A Gift Horse by Susan E. Curnow
So long. Too long among humans, eons long, or so it seems. Smells choke him, the ugliness around him dulling his heart, voices arrive without poetry to ease his mind. Shoes turn steps to a clumsy gait, buckles sear the flesh of poll and cheek, and this clanking, metal vehicle makes him drip sweat like any common horse.
He fights their ropes until they beat him with a long stick that breathes agony and jolts his heart. Now he’s herded into a corral, separated from others, surrounded by more metal to sap his strength. A patch of dirt
without a blade of grass; food is a memory long forgotten, long tasted.
So tired. He is so, so tired.
A metallic clang precedes the smell of yet another human. He spins, ready to do battle. Not men with sticks and harsh voices but a female smelling of sweet scent and more. The tang of horse clings to her clothes and waltzes through her hair. She holds out a hand.
He snaps at it half-heartedly, wanting none to touch him, no more human flesh.
She sings sweet nothings, unafraid as she rubs a sore spot on his neck.
He thinks to sleep as she mesmerizes him with sound and touch, until he hears the voices again and the thump of their boots, the smell of their manly scent. He will go nowhere with them. He would rather die.
With one last effort he cries challenges, forcing his body up and up, his hooves to strike out, his teeth to snap.
Laughter and curses greet his courage and then a high-pitched scream of anger sounds as a metal rod begins its descent toward his head. A mare defends her herd fiercer than any stallion.
The defense startles him so that he looks at the woman, at her face screwed up in rage, and listens to her furious words of denial. The males back away, their body language both irritated and ashamed, their words uncertain.
Kick and bite and stomp are all he can manage, but here is something else. Instinct makes him wish to follow her feet, to trust, anything that might lead him to safety. More angry words lace the air.
“Josie, you’re a fool. Not this one.”
“You do as I say, Pete. You don’t let the meat man have him.”
The gate closes with an annoyed clang, stomping feet fading into oblivion. Sounds retreat as he turns his back on the world, expecting death until that gentle voice comes again, free of anger, promising so much. In the distance an auctioneer’s hammer falls. He flinches at the sound, waiting. A male voice calls.
“A hundred and fifty bucks, Josie!”
“Fine!” she calls back.
Is that all I’m worth? A part of him still finds bitter amusement.
#
Fresh straw in a wooden barn is better than ambrosia. Water smells fresh and clean, drawn from a well without taint. He takes several mouthfuls before she pulls the bucket away and hangs hay in a net. It isn’t hay he wants but he can’t tell her this. He’s taken drink from her hands and this obligates him. If he takes food as well he wins nothing for his hopes.
He rests in the clean straw. She sits by him, talking, stroking him until his eyes close. She teases burrs from his mane and tail, delicately parting strands. He widens his nostrils, drawing in her scent, the very female scent of her, the musk of fertility, the sweat beneath the perfume. Even as sleep calls, he wants her on his back, to ride between the worlds. For the first time in eons he feels safe.
A man’s voice intrudes into his dreams, words echoing above him.
“He’ll be all right with plenty of rest and good feed. He’ll need supplements for a while--teeth floated, feet trimmed, wormed—you know all that. Heart and gut sounds are good but I’ll take some blood to test. Get his strength up and then we’ll geld him.”
Not in the Seven Hells.
Has he merely exchanged one nightmare for another? At least in the pens he might have died a courageous death fighting to the end. Here, kindness could be as dangerous. He will not allow his blood to be taken. The little rest he’s gained gives him enough strength to avoid the needle. The male backs away when Josie tells him to.
“Come back another day when you’re passing. Let him settle. There’s no rush,” Josie says from outside his stall. For a moment their eyes meet—is there amusement written in hers?
A vehicle drives away and the door to his stall re-opens and she stands there, arms akimbo. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you understand every word, but I’ll give you the benefit of doubt. I’ll make you a bran mash. You gotta eat, boy.”
The bran mash smells of earth and sweetness. What he wants is a side of venison, fresh river greens, and a glass of wine scented with oak.
#
Sun shines through a skylight within the barn. He watches motes dance among beams and catch the light. His bones tell him the moon will be full tonight. With luck and cunning he can escape his stall and find his way to a river. If he dives beneath the surface he’ll find a path home.
He sleeps, nose in straw, until the sun begins its descent. The girl, Josie, comes to check on him from time to time, always speaking softly, always touching him tenderly. She makes his skin shiver and his heart race, but she is human and he does not forget the promise of a knife to his genitals.
Her eyes are green, her hair black as his coat. She tilts her head and watches him in a way no other human ever has, looking more deeply than his skin; as though she knows. And when she removes his shoes he wonders even more.
Daylight fades. Birds find their roosts and beyond the barn all he hears is the rustle of trees as they whisper goodnights. He climbs to his hooves, light of foot, and investigates the bolts of the stall. Though they burn his mouth, it’s easy enough to pull them back with his teeth. He is halfway down a gravel path with the tang of a river to guide him when Josie appears. She stands before him, hands on her slender waist.
“I wondered if you’d try it. Come here, silly boy,” she says.
He has some pride left and knows he can escape her. He stands as she approaches him. It will not hurt him to have those tender hands caress him one last time. She reaches him and strokes his nose, then shares her breath with him. She tastes of honey and cinnamon. He barely notices as she slips something over his head. Only then does he back away, aware he’s been a fool yet again.
Light as gossamer, the halter might barely hold him except for one thing. He stares at her, wondering how she knew, what gave him away.
She smiles. “I wondered many things about you. You were too beautiful, even filthy as you were, to have been abandoned by anyone. I thought perhaps you were too dangerous to be handled, but you reacted out of fear, not anger. I have a feeling you are a long way from home.”
The halter is made from his tail and mane, braided together and shaped to fit.
“Isn’t it true that if I ride you in a bridle made from your hair, you won’t kill me?”
The moon is full and it is Samhain, a time of power. A shaft of moonlight falls on the path. He steps sideways into it, letting the rays fall upon his back. He calls a challenge to the night and to the powers of the Earth, and then he changes.
#
“How did you know?” he asks when he stands as a man before her.
“Small things. You didn’t quite behave as a normal horse and you understood me far too well. You shied away from anything metal. Your expressions were, well, too expressive. The way you watch things... “You should have seen your face when George mentioned gelding you. You understood.”
The halter hangs around his neck, as secure as any chain. He fingers it. “You want a ride, do you? I’ll give you the ride of your life!” He means it in more ways than one and three or four others besides.
She laughs. A sound holding promises of lust and love and hope until she asks, “What is your name?”
He pauses. Giving his name commits him to so many things. It will give her yet more power over him. If she were Fae he would never consider it, but he owes her his life and knows it. “Aiellessen,” he says softly and prays he is not wrong to trust.
“I’m Josie, but I guess you already know that. Come inside and we’ll talk and I’ll make you a proper meal.”
She walks forward and lifts the end of his halter. She tugs and he follows, skin shivering at the touch of her hand.
Aiellessen stops at the threshold. “I can take you to so many places.”
She stops with one hand on the door frame. “I know. My grandmother told me so much.”
Still he hesitates, a thing remaining to trouble him. “And you’ll promise to keep the knife away?”
Laughter highlights her face again making her eyes dance as they rake over his body.
He knows he is handsome and straightens his shoulders. He nearly stamps his feet until he remembers.
“Looking like that? I’m thinking there is more than one way to geld a man and a knife isn’t one of them. If I know my legends, you owe me at least seven years. So if you behave...”
It isn’t in his nature to behave. As long as he wears the halter he cannot run. Seven years is a long time to plan, and if women have got him into trouble before, no doubt they will again, but the in-between is always worth it. Besides, time passes differently on Earth from what is does in Sithein-dhu. He might even return a hero, especially if he gets this girl with child. He steps across the threshold with a smile on his face ready to do battle for his manhood.
#
The door remains ajar and Josie stands in the path of the moon. Light burnishes her skin lending her an unearthly glow. Her clothes lie in a puddle at her feet. His smile broadens and then fades as she steps out of her skin.
He fights their ropes until they beat him with a long stick that breathes agony and jolts his heart. Now he’s herded into a corral, separated from others, surrounded by more metal to sap his strength. A patch of dirt
without a blade of grass; food is a memory long forgotten, long tasted.
So tired. He is so, so tired.
A metallic clang precedes the smell of yet another human. He spins, ready to do battle. Not men with sticks and harsh voices but a female smelling of sweet scent and more. The tang of horse clings to her clothes and waltzes through her hair. She holds out a hand.
He snaps at it half-heartedly, wanting none to touch him, no more human flesh.
She sings sweet nothings, unafraid as she rubs a sore spot on his neck.
He thinks to sleep as she mesmerizes him with sound and touch, until he hears the voices again and the thump of their boots, the smell of their manly scent. He will go nowhere with them. He would rather die.
With one last effort he cries challenges, forcing his body up and up, his hooves to strike out, his teeth to snap.
Laughter and curses greet his courage and then a high-pitched scream of anger sounds as a metal rod begins its descent toward his head. A mare defends her herd fiercer than any stallion.
The defense startles him so that he looks at the woman, at her face screwed up in rage, and listens to her furious words of denial. The males back away, their body language both irritated and ashamed, their words uncertain.
Kick and bite and stomp are all he can manage, but here is something else. Instinct makes him wish to follow her feet, to trust, anything that might lead him to safety. More angry words lace the air.
“Josie, you’re a fool. Not this one.”
“You do as I say, Pete. You don’t let the meat man have him.”
The gate closes with an annoyed clang, stomping feet fading into oblivion. Sounds retreat as he turns his back on the world, expecting death until that gentle voice comes again, free of anger, promising so much. In the distance an auctioneer’s hammer falls. He flinches at the sound, waiting. A male voice calls.
“A hundred and fifty bucks, Josie!”
“Fine!” she calls back.
Is that all I’m worth? A part of him still finds bitter amusement.
