal? Or was it something much worse?
That sound again. It came from the far end of the gloomy chain of imposing chambers. A deep, resounding snort that conjured images of hot melting breath, scaled wings and a whip-like tail lashing down upon armoured foe. I walked forward, my developing pride outweighing my inherited fear of the unfamiliar. My tiny tripping steps took me, slowly, along the line of immense wooden gates (the heavy silver bolts supporting my earlier theory, for who would go to such trouble to keep something safe confined?). Another sound, like the whipping of long hair or the rustling of fur: more images assailed my fertile imagination; full moons and jaws of wicked teeth, and wolves.
Smells bombarded my infant senses. Musk and heat filled my nostrils; the heavy scent of beasts unknown filled the small city of wood and stone. There was sweetness to the odour that clouded my nose, like spring grass or scarecrows after rain; wet and old. It reminded me of Father’s favourite jacket, the warmth of this dark smell ingrained in the floor and the structures of this place – as Father’s familiar fragrance was embedded in aged leather that I had often fallen asleep under.
More sounds confused my small mind, fear creeping into my baby teeth and wide eyes. Heavy stamping: like the drums of war. A rippling noise: like a high-pitched cough that met laughter and got confused. Dread began to stroke at my spine, like cold water dripping through my young bones. I thought, more than once, of returning to the house, to the safety of my made-up adventures, to Mother and the soft eiderdown smell of her.

I reached the end of the row, and it happened.

I saw the black shadow swing out and across my own meagre outline.
I smelt the hot, wet air blown down my neck, raising the downy hairs there.
I could taste the musk and sweat in the air, as the scent invaded another of my senses.
I heard the snorting and panting, the deep soft sound that means life and breath.
I felt something press against my hair, nuzzling the soft fluff and kneading my scalp.
And I reacted as any scared child would. I ran backwards, eyes staring and mouth gaping (ready to give that parent-summoning scream that is instinct for any young thing) and stopped.
The creature, the beast I had been so scared of… It wasn’t a dragon; it had no jaws to bite or claws to snatch. It wasn’t a werewolf; there were no dripping fangs or matted fur. It wasn’t any monster of my nightmare imaginings.
Large brown eyes blinked sleepily at me, long lashes framing their docile depths. Wisps of iron grey hair fell over the long, fine-boned face like tendrils of smoke hanging still. Two pointed ears flicked forward out of the mass of dark wiry mane: shivering slightly, delicate and gentle. The thick neck, rippling with muscle, was a softer silver-grey: lighter and bright like the sky in the early morning before it begins to rain. The short hair of its coat was dappled, darker and darker, then light again – like shadows on water, or through the leaves of a tree.
I looked at this soft-looking giant as it craned its great heavy head to peer at the small talcum-scented intruder in its midst. I stepped forward, suddenly brave, to place my hand on the spot between the animal’s large nostrils – a smile broke my serious expression, the muzzle so soft and warm beneath my small hand. I looked up, amazed at my dark reflection in the big round eyes, and I took a deep breath, steeling my five-year-old nerves for the daunting task ahead,

“M’name’s Alex,” I mumbled, rubbing my stubby fingers across the smooth skin in supplication, but the only response was a slow blink. I took heart and continued talking (a rare thing for a child like me, who lives inside her head). I spoke of trivial things, as one does when young: I repeated all the introductory bile I was taught in school, complained about my family, related my adventures as an explorer, cowboy or occasional villain. I sat on the cold concrete, ignoring the discomfort with the blissful determination that I have lost since growing old, rambling on as my new playmate chewed at my Mother-knitted jumper or nuzzled at my scruffy-cut hair.
I was enchanted, marvelling at this new encounter and in the middle of recounting an epic battle with Jenny the Elder Sinister when I was recaptured. Mother came striding over, her eyes (usually so bright with laughter) dark with anger and relief; I was scooped up into her protective embrace, her scolding losing it’s effectiveness as her voice softened with worry and love. I was told that I was only gone for half an hour, though my memory still cannot believe it: it seemed like longer to the child I was.

And so I was properly introduced to the monster – Ace, my Aunt Nuala’s mare, and to horses outside of picture books.