The Crystal Horse

He is a Master Crystalier. He carefully works at his task, his place of business a room behind the carousel, down the alley next to the fence. His medium is glass.

Day after day his small hand-fire shapes the delicate rods into hoof, pastern, cannon. He places another rod and sets the arch of the neck, and softly murmurs to his medium, coaxing dream into reality. While he works he sings, and while he sings another dream stirs deeper in his mind. Behind him the music of the carousel plays another song but he is so used to the sound he doesn't even hear it play.

With his misshapened hand resting lightly on the sheepskin rag he rubs the sparkling hide of his carousel steed, lays in thread after thread

for a mane more beautiful than a queen's wedding veil. Shapes the flying tail.

He makes his own rods out back. Melts the mixture in the furnace there, then fills the molds. Three months it takes him to make enough rods, three months out back, where no one can see him.

Once when he was Crystalier to Kings, the process required only three weeks, but he is old now, and tired. He works only for himself. Quietly he sings. Softly steps the shade of night, softly lies her golden head

A child appears, edging in a door he'd thought was tightly closed. Her hair is the color of sunshine, her eyes a crystal blue. She's found her way behind the carousel, behind the hidden machinery and the mirrors to the dark corner where he works. She's come before and is familiar to him now. Not pausing in his work, he awaits the words he knows she'll speak.

Where I come from only princes are allowed a crystal horse. She comes from the palace on the hill, and this is one of her favorite complaints.

But not princesses? he growls.

A rebellious shadow enters the child's eyes. Nor ugly old men.

Ugly. Yes. For a moment he is motionless, staring at his swollen hands. Hurting. He always hurts worse after she visits him. He always feels more tired. And then only the pride in the arched crystal neck growing under his hand revives him.

With more purpose now he ignores the child, but she'll not let him be. When will you put the magic in?

The magic. The first time she asked the question he didn't understand, but now he does. She means the interior lights that give the horse his fire, his glow. Only he, Carlus, the master crystalier, knows how that magic is imparted. Others have tried to copy his process, but their results lack fire. His is the only one that makes the rider feel he rides the sun, the moon, the stars. He doesn't answer.

Indeed, staring at the flowing mane of his crystal steed he has forgotten her. He is, instead, remembering.

Remembering.

A morning when he is very young. It is his birthday. He has been told that today he may ride the carousel.

Choose the horse you'll ride, his sister says. But he cannot choose. They are all too big, too beautiful, too fierce. He shakes his head.

And then appears the brilliant, flashing crystal horse, and his mind grows still. A beautiful feeling flows out from him and embraces the horse high overhead.

There, that is it. The horse I want to ride.

Not, not possible, his sister says. There is already someone on it.

Then he won't ride at all. Never. Not until he can ride the crystal horse.

Mister, are you putting the magic in? The little girl has lost her petulance. This morning she has eyes only for the magnificent horse that fills his room.

Carlus sighs. Though it is still early in the day he is tired. Yes, he is ready to put the magic in, but he'll not do it while she watches. It is his secret, and his alone.

Mister, she begins again.

Here, impatiently the old man cuts her off, pulls out a coin from his pocket, here, go ride the carousel.

The child's eyes light at the sight of the coin. She takes it, but then shakes her head. I don't want to.

He stares at her. From his position on the floor under the crystal horse she seems grotesquely big. Why not?