#
Fresh straw in a wooden barn is better than ambrosia. Water smells fresh and clean, drawn from a well without taint. He takes several mouthfuls before she pulls the bucket away and hangs hay in a net. It isn’t hay he wants but he can’t tell her this. He’s taken drink from her hands and this obligates him. If he takes food as well he wins nothing for his hopes.
He rests in the clean straw. She sits by him, talking, stroking him until his eyes close. She teases burrs from his mane and tail, delicately parting strands. He widens his nostrils, drawing in her scent, the very female scent of her, the musk of fertility, the sweat beneath the perfume. Even as sleep calls, he wants her on his back, to ride between the worlds. For the first time in eons he feels safe.
A man’s voice intrudes into his dreams, words echoing above him.
“He’ll be all right with plenty of rest and good feed. He’ll need supplements for a while--teeth floated, feet trimmed, wormed—you know all that. Heart and gut sounds are good but I’ll take some blood to test. Get his strength up and then we’ll geld him.”
Not in the Seven Hells.
Has he merely exchanged one nightmare for another? At least in the pens he might have died a courageous death fighting to the end. Here, kindness could be as dangerous. He will not allow his blood to be taken. The little rest he’s gained gives him enough strength to avoid the needle. The male backs away when Josie tells him to.
“Come back another day when you’re passing. Let him settle. There’s no rush,” Josie says from outside his stall. For a moment their eyes meet—is there amusement written in hers?
A vehicle drives away and the door to his stall re-opens and she stands there, arms akimbo. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you understand every word, but I’ll give you the benefit of doubt. I’ll make you a bran mash. You gotta eat, boy.”
The bran mash smells of earth and sweetness. What he wants is a side of venison, fresh river greens, and a glass of wine scented with oak.
#
Sun shines through a skylight within the barn. He watches motes dance among beams and catch the light. His bones tell him the moon will be full tonight. With luck and cunning he can escape his stall and find his way to a river. If he dives beneath the surface he’ll find a path home.
He sleeps, nose in straw, until the sun begins its descent. The girl, Josie, comes to check on him from time to time, always speaking softly, always touching him tenderly. She makes his skin shiver and his heart race, but she is human and he does not forget the promise of a knife to his genitals.
Her eyes are green, her hair black as his coat. She tilts her head and watches him in a way no other human ever has, looking more deeply than his skin; as though she knows. And when she removes his shoes he wonders even more.
Daylight fades. Birds find their roosts and beyond the barn all he hears is the rustle of trees as they whisper goodnights. He climbs to his hooves, light of foot, and investigates the bolts of the stall. Though they burn his mouth, it’s easy enough to pull them back with his teeth. He is halfway down a gravel path with the tang of a river to guide him when Josie appears. She stands before him, hands on her slender waist.
“I wondered if you’d try it. Come here, silly boy,” she says.
He has some pride left and knows he can escape her. He stands as she approaches him. It will not hurt him to have those tender hands caress him one last time. She reaches him and strokes his nose, then shares her breath with him. She tastes of honey and cinnamon. He barely notices as she slips something over his head. Only then does he back away, aware he’s been a fool yet again.
Light as gossamer, the halter might barely hold him except for one thing. He stares at her, wondering how she knew, what gave him away.
She smiles. “I wondered many things about you. You were too beautiful, even filthy as you were, to have been abandoned by anyone. I thought perhaps you were too dangerous to be handled, but you reacted out of fear, not anger. I have a feeling you are a long way from home.”
The halter is made from his tail and mane, braided together and shaped to fit.
“Isn’t it true that if I ride you in a bridle made from your hair, you won’t kill me?”
The moon is full and it is Samhain, a time of power. A shaft of moonlight falls on the path. He steps sideways into it, letting the rays fall upon his back. He calls a challenge to the night and to the powers of the Earth, and then he changes.
#
“How did you know?” he asks when he stands as a man before her.
“Small things. You didn’t quite behave as a normal horse and you understood me far too well. You shied away from anything metal. Your expressions were, well, too expressive. The way you watch things... “You should have seen your face when George mentioned gelding you. You understood.”
The halter hangs around his neck, as secure as any chain. He fingers it. “You want a ride, do you? I’ll give you the ride of your life!” He means it in more ways than one and three or four others besides.
She laughs. A sound holding promises of lust and love and hope until she asks, “What is your name?”
He pauses. Giving his name commits him to so many things. It will give her yet more power over him. If she were Fae he would never consider it, but he owes her his life and knows it. “Aiellessen,” he says softly and prays he is not wrong to trust.
“I’m Josie, but I guess you already know that. Come inside and we’ll talk and I’ll make you a proper meal.”
She walks forward and lifts the end of his halter. She tugs and he follows, skin shivering at the touch of her hand.
Aiellessen stops at the threshold. “I can take you to so many places.”
She stops with one hand on the door frame. “I know. My grandmother told me so much.”
Still he hesitates, a thing remaining to trouble him. “And you’ll promise to keep the knife away?”
Laughter highlights her face again making her eyes dance as they rake over his body.
He knows he is handsome and straightens his shoulders. He nearly stamps his feet until he remembers.
“Looking like that? I’m thinking there is more than one way to geld a man and a knife isn’t one of them. If I know my legends, you owe me at least seven years. So if you behave...”
It isn’t in his nature to behave. As long as he wears the halter he cannot run. Seven years is a long time to plan, and if women have got him into trouble before, no doubt they will again, but the in-between is always worth it. Besides, time passes differently on Earth from what is does in Sithein-dhu. He might even return a hero, especially if he gets this girl with child. He steps across the threshold with a smile on his face ready to do battle for his manhood.
#
The door remains ajar and Josie stands in the path of the moon. Light burnishes her skin lending her an unearthly glow. Her clothes lie in a puddle at her feet. His smile broadens and then fades as she steps out of her skin.
As One by Susan E. Curnow
Clarity was not the haven advertised. For three quarters of the year, it rained in varying degrees of intensity. No one had told the colonists that rain could be as bad as drought when it came to growing crops. Such plans those
initial colonists had. All failed. And since no ship had deigned to pass by in several generations, Estar Astron was as stuck as everybody else.
She survived as everybody did. It was that or die. Science could create so many wonders, but it couldn’t stop the rain, and while food stuffs could be grown under cover, the whole infrastructure of Clarity failed. The rich, if there was any such thing on Clarity, might have their glass houses; the rest of the world scrabbled for a living in the
muck.
Which was why Estar became a hound.
There were natives on Clarity. But that was another thing the first explorers failed to mention in their copious and useless reports. They’d classified herbivores and omnivores and carnivores, but they hadn’t classified the horses.
Because they weren’t just horses, were they?
Humans have such a lovely habit of wanting life to fit neatly into a box so that they can label it as this or that. Give them a true alien and they go into panic mode and forget all sense. At least Estar presumed so. Horses! She knew what an Earth-type horse was and what it looked like, and, sure, those horses ate the blue grass like the creatures back home. Horses back home, however, did not transform themselves into ‘something else’ when they felt like it.
Because Clarity’s ‘horses’ didn’t live in towns or cities, the planetary surveys presumed the lack of structures meant no truly intelligent life-forms. Well, as in humanoid-type-intelligent-life-forms. That might have been because the natives didn’t build permanently. Sensibly Clarity’s natives had adapted to their surroundings and were nomadic. The majority of humans weren’t like that.
They wanted permanency. They wanted what they’d left, and they’d bought Earth with them in the shape of seeds to plant and plans for cities. Earth-type seeds rotted in the soil or grew like pathetic yellowing stalks. There wasn’t enough nitrogen or enough phosphates. Someone hadn’t done their damned research.
Oh yes you adapt and survive when you have no choice. Trouble is it isn’t always you who suffers. Humans thought Clarity was theirs now, warts and all, and when it came to survival you did what you had to.
#
Bite him, get him, hold him.
Scent of sweat, scent of male, scent of musk, scent of death.
Like the rhythm of an ancient drum, the stallion's hooves pound dirt. Blue-green oaks bend their branches as he passes. Dying leaves flutter in his wake. Estar howls, urging her hounds after him. This one will not escape her pack. Can’t. She needs his blood.
Sweat lathers the stallion's sides as he gallops from the trees. Hooves thunder onto river rock, scattering pebbles like shards.
No! Don't let him reach the river. Steady, don't rush him. Canen! Too soon, too soon, young pup. Estar
cringes as Canen flies through the air, victim of a great hoof. He lies still on the rocks as the stallion leaps into the river.
No. No, you won't escape me.
No.
In a ripple of charged air, Estar transforms. From brindled hound to human, she changes, muscles and bones stretching, forming new structure and shape. Agony flares at the rapidity; her howls change to screams of triumph and pain. She dives into the river, the dismayed howls of her pack echoing in her ears.
Fed by snowmelt from Harmony Mountain, river water meets Estar's skin and dances a shiver along her spine. The force of the river's current tugs her southward. She fights against that strength, cutting through waves.
The stallion leaps out the river on the far bank and shakes from head to tail. In his arrogance, he doesn’t look back. True, most hounds will not dare the river because of its currents, but this horse doesn’t know Estar. The rushing water conceals any sound Estar makes as she pulls herself free. Not until she transforms again does he sense her.
Estar leaps, teeth bared, to land on the stallion's back. She scrabbles for purchase on his smooth black hide. She bites down on his withers. He roars, twisting to shake her free. Muscles bunch and he bucks, a violent concussion of power. Still she hangs on, teeth buried in flesh. In desperation, he rears up and up, forelegs pawing the air in his anger and pain. Her weight pulls him over. She jumps free before he crashes to the ground and lies still. Estar sniffs the air. The scent of his blood tickles her senses until she licks her lips. Then he changes, as she knows how to change.
Instinct begs her to hamstring him; fascination with his transformation keeps her frozen for seconds. He must have struck his head when he fell; he is too motionless to be faking unconsciousness, his heart and breathing slow.
