OF THE many sad stories that have emerged from the disasters that hit north-eastern Japan on March 11th, this is not the saddest. Perhaps it bears telling anyway.

The horse in the photograph to the right, taken on April 7th, was one of 36 that had been stabled in a barn by the sea about 20km from the Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear-power plant—an area that for more than three weeks has been cordoned off for most civilians because of high levels of radiation. The horses that lived there were caught in the tsunami; then they were abandoned for two weeks without food and water; now their owner cannot even slaughter them because they are assumed to be contaminated by radioactivity. Their big, trusting eyes conceal unimaginable suffering. Their emaciated bodies say more.

Rushes and drift wood tangled up in the halters that hang on the wall suggest the tsunami rose high up above the horses' necks. Some of the stalls collapsed under the weight of water. In the sun outside, six of the horses lie dead. Many of the living are lacerated along their legs and necks, suggesting sheer panic as they tried to climb out of their stalls. Remarkably, most survived. But when the waters receded and it became clear that the Fukushima atomic-energy plant was spewing out radioactive particles, everyone within a 20km radius was ordered to evacuate. That included Shinichiro Tanaka, the owner of the horses, who keeps some of them for an annual samurai parade in Minamisoma in July—a local tradition that dates back centuries—and fattens up the rest for the slaughterhouse, where they are sold for meat.

After explosions at the power plant dispersed highly radioactive material into the surrounding atmosphere, Mr Tanaka was taken to safety hundreds of kilometres away. A week ago, he made his way back. Working alone in the evacuation zone, he has cleared enough debris to bring in a truck with food and water to feed the horses, and a digger to shift the dead carcasses. A taciturn man, he said he had spent the night before crying about the horses' fate—not even the slaughterhouse would take the irradiated beasts, he said. When their food runs out, he said, he will have no option but to kill them himself. He has another month of supplies.

There are many other horses, cattle, dogs, cats and other pets that have been abandoned in the trim houses and green fields of the evacuation zone—once a fertile farming area, now a radiation no-go zone. Charities are at last venturing in to rescue some of them—when over-officious policemen do not block their entry. I accompanied Elizabeth Oliver, a British woman whose Osaka-based charity Animal Rescue Kansai, or ARK, provides shelter for dogs and cats. It has been in operation for 20 years, and took in hundreds of strays after the 1995 Kobe earthquake. Ms Oliver says that since then, Japanese attitudes towards caring for stray animals have improved considerably. Finding sanctuary for dozens of irradiated horses is another matter, though. On April 8th we heard of a Japanese charity for retired racehorses that is hoping to visit Mr Tanaka and see if it can help. It will, though, take a small miracle if the story of the stricken samurai horses is to have a happy ending.