The Mystery of Redhead's Afternoon Nap

By Roderick McNibble, Chief Investigative Correspondent, Equine and Transport Division, Ratty News

I've investigated some peculiar stories in my time.

There was the Great Lamington Disappearance of '24.

The Kangaroo Coup that never officially happened.

Trevor's missing knees.

And, of course, the regrettable incident involving three jars of marmalade, two CWA ladies and an experimental drone. I remain legally unable to discuss that one.

But none of those prepared me for the mystery of Redhead's afternoon naps.

It started with hoofprints.

Fresh hoofprints appeared on the beach every morning. Not hundreds of them. Just one neat trail, beginning nowhere in particular and ending nowhere at all. And so my tale begins.....

Old Bert from the Surf Club swore he'd seen a magnificent chestnut horse standing patiently outside the IGA supermarket.

Mrs Wilson insisted someone had been asking for oats and molasses just before closing time.

"They'd sold out," she said. "The poor dear looked terribly disappointed."

Naturally, I investigated.

Every clue pointed to the last place I expected.

Redhead's garage.

Now, I've known Redhead for years.

She's ninety-four years old, sharp as a tack, enjoys a good laugh, and owns a perfectly respectable red mobility scooter. It has faithfully carried her to the beach, the IGA and countless cups of tea without attracting the slightest suspicion.

Or so I thought.

For four evenings I hid behind a respectable-looking bottlebrush.

Nothing.

On the fifth evening Redhead wandered into the garage, glanced over each shoulder and leaned towards the scooter.

She whispered a single word.

Knowing Redhead, it was probably something entirely practical.

Whatever it was, the transformation began immediately. For her and the scooter.

Chrome handlebars stretched into a proud neck.

The comfortable seat became a handsome saddle.

The shopping basket folded itself into polished leather saddlebags.

Four powerful legs unfolded where wheels had been only moments before.

Standing before me was the finest chestnut horse I had ever seen, its coat glowing the colour of an Australian sunset over the beach. And a very youthful redhead.... 

I confess... I squeaked. Only a little.

Redhead, meanwhile, appeared completely unsurprised. She swung effortlessly into the saddle, her long hair fluttering behind her like a battle standard, and rode down the beach at a splendid canter. I followed. It is remarkably difficult to keep pace with a galloping horse when one possesses enthusiasm but only very short legs.  

Our first stop was the IGA. Redhead tied the horse discreetly beside the trolley bay and marched inside. She emerged several minutes later empty-handed. "They're out of oats." The horse nodded sympathetically. "And molasses."

The horse looked genuinely disappointed. Redhead sighed. I assumed that was the end of the adventure.

I was spectacularly mistaken.

That evening, after the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, Redhead returned to the beach. She rode to the old dunes where the melaleuca grows thick. The horse stamped one hoof. The whiskers around its muzzle began to glow with a soft blue light.

Whiskers Dynamic Propulsion™ was clearly at work. 

I'd heard rumours. I hadn't expected them to be true. That it had crossed species from rats to horses. 

With a gentle humming that sounded somewhere between a contented cat and a well-tuned aeroplane, horse and rider rose gracefully into the night sky.

I managed to follow aboard an experimental Ratty Airways observation craft.

Civil Aviation would probably have objected.

Fortunately, they weren't invited.

Dusty Gulch appeared beneath us like an island of warm lantern light. Mrs McFookit was already waiting. "So," she said calmly. "Redhead's here. We can begin."

Nobody applauded. Nobody gasped.

Nobody even mentioned the flying horse. Trevor distributed the agenda.

The Feline Five completed a security patrol before settling in with expressions of professional seriousness that only cats can achieve.

The horse wandered off to a stable where, I was pleased to discover, someone had found a respectable supply of oats.

Mrs McFookit tapped the table with her rolling pin. She was in her older Asian persona out of respect. 

"Item One. Citizen Vigilante."

The discussion wasn't about revenge. It was about courage. The quiet kind. The courage to tell the truth. To stand by friends. To keep going when life became difficult. To refuse to surrender simple decency because the world had become complicated.

Every now and then Mrs McFookit would pause.

"What do you reckon, Redhead?"

Redhead never made speeches. 

She simply thought for a moment and offered a sentence or two. Practical. Calm. Sensible.

Each time, everyone nodded. Trevor quietly amended the minutes. The decision was made. It dawned on me that Redhead wasn't there because she was in charge.

She was there because everyone trusted her judgment. Later, while the others packed away maps and teacups, I found the courage to ask.

"Redhead..." She smiled. "Yes, Roderick?" "How long have you been doing this?" "Oh... quite a while." "And the afternoon naps?" She laughed softly. "It isn't really a nap." "No?" "It's a journey."

I frowned.

"When you've been around as long as I have," she said, "you discover there are more roads than the ones people put on maps." "You mean you actually choose to come here?" "Of course." "But everyone thinks you're asleep." "They're welcome to."

She tightened the saddle.

"Most people close their eyes to escape the world." She looked towards the stars. "I close mine to help look after it." I scribbled furiously.

"Who taught you?" She was quiet for a moment. "There was an old woman." "And who taught her?" Redhead smiled. "That's exactly what I asked."

Then she changed the subject. Dawn was approaching. Mrs McFookit called, "Time." The lanterns were extinguished. The cups washed. Trevor folded the maps.

The Feline Five vanished into the shadows with military precision. Redhead mounted her horse once more. The glowing whiskers returned. Whiskers Dynamic Propulsion hummed gently into life. The flight home was peaceful. The sea shimmered beneath us. Pelicans glided below like silent escorts. As the first light touched the beach, the horse landed softly beside Redhead's garage.

She dismounted and stroked its neck. "Thank you."

The horse gave a satisfied snort before gracefully folding itself back into the perfectly ordinary red mobility scooter everyone thought they knew.

I watched through the window as Redhead walked inside and settled into her favourite armchair. She closed her eyes. Five minutes later she opened them again.

"You can stop hiding in the bottlebrush now, Roderick." I nearly fell into the geraniums. "You knew?"

"My dear fellow," she laughed, "if I couldn't hear one small rat rustling about behind a bottlebrush, I wouldn't be much use at the Midnight Council."

I stepped sheepishly onto the verandah. She poured two cups of tea without asking. "I suppose," I ventured, "I'll never convince anyone about the flying horse."

She handed me a gingernut. "Probably not." "They'll only see the scooter." "Most people do."

I looked towards the little red scooter resting quietly in the garage. Then I looked back at Redhead.

For the first time, I realised that perhaps we spend far too much of our lives seeing the wheels and forgetting there was once a horse. I've reported on rogue kangaroos, tactical cats, flying aircraft powered by whiskers and more improbable events than any sensible rat should admit.

Yet the greatest discovery I ever made wasn't hidden in a secret stable or carried on glowing whiskers. It was this.

Every place worth saving has someone like Redhead. Someone who has lived enough life to know that wisdom doesn't need to shout, strength rarely seeks applause, and the kettle should always be put on before trying to solve the world's problems.

In Dusty Gulch, such people are known as Elders. Not Elderly. 

The flying horse simply makes it easier for them to get to the meetings.