Estar approaches him, sniffing him all over, then sits on her haunches in bewilderment. As a hound she cannot tie his limbs. Even though she does not want to transform again, she does. Finds some river wrack and ties his wrists and ankles. Then she sets about making a fire to dry herself while she waits for the pack to catch up. They will have to find a bridge or a ford, which will take time.
#
As her fire smokes miserably in drizzling rain, Estar studies her captive. Long black hair cascades down his back as thick as his mane. The honed muscles of an athlete sculpt his body. His features are strong even in sleep. A beard of dark hair coats his broad chin, wide nostrils flare with every breath.
Anger flares through her. A pretty face changes nothing. She'd hunted him for sacrifice for good reason. Without the stallion's blood, the crops will fail and her people starve, and his pretty face only confirms what folk say about the stallions. Like handsome male birds, he flaunts his plumage to capture females and breed like pests. The great herds of horses only deplete the land and must be culled to save humanity from ruin. Too much rain washes the essential nutrients out of this land, which the stallions’ sacrifices will replace.
Her captive stirs with a groan. No doubt he has a massive headache. Estar draws her knife from its sheath around her neck. He awakes to the kiss of steel at his throat and freezes, staring up at her with rich dark eyes.
"This world changes many things, but this… What is this?" she asks. He would know what she means, she is sure. Her blade does not waver at his throat as he swallows. Clarity’s humans know the horses transform, but no one has ever seen it close to. They’d been as elusive as ghosts when humans had tried to approach, thus adding to their mystery.
"If you understand the rules, then why are you surprised?"
She frowns. The rules? His face shines wax pale beneath the beard, a green tinge around his lips speaking of pain. Though he is naked and apparently-human, he smells of horse. Her nose twitches as she sheathes her knife and hunkers down beside him.
"The rules are that your blood is needed to nourish the land."
"Whose rules?" he shoots back. "Man's rules, not Clarity's. Do you believe everything you are told? Do you honestly think one stallion's blood will change things?"
"Don't belittle my intelligence. Who is the one lying trussed?"
He shifts, a grimace of pain twisting his features. Maybe he's hurt more than his head, but he says, "Why does man take the stallions?"
She stares into those fathomless eyes. So inhuman. No whites at all. "Because you are all rutting whores and breed like vermin."
Temper flares across his face at her taunt. He attempts to move and grunts in pain. She wonders if he's hurt his spine. He fell hard. "You are foolish to move if you've hurt your back."
"What do you care?" he grinds out. "It will only make it easier to drag me to sacrifice."
For a while neither speaks. The bitterness in his voice touches a chord within her.
He asks her name.
Why does he want her name? The idea worries her but then she shrugs. "Estar, leader of Pack Astron." There is pride in leading the pack of the biggest town on Clarity. She's fought many battles to become alpha. Let him know who has captured him.
"You should not be,” she says, because somehow this seems wrong, this human-like form before her, who speaks so tidily in human words. Who is the beast now?
"I am as natural as you are. You exist to hunt, we exist to preserve."
"We exist to prevent folk from starving."
"The lie is subtle but not the truth."
She thinks over his words. The hounds had been developed within the cities and are not natural at all. Does that mean the stallions have also been created by science? The common folk call the hound's transformation magic but it is not so. Where had those scientists gained their knowledge to achieve such a thing? Truly, Estar has not questioned it before.
He waits for her to answer, his gaze making her uncomfortable. "Then what is the truth, you profligate brute?"
He snorts at her label. "No amount of blood could satisfy the land, which is simple science. Wrapping up slaughter in ritual might make our deaths acceptable to you. It is not the solution to Clarity's problems."
"So you say."
"So I know." Fury tinges his voice.
"The false priests of man might have a way with words, but they do not tell the whole truth. It is not blood alone which encourages your crops to grow. You would need whole herds of our bones to do that."
"Then why do the crops flourish with each sacrifice?"
He hesitates, staring beyond her toward the river. "I am Tarin," he says softly, and, "I will show you. Look behind you."
Estar turns, sure he means to trick her. Her heart drums against her ribcage. Within the river gallops an image of a black stallion. Flowing water becomes his mane, tail and feathers, his body a swirl of impressions. The beauty of the image holds her spellbound so that she has to wrench her gaze away.
In her heart she'd known it was a trick. The priests are not wrong, and now he's broken his bonds.
She faces him, knife in hand, wishing for something heftier. He arches his neck, pawing the ground in challenge and letting out a neigh that deafens her. When he rears, she cannot prevent instinct to step back.
His hooves dance in the air so that she feels the wind as they pass, and then he comes crashing down. She stands her ground, knife raised, knowing it might be her end, but she will not die a coward. At the last moment he twists sideways. Her knife sinks into his flesh. A primal scream fills the air.
Startled, she lets go of her knife and spins. His hooves come down, not on her but a catspawn. A feline as tall as a young child. It lies on its side, ribs shattered, testament to what might have happened to her. She has no time to wonder, for the catspawn is not alone. Unearthly yowls echo across the river bank as the cats approach, dark-striped fur bristling their rage, teeth drawn back to reveal over-sized canines.
Estar transforms and howls a dare to the cats, who no doubt are lured by the stallion's blood. In a flurry of fur, one cat leaps. So does Estar, a savage growl in her throat. The cat goes down, it's back broken, but there are six more circling at a distance.
Listen to me.
His voice in her mind. Used to the hound's communication it does not shock her.
Listen, Estar Astron, and believe. Stallions' magic is not like yours, it is the true power of this land. Take some of that power within yourself. It is the resonance which nourishes the land, not our blood, and your priests understand that.
I don't need it.
You do. I am wounded both from the fall and your knife. Take what I have left. This is our seed, it is no rape. This once, we will fight together.
She hesitates, one eye on the approaching cats, weighing the odds, and knows she cannot outrun six catspawn. She bites her lip in hesitation. She can kill him afterward. She nods.
Power arcs between them. He neighs, she howls, and their voices join, a vibration that matches.
Resonance. She feels it to her core, a primal play which finds rhythm and dances an archaic waltz of survival.
Strength fills Estar until her veins tingle and she wants to burst from her skin. Wonder at that power makes her want to question.
Now.
Her lips draw back from her incisors, ears fold, tail raises and her haunches bunch. She expects to fight alone, but Tarin is not done yet. They dance indeed, using their strengths to fight and defend. Tarin kicks as Estar worries at throats. He tramples, breaking bones so she can go in for the kill.
Minutes it takes and then the roars stop, the screams stop. Estar pants, the smell of blood and offal surrounding them. Ichor coats Tarin's hooves, blood plasters Estar's pelt. Carnage lies around them.
Resonance. It ripples between them, the connection vivid, so that she knows when he changes to
human form--experiences it so that she knows his every muscle as well as her own. Feels his pain from the wound she's inflicted.
"Why? Why would you do that?" she asks, bewildered.
He holds a hand to his side where she'd stabbed him. It cannot conceal the blood that flows down. He takes a breath. "We protect the herd from prey. Today you were my herd."
"It's that simple?"
"Things often are."
"Explain them to me then."
He opens his mouth as though to reply but then he staggers. She stops him falling. Before this hunt began, Estar had no qualms about killing these creatures. None. Now guilt rushes through her that she's injured him. She feels his essence within her, joining with her more intimately than anything she has ever experienced. The wonder of it still burns through her as her heart matches rhythm with his. She will never be the same. He is no longer the beast she's always thought the stallions to be. He is right that this is a lie. She doesn’t know the whole truth yet but she will.
Gently she lowers Tarin to the ground, straining with his weight. Despite his objections, she studies his wound. If her knife has penetrated deeply enough it will have damaged his intestines and there is nothing she can do. She bites her lip.
"Can't you use your power to heal yourself?"
"Balance, it's all about balance," he says softly.
"You were going to tell me."
His gaze drifts away from her, as though he has already gone somewhere else. She catches his chin between her fingers and turns his face toward her. "Tell me why I am wrong."
"You believe that the stallions' blood nourishes the land. There is some truth to that, but you were taking too many and destroying the balance. We are part of this world and its power resides within us. The world made us. We fight our own battles to nourish the land, but man takes too much. That is why the crops wither and die."
He lifts a hand. "This world is not man's birthplace, yet he treats it as such. The rules here are different and he breaks them. There is power but it is not limitless."
"The hunts have been going on for years. Why have you done nothing to stop them? You say things are often simple, but often they are not. I became what I am for a reason. Do you now tell me I live a lie?"
"You believed a lie. There is a difference."
"Why should I believe your truth and not theirs? In the beginning, why did we not know that you could transform like the hounds?"
"We learned it from you."
"How? Why?"
"Because it was needful for our survival."
Estar pauses. Humanity had come to Clarity hundreds of years earlier. A colony ship that had traveled the stars for millennia. They had no way back to their roots nor wanted any, but Clarity's climate was not as ambivalent as was first supposed. Facing starvation from failed crops, scientists searched for answers and discovered that wherever large mammals died vegetation thrived. The one thing that flourished on Clarity were the herds of black horses. In desperation, men gave hope to a starving population by sacrificing a stallion. When that year the crops thrived, people grasped at the concept and the hounds were born, never realizing that one horse's death could never have achieved such a miracle.
People believed what they wanted to believe.
"We call it 'magic'?" Estar says.
"That is your word for things you do not understand."
"But I do understand. You are saying that it is the power within you that enriches the land."
"Yes, and always has. But humans changed the balance."
"You spoke about rules before, as though I should understand them."
"It is simple. If you use anything you must replace it in kind."
"Is that why you aren't fighting to live?"
"Nature will decide if I am strong enough."
"Will it? I understand what you are saying. It makes sense, but nature like anyone needs help to survive. You aren't an animal any more than I am."
That seems to sting for his eyes open more fully. "When the hunt arrives, what will you do?"
She thinks and then says, "Tell them to go away."
"Will they listen to you?"
"Yes!"
She says it too quickly and knows it. They will listen to her but they will argue and yip and whine about it. She has been so certain about things, now she is not, and that rankles. That an upstart male has thrown everything she thought is right and true into disarray. Trouble is, he could be dying and that pulls a different set of strings entirely. A stallion might instinctively wish to protect his herd, an alpha female is not so different.
"What is your hierarchy within the herd?' she asks, thinking.
He looks away uttering a long, pain-filled sigh. "There is more than one herd among the horses. There is the Great Herd and then the smaller herds within it. You know the way of things. The strongest gets to mate; the strongest survives or gets driven away. How do you think you come across stallions at all?"
"So you lost?"
"Oh no, I won."
She frowns. "Then--?"
"The stallion I chose to fight was leader over all the herds. I won, but I refused to deliver the killing blow."
"Why?"
"Because… I could not."
That isn't enough of an answer. Estar thinks back to the whole hunt and an idea occurs to her. "You placed yourself in our way. You meant to be caught. You meant to die. I thought luck was on our side, but it was no such thing. Tarin, why?"
She uses his name, and that changes things between them. He's become a person and not just a creature to hunt. He's given her his strength so both could survive. He fades. She feels it.
"Tarin, don't you leave me! You said you would explain and you haven't even begun."
"Why prolong it?"
"Because you aren't a coward and yet you act like one now, and I need to understand. If you want me to change my mind about anything, I need to know why. Yes, I felt your power, but it isn't enough."
"Then ask any of us."
"I am asking you."
He shivers. Estar touches him. "You gave me some of your power. Take it back."
"He will not give it because he is too proud and stubborn."
So it is not the hunt who arrives first. The man who walks into their tableau looks very like the man who lies dying. Estar does not attempt to run. He kneels beside Tarin and reaches with one hand.
Despite his weakness, Tarin grips the man's wrist. "No," he whispers.
"You made a choice, am I not allowed to make mine? Are you truly that arrogant?"
Estar does not realize she holds her breath until she has to breathe. Whether it is weakness or he is shamed by the other's words, she does not know, but Tarin releases his grip on the man's arm.
"Stubborn colt. Wise decision. Have you not proved your worth that you have got a Hound to care for you?"
"That is not enough for your life!"
"Oh, but it is. My life was over the moment you defeated me, but thank you for the time given me to say goodbye."
Estar feels like the worst kind of voyeur watching the two. She rises to give them privacy but the stranger looks up. "No, don't leave, someone must witness this." He presses on Tarin's wound.
Tarin arches his back, a cry rattling the air. Power crackles as Tarin writhes on the ground. The man does not release his grip until Tarin stills. Then he leans forward, brushes the mane back from Tarin's brow and places a kiss there. Without words, he slips sideways and lies still.
Estar shakes. Tarin breathes hard. There are tears running down his face. In that moment she wants to hold him but does not dare.
"Who was he?" she asks.
The sorrow on his face is poignant enough to bring tears to her eyes. "His name was Rathor and he was my sire," Tarin says as he climbs his feet, "and the greatest leader the Herd has ever had."
"Why did you fight him?"
"Because he challenged me. Nature is a hard taskmaster and cruel as anyone. He said he had had his time. That it was time for a younger stallion. I did not agree."
"But he has had his way in any case."
Tarin wipes his eyes and lets out a rough laugh. "Yes. Yes he did, and he called me stubborn."
He lifts his head and stares across the river rushing beyond. Estar turns, wondering what he sees. On the opposite bank stand twelve black horses. As one they dive into the river. It seems only moments before they stream forth and surround them. One comes forward and stares down at Rathor's body then back to Tarin, a question in his dark eyes. Tarin's answer is to change. He rears, cutting the sky with his hooves as he neighs. The other stallions join him so that Estar covers her ears, her body vibrating with sound.
Once more they rear, but this time Tarin does not and their action is an unspoken acknowledgement of him, Estar is sure. Then they turn and gallop away, thundering along the river bank. When Estar looks back, Rathor's body has gone. His imprint still presses into the ground. The catspawn's blood has vanished with him as though the land has absorbed them all.
Perhaps it has.
The hunt never came for them and somehow that feels more of a betrayal than anything, as though she hasn't mattered. For a moment hurt spikes but then she lets the emotion go. She changes into hound form and barks at Tarin. He stomps a hoof and shakes his head, mane flying in all directions.
Come, she hears in her mind. I promised the answers to your questions. She doesn’t hesitate. She runs at his side as he takes off, and as one they gallop into the trees.
The Hawk, the Hound, and the Lady Fair
Within a rock a crystal grew. Adamantine and amethyst, the crystal cried out to be made whole, to add softness to its hardness and complete its life; to be more than just silicate but awake.
In its own peculiar fashion, the amethyst began to call, and as birds heralded the May morning in the soft hills above the cliff fortress of Tintagel, the granite rock started to change. A single ray of purple light beamed from a hairline crack until, by noon, the heat of the sun and the crystal’s yearning, had opened a fissure. Purple and gold rays burst forth, spreading like a lady’s fan, catching the light with its prismatic points.
#
Between furze and hairbells and sheep-cropped grass, a wolfhound loped, bounding between rocks and flowers. Gulls cried harsh descants overhead, dipping and swooping like the sails of a caravel. Other than the birds, and the man following the hound, there wasn’t another soul to be seen, the peace of the place profound.
Behind the great gris hound, following the flag of his plumed tail, rode Alain de Beauchamp upon a fine grey stallion. The morning shone clear, the shadows from the cliffs turning the sea lavender and sage. Waves
crashed against the base of the chalk rocks and the tangy scent of the sea lingered in the air. Hunger gnawed at Alain’s insides. On a perch raised up from the pommel of his saddle, Alain carried a hawk. He released the hawk’s jesses, holding him upon his left arm, then lifted it, sending the bird in search of game. The young knight doubted he would make Tintagel this day.
Alain had recently traveled from France. Come to seek his fortune in English tourneys, two days ago he’d landed on Cornwall’s rocky shores. Hermits living in caves among the cliffs had directed him to Tintagel, but he was in no hurry.
The hawk took wing. Ahead of the knight, Bran the wolfhound let out a deep, warning bark. The stallion stamped a hoof and neighed a challenge. Alain gripped the pommel of his sword as he looked around. In this open country no robbers could hide. No rock sat large enough to crouch behind, and although the land rose and dipped
along the cliff, nothing came to disturb the singing birds.
Bran stood, nose pointed toward a low rock, tail waving uncertainly, hesitant whines voicing his concern. Alain stared. Purple light poured forth from the rock like a waterfall turned upside down, streams of it spraying in several directions. A beam glanced across Alain’s leg. His stallion snorted, too well-trained to move. Alain dismounted, sword now in hand, and walked toward the wolfhound.
A low whine emitted from the wolfhound’s throat, wind blew his harsh brindled coat, his eyes fixed on the rock as though any moment the granite stone would attack.
“What have you found, boy?” Alain asked. “What is it?”
Was it Alain’s imagination that the beams turned toward him, as though sensing his presence? Fascinated by the phenomenon, he passed one hand through the beams. A single chime sounded. Like that of a small bell. He
flinched in surprise, yet when nothing further happened, he moved his hand again. Chimes sang out, until they rang a carillon. Intrigued, Alain studied the rock, shading his eyes to look closer. Within the narrow fissure he caught the
gleam of a deep, purple amethyst. Had someone lost a jewel within the crack and now the sun had revealed its hiding place? He tried to get his hand into the crack, but his fingers were too large, although he did manage to touch the stone. A thrill loosed through him. Everything within him wanted that shining stone.
Though the rock was made of granite and he knew his sword would not cleave it, the power of the crystal’s song urged him to free the stone from its prison, and he had no axe that he might have used instead. Lifting the sword
with two hands, he judged the blow and stood to one side at what he thought was the weakest point of the rock. He stepped forward to strike and tripped on an outcrop of stone hidden in grass, losing his balance and falling. One hand slid down the blade, slicing his palm on its honed edge. He caught himself upon the rock, where his blood flowed from his hand into the fissure.
With a gasp of pain, Alain clutched his wrist to stem the blood flow. He cursed, knowing he’d just ruined his chances in the lists. He would need a healer and quickly. He climbed shakily to his feet, regretting his foolishness. The injury was bad enough, but what had possessed him to use his precious sword in such a foolish endeavor? He deserved to find it shattered, but the blade lay whole in the grass. Bran let out a bark, and Alain agreed with the hound he’d been a fool. His hawk flashed by dangerously close, its feathers tickling his face.
The world spun as he stood, his hand throbbing in agony. Still clutching his wrist, he turned to fetch a bandage from his saddlebags and came face to face with a woman. He recoiled, almost falling to his knees again. Even
in pain he could not fail to notice her beauty or that she wore only her skin.
He stood like a mooncalf with his mouth open in astonishment as she came closer to him, his heart beating strongly, which only made the throbbing worse. She came forward, gently lifted his injured hand, and kissed the palm. When she looked up, his blood laced her lips. She smiled. Bran howled. Yet Alain could not take his eyes from the woman.
“Thank you,” she said.
Her kiss had not reduced the pain. Bewildered, Alain straightened as best he could. “Lady, I have done nothing except foolishly injure myself.”
“You have released me.”
He wished to avert his eyes from her nakedness, but he could not. Hair as dark as darkest midnight cascaded in waves to her knees; her eyes were the color of amethysts.
“Lady, let me give you my cloak.”
Her laughter held the chime of bells within it. He had spare clothes in his saddlebags; surely there was something which would serve to cover her? Bran howled again, long and low, and above his head his hawk let out a single screeching cry. His stallion stamped, whickering in alarm. But the woman’s voice distracted him before he could turn to see what had upset the animals.
“No, Alain de Beauchamp, I need not your charity, for you have already given me a gift and made me whole.”
“How?” he blurted.
“Why, you gave me your blood. All I need now is a kiss and I will be on my way.”
He swallowed in a throat turned dry. How had she known his name? And he hadn’t given her his blood exactly. He glanced at the now shattered rock. No beams of amethyst hue now graced the afternoon sunshine. The woman’s eyes were amethyst. Surely...?
“Just a kiss?” he said as he tried to think, but the sounds of bells echoed within his mind, and the amethyst
of her eyes mesmerized him.
“Just a kiss,” she agreed, her mouth still red with his blood. “And your soul,” he thought he heard faintly. She leaned forward until her small round breasts brushed the cloth of his tabard. His heart raced, and he let go his injured hand to welcome her embrace. With a screech, his hawk flew between them. The ground shook with his stallion’s hooves and echoed with a wolfhound’s mournful howl. But her lips touched his, and the
sounds of bells drowned out everything else.
* * *
From the castle of Tintagel, a party of soldiers rode forth to exercise their mounts. As they climbed a little-used path some miles from the castle, they came across a rise between yellow furze and delicate harebells. At the top
of the rise sat a rock that looked as though it had been cleaved in two. Upon its shattered remains sat two ravens, and with a great deal of flapping and protest, they flew into the clear blue of an August sky. A faint gleam of metal
caught the lead soldier’s attention, and between the lengths of fine cliff grass he discovered a sword. The sword had rusted along its blade, but set within its pommel was the deepest purple amethyst the soldier had ever seen.
In a dell that sloped away behind the rock lay the remains of a body. A breeze blew in from the sea, making the weather-torn scraps of a tabard flap in the wind. The ravens had long feasted on the body, so the face was impossible to identify, but the body was that of a young man. Yet even ravaged by ravens, the face looked that of an old, old man, the remains of skin wrinkled and dried, and not just by death or the elements. And beside the man’s body lay that of a hound, still curled as though it were asleep, nose on paws, tail curled around its flanks. Further down the incline the bloated body of a horse showed against the grass, and not far from that, the pathetic carcass of a hawk, feathers still riffling in the breeze.
The soldier straightened. No doubt the man had been robbed, yet it seemed strange that no one had taken such a valuable sword. He ordered for the remains of knight, hound and hawk wrapped into a blanket and carried back to Tintagel, where they would be buried together and blessed by a priest. The horse’s body would be burned where it lay, to discourage the wolves from feasting. It was odd that only the ravens had partaken so far.
Of the sword, well, this knight would no longer need it. A whetstone and oil and it would be as good as new. He ran a hand along its length. A chime sounded. The metal must have caught on his ring.
Like a subliminal message or a mote in someone’s eye, he launches from the ocean; a pure dart so that water barely ripples, just streams from his scaled hide in pearled bubbles and rippling beauty no one sees. He is a shadow which passes and when people turn, no one is there.
His wings reflect light, his upturned snout breathes fire, his talons tretch to the air. His eyes are the color of obsidian, his scales formed of diamond and verdigris.
Up he goes, faster than minds can encompass. Through clouds, a streak of wind past a plane, a comet of light and dark. He punches through Earth’s atmosphere and opens his wings.
Thought, imagination, reality, these take him where he wishes to go. Not here, not there, but everywhere and somewhere, and maybe nowhere at all.
He knows this universe isn’t everything. One plane of existence? Ah no. It is just all that people understand because their minds refuse to encompass more—yet. They catch glimpses and name them angels and aliens, ghosts or spirits. Such creatures arrive in their dreams or their meditations, but people never truly believe. They are too afraid.
No one has to go up or out to reach another world. They have to go in.
Who is he, this pure dart of magic?
Must he have a name? If there is one to be found it is Imaginarium. The place people go to when their minds have no other answers.
Is he real?
Of course he is. Thought is real and do people not always ask where ideas come from? But he is more than
thought. He chooses to spread his wings, to search for those answers people want. And for that he travels far and wide.
Imaginarium rules the skies, the earth, the stars, the sea. He sees all and may be anything you wish, and if you ask the right questions, he might reveal all. He is king or god, spirit or man.
#
Tali pauses, listening for what she knows cannot be there. She lost him, you see, her lover. It wasn’t her fault. In some ways she wishes it was, because then she would have a reason for his absence. He’s gone and will never come back. Passed over to the ‘other side’. Yet still she listens for the sound of his breathing as she sleeps. His death is so fresh she can smell his scent on he sheets and the pillows. Pick hairs from his brush and hear his laughter. She won’t part with anything. Not his stinky socks or the last message on her phone. She remembers that last morning and the words that were spoken. Her lips
tingle with that final lingering kiss.
Her fingers creep to her lips, and the tears fall yet again. He cannot be gone because he was her soulmate. She is nothing without him; she’ll do anything to get him back. She would sell her soul if she had to. If that is what it takes.
She stares at his picture on the wall, willing him to come to her. His presence fills her, sets her heart aching. If she closes her eyes she can see him just as clearly. And if he is gone to the ‘other side’, why can’t he come back to her? Tell her what happened; why he had to go? Because there is a reason for everything, isn’t there. No such thing as coincidence. There has to be answers!
Was he that candle that burned too bright? Was he too good for this world? Is that why?
#
She goes to the place where he disappeared--a fast flowing river where no one saw him slip. She doesn’t know exactly where it happened. No one does, but she stands on the riverbank watching the mesmerizing ripples, listening to the sounds of the water as it rushes over river rocks, and the trees dancing overhead in a gentle breeze, their leaves whispering secrets only they can
tell.
It would be so easy to follow him. To let herself be pulled along by the current and down to the watery depths. For moments she dreams of floating beside him.
“And then what would happen? Would it be what he’d want?”
With a gasp, Tali turns. A man stands in the shadows of the trees lining the river bank. He wears a hat similar to a fedora so that his face lies in shadow. He is tall and lean, with something of the predator in his stance. Tali’s heart clenches at that animal-ready tenseness.
“What do you know about it?” she snaps, while her spine prickles with strangeness. Because she senses an otherness here. It fills the air surrounding him. As though this world was never enough.
It is early morning. A time she chose for the least amount of people.Which in retrospect, despite her suicidal thoughts, might have been foolish, because there is a difference when someone comes to take your choices away. She moves closer to a tree as he answers her, one hand on the rough bark of a birch to anchor her to reality.
“I know that life doesn’t stop simply because the body dies.”
Tali stares at him, trying to see beneath the hat. Such a strange creature. He has long dark hair and wears a leather overcoat that nearly touches the ground. Odd apparel for a walk by the river.
“Then why hasn’t he come back to me?”
And an odd conversation to be having with a complete stranger.
He lifts a long-fingered hand. There are rings on some of his fingers. Morning sunlight glints off the gold so that her eyes are drawn, and when she looks up again somehow he has moved right next to her. Her heart, already beating too quickly, pounds with fear. He possesses a musky, animal smell, or perhaps that is his coat. She doesn’t know and shouldn’t care about such minor details, yet nothing is normal about this man.
“Because one can never go back,” he says. “Oh, we might try, but changing time was never an option.”
Tali’s lips tremble. She doesn’t want to hear the truth. Tears splash to the ground. When he leans forward and traces a tear with one long finger she is locked in grief yet again. Locked so tightly she does not move.
“You will meet him again in another place, another time.”
“That isn’t what I want,” she whispers. “I want him now.”
He enfolds her within that great leather coat. She should be terrified and while her heart continues to race, it is no longer in fear but in anticipation. Will she meet her lost lover no matter what this man says?
But he doesn’t take her back. Not back to that time where she might have said, “No, don’t go.” He takes her up and up so that she thinks she must be going to Heaven. Despite his coat she feels the burn of the wind on her cheeks and the force of it against her eyes, so that she closes them. If he means to kill her then she has made her choice.
It isn’t death he offers.
They stand on a mountaintop. She has no idea how he brought her here, it happened so fast. She looks at the snowcapped peaks of other megaliths, at the stark, magnificent beauty of a place others rarely see.
“This is your world,” he says to the un-asked questions spiraling though her mind. “This is strength and beauty. It is permanence and ambiguity. One day even the mountains shall erode but something else will take their place. Nothing stands still, nothing remains the same. Nothing remains as we wish it. We all want answers, but is it wise to have them?”
“I need to know why he went.”
“And what if he tells you he couldn’t take life anymore? What if he truly didn’t love you?”
“I wouldn’t believe that.”
“What if he tells you he was murdered?”
“Then I would find his murderers and take my revenge.”
“What if he tells you he slipped?”
“Then I will call him an idiot for being so stupid, but I’d still love him.”
“So you have already formed the answers you wish. But what if it isn’t the answer he gives?”
Tali wraps her arms around her body. It is as cold on this mountaintop as her heart. “I don’t know, but who are you to ask these questions?”
He smiles, lifting his face, and for the first time she sees him. She would not call him handsome but intriguing. The angles of his face are sharp as knives. She had thought, once they were flying, that perhaps he might be an angel.
“What do you wish me to be?”
She draws in a sharp breath. “I—I want you to be my answers,” she says, “but you are asking me
the questions.”
“Because in the end, the answers belong to us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You want to know what I am, but knowing it changes nothing. The same as knowing how your lover died. It will
change nothing for you, because it is you who are here.”
She stares across the vista. “It changes everything. Without him I am nobody.”
“Then why did he choose you?”
“Don’t,” she says. For he chose her for her strength.
He laughs at her and she knows why. She has the answers she wants and she needs no one to tell her. The
truth is, there aren’t always labels even when we most desire them. There isn’t always logic where logic should exist. She takes three steps to the edge of the peak and stands there in the ice-wind. Her body is already numb from the cold,
but her heart is no longer frozen. She turns to face him. “What you are really talking about is choices. I choose to believe that he didn’t mean to go. You said that life doesn’t stop simply because the body dies. Therefore I choose to join
him.”
And she jumps.
She knows, because of what he has said and what he has already done, that this isn’t just a man. So she
refuses suicide; she chooses another kind of life. She uses her imagination, not fearing as her body tumbles free, because her mind shows her other possibilities.
#
Imaginarium dives, wings out-stretched, obsidian eyes focused. He can be what she wishes; her lover, her
friend, her imagination. He chooses. Her spirit soars with his, because she has chosen, too, this strong, strong spirit which refuses death.
Perhaps he is an angel; perhaps he is death; perhaps he is god, because he can be whatever he
wishes. And he becomes the dragon within. He chooses to take Tali with him on that path. He is not her lover. He is possibilities and she can soar with him. Or she can find another path.
He waits.
Even Imagination can get lonely.
initial colonists had. All failed. And since no ship had deigned to pass by in several generations, Estar Astron was as stuck as everybody else.
She survived as everybody did. It was that or die. Science could create so many wonders, but it couldn’t stop the rain, and while food stuffs could be grown under cover, the whole infrastructure of Clarity failed. The rich, if there was any such thing on Clarity, might have their glass houses; the rest of the world scrabbled for a living in the
muck.
Which was why Estar became a hound.
There were natives on Clarity. But that was another thing the first explorers failed to mention in their copious and useless reports. They’d classified herbivores and omnivores and carnivores, but they hadn’t classified the horses.
Because they weren’t just horses, were they?
Humans have such a lovely habit of wanting life to fit neatly into a box so that they can label it as this or that. Give them a true alien and they go into panic mode and forget all sense. At least Estar presumed so. Horses! She knew what an Earth-type horse was and what it looked like, and, sure, those horses ate the blue grass like the creatures back home. Horses back home, however, did not transform themselves into ‘something else’ when they felt like it.
Because Clarity’s ‘horses’ didn’t live in towns or cities, the planetary surveys presumed the lack of structures meant no truly intelligent life-forms. Well, as in humanoid-type-intelligent-life-forms. That might have been because the natives didn’t build permanently. Sensibly Clarity’s natives had adapted to their surroundings and were nomadic. The majority of humans weren’t like that.
They wanted permanency. They wanted what they’d left, and they’d bought Earth with them in the shape of seeds to plant and plans for cities. Earth-type seeds rotted in the soil or grew like pathetic yellowing stalks. There wasn’t enough nitrogen or enough phosphates. Someone hadn’t done their damned research.
Oh yes you adapt and survive when you have no choice. Trouble is it isn’t always you who suffers. Humans thought Clarity was theirs now, warts and all, and when it came to survival you did what you had to.
#
Bite him, get him, hold him.
Scent of sweat, scent of male, scent of musk, scent of death.
Like the rhythm of an ancient drum, the stallion's hooves pound dirt. Blue-green oaks bend their branches as he passes. Dying leaves flutter in his wake. Estar howls, urging her hounds after him. This one will not escape her pack. Can’t. She needs his blood.
Sweat lathers the stallion's sides as he gallops from the trees. Hooves thunder onto river rock, scattering pebbles like shards.
No! Don't let him reach the river. Steady, don't rush him. Canen! Too soon, too soon, young pup. Estar
cringes as Canen flies through the air, victim of a great hoof. He lies still on the rocks as the stallion leaps into the river.
No. No, you won't escape me.
No.
In a ripple of charged air, Estar transforms. From brindled hound to human, she changes, muscles and bones stretching, forming new structure and shape. Agony flares at the rapidity; her howls change to screams of triumph and pain. She dives into the river, the dismayed howls of her pack echoing in her ears.
Fed by snowmelt from Harmony Mountain, river water meets Estar's skin and dances a shiver along her spine. The force of the river's current tugs her southward. She fights against that strength, cutting through waves.
The stallion leaps out the river on the far bank and shakes from head to tail. In his arrogance, he doesn’t look back. True, most hounds will not dare the river because of its currents, but this horse doesn’t know Estar. The rushing water conceals any sound Estar makes as she pulls herself free. Not until she transforms again does he sense her.
Estar leaps, teeth bared, to land on the stallion's back. She scrabbles for purchase on his smooth black hide. She bites down on his withers. He roars, twisting to shake her free. Muscles bunch and he bucks, a violent concussion of power. Still she hangs on, teeth buried in flesh. In desperation, he rears up and up, forelegs pawing the air in his anger and pain. Her weight pulls him over. She jumps free before he crashes to the ground and lies still. Estar sniffs the air. The scent of his blood tickles her senses until she licks her lips. Then he changes, as she knows how to change.
Instinct begs her to hamstring him; fascination with his transformation keeps her frozen for seconds. He must have struck his head when he fell; he is too motionless to be faking unconsciousness, his heart and breathing slow.
Estar approaches him, sniffing him all over, then sits on her haunches in bewilderment. As a hound she cannot tie his limbs. Even though she does not want to transform again, she does. Finds some river wrack and ties his wrists and ankles. Then she sets about making a fire to dry herself while she waits for the pack to catch up. They will have to find a bridge or a ford, which will take time.
#
As her fire smokes miserably in drizzling rain, Estar studies her captive. Long black hair cascades down his back as thick as his mane. The honed muscles of an athlete sculpt his body. His features are strong even in sleep. A beard of dark hair coats his broad chin, wide nostrils flare with every breath.
Anger flares through her. A pretty face changes nothing. She'd hunted him for sacrifice for good reason. Without the stallion's blood, the crops will fail and her people starve, and his pretty face only confirms what folk say about the stallions. Like handsome male birds, he flaunts his plumage to capture females and breed like pests. The great herds of horses only deplete the land and must be culled to save humanity from ruin. Too much rain washes the essential nutrients out of this land, which the stallions’ sacrifices will replace.
Her captive stirs with a groan. No doubt he has a massive headache. Estar draws her knife from its sheath around her neck. He awakes to the kiss of steel at his throat and freezes, staring up at her with rich dark eyes.
"This world changes many things, but this… What is this?" she asks. He would know what she means, she is sure. Her blade does not waver at his throat as he swallows. Clarity’s humans know the horses transform, but no one has ever seen it close to. They’d been as elusive as ghosts when humans had tried to approach, thus adding to their mystery.
"If you understand the rules, then why are you surprised?"
She frowns. The rules? His face shines wax pale beneath the beard, a green tinge around his lips speaking of pain. Though he is naked and apparently-human, he smells of horse. Her nose twitches as she sheathes her knife and hunkers down beside him.
"The rules are that your blood is needed to nourish the land."
"Whose rules?" he shoots back. "Man's rules, not Clarity's. Do you believe everything you are told? Do you honestly think one stallion's blood will change things?"
"Don't belittle my intelligence. Who is the one lying trussed?"
He shifts, a grimace of pain twisting his features. Maybe he's hurt more than his head, but he says, "Why does man take the stallions?"
She stares into those fathomless eyes. So inhuman. No whites at all. "Because you are all rutting whores and breed like vermin."
Temper flares across his face at her taunt. He attempts to move and grunts in pain. She wonders if he's hurt his spine. He fell hard. "You are foolish to move if you've hurt your back."
"What do you care?" he grinds out. "It will only make it easier to drag me to sacrifice."
For a while neither speaks. The bitterness in his voice touches a chord within her.
He asks her name.
Why does he want her name? The idea worries her but then she shrugs. "Estar, leader of Pack Astron." There is pride in leading the pack of the biggest town on Clarity. She's fought many battles to become alpha. Let him know who has captured him.
"You should not be,” she says, because somehow this seems wrong, this human-like form before her, who speaks so tidily in human words. Who is the beast now?
"I am as natural as you are. You exist to hunt, we exist to preserve."
"We exist to prevent folk from starving."
"The lie is subtle but not the truth."
She thinks over his words. The hounds had been developed within the cities and are not natural at all. Does that mean the stallions have also been created by science? The common folk call the hound's transformation magic but it is not so. Where had those scientists gained their knowledge to achieve such a thing? Truly, Estar has not questioned it before.
He waits for her to answer, his gaze making her uncomfortable. "Then what is the truth, you profligate brute?"
He snorts at her label. "No amount of blood could satisfy the land, which is simple science. Wrapping up slaughter in ritual might make our deaths acceptable to you. It is not the solution to Clarity's problems."
"So you say."
"So I know." Fury tinges his voice.
"The false priests of man might have a way with words, but they do not tell the whole truth. It is not blood alone which encourages your crops to grow. You would need whole herds of our bones to do that."
"Then why do the crops flourish with each sacrifice?"
He hesitates, staring beyond her toward the river. "I am Tarin," he says softly, and, "I will show you. Look behind you."
Estar turns, sure he means to trick her. Her heart drums against her ribcage. Within the river gallops an image of a black stallion. Flowing water becomes his mane, tail and feathers, his body a swirl of impressions. The beauty of the image holds her spellbound so that she has to wrench her gaze away.
In her heart she'd known it was a trick. The priests are not wrong, and now he's broken his bonds.
She faces him, knife in hand, wishing for something heftier. He arches his neck, pawing the ground in challenge and letting out a neigh that deafens her. When he rears, she cannot prevent instinct to step back.
His hooves dance in the air so that she feels the wind as they pass, and then he comes crashing down. She stands her ground, knife raised, knowing it might be her end, but she will not die a coward. At the last moment he twists sideways. Her knife sinks into his flesh. A primal scream fills the air.
Startled, she lets go of her knife and spins. His hooves come down, not on her but a catspawn. A feline as tall as a young child. It lies on its side, ribs shattered, testament to what might have happened to her. She has no time to wonder, for the catspawn is not alone. Unearthly yowls echo across the river bank as the cats approach, dark-striped fur bristling their rage, teeth drawn back to reveal over-sized canines.
Estar transforms and howls a dare to the cats, who no doubt are lured by the stallion's blood. In a flurry of fur, one cat leaps. So does Estar, a savage growl in her throat. The cat goes down, it's back broken, but there are six more circling at a distance.
Listen to me.
His voice in her mind. Used to the hound's communication it does not shock her.
Listen, Estar Astron, and believe. Stallions' magic is not like yours, it is the true power of this land. Take some of that power within yourself. It is the resonance which nourishes the land, not our blood, and your priests understand that.
I don't need it.
You do. I am wounded both from the fall and your knife. Take what I have left. This is our seed, it is no rape. This once, we will fight together.
She hesitates, one eye on the approaching cats, weighing the odds, and knows she cannot outrun six catspawn. She bites her lip in hesitation. She can kill him afterward. She nods.
Power arcs between them. He neighs, she howls, and their voices join, a vibration that matches.
Resonance. She feels it to her core, a primal play which finds rhythm and dances an archaic waltz of survival.
Strength fills Estar until her veins tingle and she wants to burst from her skin. Wonder at that power makes her want to question.
Now.
Her lips draw back from her incisors, ears fold, tail raises and her haunches bunch. She expects to fight alone, but Tarin is not done yet. They dance indeed, using their strengths to fight and defend. Tarin kicks as Estar worries at throats. He tramples, breaking bones so she can go in for the kill.
Minutes it takes and then the roars stop, the screams stop. Estar pants, the smell of blood and offal surrounding them. Ichor coats Tarin's hooves, blood plasters Estar's pelt. Carnage lies around them.
Resonance. It ripples between them, the connection vivid, so that she knows when he changes to
human form--experiences it so that she knows his every muscle as well as her own. Feels his pain from the wound she's inflicted.
"Why? Why would you do that?" she asks, bewildered.
He holds a hand to his side where she'd stabbed him. It cannot conceal the blood that flows down. He takes a breath. "We protect the herd from prey. Today you were my herd."
"It's that simple?"
"Things often are."
"Explain them to me then."
He opens his mouth as though to reply but then he staggers. She stops him falling. Before this hunt began, Estar had no qualms about killing these creatures. None. Now guilt rushes through her that she's injured him. She feels his essence within her, joining with her more intimately than anything she has ever experienced. The wonder of it still burns through her as her heart matches rhythm with his. She will never be the same. He is no longer the beast she's always thought the stallions to be. He is right that this is a lie. She doesn’t know the whole truth yet but she will.
Gently she lowers Tarin to the ground, straining with his weight. Despite his objections, she studies his wound. If her knife has penetrated deeply enough it will have damaged his intestines and there is nothing she can do. She bites her lip.
"Can't you use your power to heal yourself?"
"Balance, it's all about balance," he says softly.
"You were going to tell me."
His gaze drifts away from her, as though he has already gone somewhere else. She catches his chin between her fingers and turns his face toward her. "Tell me why I am wrong."
"You believe that the stallions' blood nourishes the land. There is some truth to that, but you were taking too many and destroying the balance. We are part of this world and its power resides within us. The world made us. We fight our own battles to nourish the land, but man takes too much. That is why the crops wither and die."
He lifts a hand. "This world is not man's birthplace, yet he treats it as such. The rules here are different and he breaks them. There is power but it is not limitless."
"The hunts have been going on for years. Why have you done nothing to stop them? You say things are often simple, but often they are not. I became what I am for a reason. Do you now tell me I live a lie?"
"You believed a lie. There is a difference."
"Why should I believe your truth and not theirs? In the beginning, why did we not know that you could transform like the hounds?"
"We learned it from you."
"How? Why?"
"Because it was needful for our survival."
Estar pauses. Humanity had come to Clarity hundreds of years earlier. A colony ship that had traveled the stars for millennia. They had no way back to their roots nor wanted any, but Clarity's climate was not as ambivalent as was first supposed. Facing starvation from failed crops, scientists searched for answers and discovered that wherever large mammals died vegetation thrived. The one thing that flourished on Clarity were the herds of black horses. In desperation, men gave hope to a starving population by sacrificing a stallion. When that year the crops thrived, people grasped at the concept and the hounds were born, never realizing that one horse's death could never have achieved such a miracle.
People believed what they wanted to believe.
"We call it 'magic'?" Estar says.
"That is your word for things you do not understand."
"But I do understand. You are saying that it is the power within you that enriches the land."
"Yes, and always has. But humans changed the balance."
"You spoke about rules before, as though I should understand them."
"It is simple. If you use anything you must replace it in kind."
"Is that why you aren't fighting to live?"
"Nature will decide if I am strong enough."
"Will it? I understand what you are saying. It makes sense, but nature like anyone needs help to survive. You aren't an animal any more than I am."
That seems to sting for his eyes open more fully. "When the hunt arrives, what will you do?"
She thinks and then says, "Tell them to go away."
"Will they listen to you?"
"Yes!"
She says it too quickly and knows it. They will listen to her but they will argue and yip and whine about it. She has been so certain about things, now she is not, and that rankles. That an upstart male has thrown everything she thought is right and true into disarray. Trouble is, he could be dying and that pulls a different set of strings entirely. A stallion might instinctively wish to protect his herd, an alpha female is not so different.
"What is your hierarchy within the herd?' she asks, thinking.
He looks away uttering a long, pain-filled sigh. "There is more than one herd among the horses. There is the Great Herd and then the smaller herds within it. You know the way of things. The strongest gets to mate; the strongest survives or gets driven away. How do you think you come across stallions at all?"
"So you lost?"
"Oh no, I won."
She frowns. "Then--?"
"The stallion I chose to fight was leader over all the herds. I won, but I refused to deliver the killing blow."
"Why?"
"Because… I could not."
That isn't enough of an answer. Estar thinks back to the whole hunt and an idea occurs to her. "You placed yourself in our way. You meant to be caught. You meant to die. I thought luck was on our side, but it was no such thing. Tarin, why?"
She uses his name, and that changes things between them. He's become a person and not just a creature to hunt. He's given her his strength so both could survive. He fades. She feels it.
"Tarin, don't you leave me! You said you would explain and you haven't even begun."
"Why prolong it?"
"Because you aren't a coward and yet you act like one now, and I need to understand. If you want me to change my mind about anything, I need to know why. Yes, I felt your power, but it isn't enough."
"Then ask any of us."
"I am asking you."
He shivers. Estar touches him. "You gave me some of your power. Take it back."
"He will not give it because he is too proud and stubborn."
So it is not the hunt who arrives first. The man who walks into their tableau looks very like the man who lies dying. Estar does not attempt to run. He kneels beside Tarin and reaches with one hand.
Despite his weakness, Tarin grips the man's wrist. "No," he whispers.
"You made a choice, am I not allowed to make mine? Are you truly that arrogant?"
Estar does not realize she holds her breath until she has to breathe. Whether it is weakness or he is shamed by the other's words, she does not know, but Tarin releases his grip on the man's arm.
"Stubborn colt. Wise decision. Have you not proved your worth that you have got a Hound to care for you?"
"That is not enough for your life!"
"Oh, but it is. My life was over the moment you defeated me, but thank you for the time given me to say goodbye."
Estar feels like the worst kind of voyeur watching the two. She rises to give them privacy but the stranger looks up. "No, don't leave, someone must witness this." He presses on Tarin's wound.
Tarin arches his back, a cry rattling the air. Power crackles as Tarin writhes on the ground. The man does not release his grip until Tarin stills. Then he leans forward, brushes the mane back from Tarin's brow and places a kiss there. Without words, he slips sideways and lies still.
Estar shakes. Tarin breathes hard. There are tears running down his face. In that moment she wants to hold him but does not dare.
"Who was he?" she asks.
The sorrow on his face is poignant enough to bring tears to her eyes. "His name was Rathor and he was my sire," Tarin says as he climbs his feet, "and the greatest leader the Herd has ever had."
"Why did you fight him?"
"Because he challenged me. Nature is a hard taskmaster and cruel as anyone. He said he had had his time. That it was time for a younger stallion. I did not agree."
"But he has had his way in any case."
Tarin wipes his eyes and lets out a rough laugh. "Yes. Yes he did, and he called me stubborn."
He lifts his head and stares across the river rushing beyond. Estar turns, wondering what he sees. On the opposite bank stand twelve black horses. As one they dive into the river. It seems only moments before they stream forth and surround them. One comes forward and stares down at Rathor's body then back to Tarin, a question in his dark eyes. Tarin's answer is to change. He rears, cutting the sky with his hooves as he neighs. The other stallions join him so that Estar covers her ears, her body vibrating with sound.
Once more they rear, but this time Tarin does not and their action is an unspoken acknowledgement of him, Estar is sure. Then they turn and gallop away, thundering along the river bank. When Estar looks back, Rathor's body has gone. His imprint still presses into the ground. The catspawn's blood has vanished with him as though the land has absorbed them all.
Perhaps it has.
The hunt never came for them and somehow that feels more of a betrayal than anything, as though she hasn't mattered. For a moment hurt spikes but then she lets the emotion go. She changes into hound form and barks at Tarin. He stomps a hoof and shakes his head, mane flying in all directions.
Come, she hears in her mind. I promised the answers to your questions. She doesn’t hesitate. She runs at his side as he takes off, and as one they gallop into the trees.
The Hawk, the Hound, and the Lady Fair
Within a rock a crystal grew. Adamantine and amethyst, the crystal cried out to be made whole, to add softness to its hardness and complete its life; to be more than just silicate but awake.
In its own peculiar fashion, the amethyst began to call, and as birds heralded the May morning in the soft hills above the cliff fortress of Tintagel, the granite rock started to change. A single ray of purple light beamed from a hairline crack until, by noon, the heat of the sun and the crystal’s yearning, had opened a fissure. Purple and gold rays burst forth, spreading like a lady’s fan, catching the light with its prismatic points.
#
Between furze and hairbells and sheep-cropped grass, a wolfhound loped, bounding between rocks and flowers. Gulls cried harsh descants overhead, dipping and swooping like the sails of a caravel. Other than the birds, and the man following the hound, there wasn’t another soul to be seen, the peace of the place profound.
Behind the great gris hound, following the flag of his plumed tail, rode Alain de Beauchamp upon a fine grey stallion. The morning shone clear, the shadows from the cliffs turning the sea lavender and sage. Waves
crashed against the base of the chalk rocks and the tangy scent of the sea lingered in the air. Hunger gnawed at Alain’s insides. On a perch raised up from the pommel of his saddle, Alain carried a hawk. He released the hawk’s jesses, holding him upon his left arm, then lifted it, sending the bird in search of game. The young knight doubted he would make Tintagel this day.
Alain had recently traveled from France. Come to seek his fortune in English tourneys, two days ago he’d landed on Cornwall’s rocky shores. Hermits living in caves among the cliffs had directed him to Tintagel, but he was in no hurry.
The hawk took wing. Ahead of the knight, Bran the wolfhound let out a deep, warning bark. The stallion stamped a hoof and neighed a challenge. Alain gripped the pommel of his sword as he looked around. In this open country no robbers could hide. No rock sat large enough to crouch behind, and although the land rose and dipped
along the cliff, nothing came to disturb the singing birds.
Bran stood, nose pointed toward a low rock, tail waving uncertainly, hesitant whines voicing his concern. Alain stared. Purple light poured forth from the rock like a waterfall turned upside down, streams of it spraying in several directions. A beam glanced across Alain’s leg. His stallion snorted, too well-trained to move. Alain dismounted, sword now in hand, and walked toward the wolfhound.
A low whine emitted from the wolfhound’s throat, wind blew his harsh brindled coat, his eyes fixed on the rock as though any moment the granite stone would attack.
“What have you found, boy?” Alain asked. “What is it?”
Was it Alain’s imagination that the beams turned toward him, as though sensing his presence? Fascinated by the phenomenon, he passed one hand through the beams. A single chime sounded. Like that of a small bell. He
flinched in surprise, yet when nothing further happened, he moved his hand again. Chimes sang out, until they rang a carillon. Intrigued, Alain studied the rock, shading his eyes to look closer. Within the narrow fissure he caught the
gleam of a deep, purple amethyst. Had someone lost a jewel within the crack and now the sun had revealed its hiding place? He tried to get his hand into the crack, but his fingers were too large, although he did manage to touch the stone. A thrill loosed through him. Everything within him wanted that shining stone.
Though the rock was made of granite and he knew his sword would not cleave it, the power of the crystal’s song urged him to free the stone from its prison, and he had no axe that he might have used instead. Lifting the sword
with two hands, he judged the blow and stood to one side at what he thought was the weakest point of the rock. He stepped forward to strike and tripped on an outcrop of stone hidden in grass, losing his balance and falling. One hand slid down the blade, slicing his palm on its honed edge. He caught himself upon the rock, where his blood flowed from his hand into the fissure.
With a gasp of pain, Alain clutched his wrist to stem the blood flow. He cursed, knowing he’d just ruined his chances in the lists. He would need a healer and quickly. He climbed shakily to his feet, regretting his foolishness. The injury was bad enough, but what had possessed him to use his precious sword in such a foolish endeavor? He deserved to find it shattered, but the blade lay whole in the grass. Bran let out a bark, and Alain agreed with the hound he’d been a fool. His hawk flashed by dangerously close, its feathers tickling his face.
The world spun as he stood, his hand throbbing in agony. Still clutching his wrist, he turned to fetch a bandage from his saddlebags and came face to face with a woman. He recoiled, almost falling to his knees again. Even
in pain he could not fail to notice her beauty or that she wore only her skin.
He stood like a mooncalf with his mouth open in astonishment as she came closer to him, his heart beating strongly, which only made the throbbing worse. She came forward, gently lifted his injured hand, and kissed the palm. When she looked up, his blood laced her lips. She smiled. Bran howled. Yet Alain could not take his eyes from the woman.
“Thank you,” she said.
Her kiss had not reduced the pain. Bewildered, Alain straightened as best he could. “Lady, I have done nothing except foolishly injure myself.”
“You have released me.”
He wished to avert his eyes from her nakedness, but he could not. Hair as dark as darkest midnight cascaded in waves to her knees; her eyes were the color of amethysts.
“Lady, let me give you my cloak.”
Her laughter held the chime of bells within it. He had spare clothes in his saddlebags; surely there was something which would serve to cover her? Bran howled again, long and low, and above his head his hawk let out a single screeching cry. His stallion stamped, whickering in alarm. But the woman’s voice distracted him before he could turn to see what had upset the animals.
“No, Alain de Beauchamp, I need not your charity, for you have already given me a gift and made me whole.”
“How?” he blurted.
“Why, you gave me your blood. All I need now is a kiss and I will be on my way.”
He swallowed in a throat turned dry. How had she known his name? And he hadn’t given her his blood exactly. He glanced at the now shattered rock. No beams of amethyst hue now graced the afternoon sunshine. The woman’s eyes were amethyst. Surely...?
“Just a kiss?” he said as he tried to think, but the sounds of bells echoed within his mind, and the amethyst
of her eyes mesmerized him.
“Just a kiss,” she agreed, her mouth still red with his blood. “And your soul,” he thought he heard faintly. She leaned forward until her small round breasts brushed the cloth of his tabard. His heart raced, and he let go his injured hand to welcome her embrace. With a screech, his hawk flew between them. The ground shook with his stallion’s hooves and echoed with a wolfhound’s mournful howl. But her lips touched his, and the
sounds of bells drowned out everything else.
* * *
From the castle of Tintagel, a party of soldiers rode forth to exercise their mounts. As they climbed a little-used path some miles from the castle, they came across a rise between yellow furze and delicate harebells. At the top
of the rise sat a rock that looked as though it had been cleaved in two. Upon its shattered remains sat two ravens, and with a great deal of flapping and protest, they flew into the clear blue of an August sky. A faint gleam of metal
caught the lead soldier’s attention, and between the lengths of fine cliff grass he discovered a sword. The sword had rusted along its blade, but set within its pommel was the deepest purple amethyst the soldier had ever seen.
In a dell that sloped away behind the rock lay the remains of a body. A breeze blew in from the sea, making the weather-torn scraps of a tabard flap in the wind. The ravens had long feasted on the body, so the face was impossible to identify, but the body was that of a young man. Yet even ravaged by ravens, the face looked that of an old, old man, the remains of skin wrinkled and dried, and not just by death or the elements. And beside the man’s body lay that of a hound, still curled as though it were asleep, nose on paws, tail curled around its flanks. Further down the incline the bloated body of a horse showed against the grass, and not far from that, the pathetic carcass of a hawk, feathers still riffling in the breeze.
The soldier straightened. No doubt the man had been robbed, yet it seemed strange that no one had taken such a valuable sword. He ordered for the remains of knight, hound and hawk wrapped into a blanket and carried back to Tintagel, where they would be buried together and blessed by a priest. The horse’s body would be burned where it lay, to discourage the wolves from feasting. It was odd that only the ravens had partaken so far.
Of the sword, well, this knight would no longer need it. A whetstone and oil and it would be as good as new. He ran a hand along its length. A chime sounded. The metal must have caught on his ring.
- Imaginarium
Like a subliminal message or a mote in someone’s eye, he launches from the ocean; a pure dart so that water barely ripples, just streams from his scaled hide in pearled bubbles and rippling beauty no one sees. He is a shadow which passes and when people turn, no one is there.
His wings reflect light, his upturned snout breathes fire, his talons tretch to the air. His eyes are the color of obsidian, his scales formed of diamond and verdigris.
Up he goes, faster than minds can encompass. Through clouds, a streak of wind past a plane, a comet of light and dark. He punches through Earth’s atmosphere and opens his wings.
Thought, imagination, reality, these take him where he wishes to go. Not here, not there, but everywhere and somewhere, and maybe nowhere at all.
He knows this universe isn’t everything. One plane of existence? Ah no. It is just all that people understand because their minds refuse to encompass more—yet. They catch glimpses and name them angels and aliens, ghosts or spirits. Such creatures arrive in their dreams or their meditations, but people never truly believe. They are too afraid.
No one has to go up or out to reach another world. They have to go in.
Who is he, this pure dart of magic?
Must he have a name? If there is one to be found it is Imaginarium. The place people go to when their minds have no other answers.
Is he real?
Of course he is. Thought is real and do people not always ask where ideas come from? But he is more than
thought. He chooses to spread his wings, to search for those answers people want. And for that he travels far and wide.
Imaginarium rules the skies, the earth, the stars, the sea. He sees all and may be anything you wish, and if you ask the right questions, he might reveal all. He is king or god, spirit or man.
#
Tali pauses, listening for what she knows cannot be there. She lost him, you see, her lover. It wasn’t her fault. In some ways she wishes it was, because then she would have a reason for his absence. He’s gone and will never come back. Passed over to the ‘other side’. Yet still she listens for the sound of his breathing as she sleeps. His death is so fresh she can smell his scent on he sheets and the pillows. Pick hairs from his brush and hear his laughter. She won’t part with anything. Not his stinky socks or the last message on her phone. She remembers that last morning and the words that were spoken. Her lips
tingle with that final lingering kiss.
Her fingers creep to her lips, and the tears fall yet again. He cannot be gone because he was her soulmate. She is nothing without him; she’ll do anything to get him back. She would sell her soul if she had to. If that is what it takes.
She stares at his picture on the wall, willing him to come to her. His presence fills her, sets her heart aching. If she closes her eyes she can see him just as clearly. And if he is gone to the ‘other side’, why can’t he come back to her? Tell her what happened; why he had to go? Because there is a reason for everything, isn’t there. No such thing as coincidence. There has to be answers!
Was he that candle that burned too bright? Was he too good for this world? Is that why?
#
She goes to the place where he disappeared--a fast flowing river where no one saw him slip. She doesn’t know exactly where it happened. No one does, but she stands on the riverbank watching the mesmerizing ripples, listening to the sounds of the water as it rushes over river rocks, and the trees dancing overhead in a gentle breeze, their leaves whispering secrets only they can
tell.
It would be so easy to follow him. To let herself be pulled along by the current and down to the watery depths. For moments she dreams of floating beside him.
“And then what would happen? Would it be what he’d want?”
With a gasp, Tali turns. A man stands in the shadows of the trees lining the river bank. He wears a hat similar to a fedora so that his face lies in shadow. He is tall and lean, with something of the predator in his stance. Tali’s heart clenches at that animal-ready tenseness.
“What do you know about it?” she snaps, while her spine prickles with strangeness. Because she senses an otherness here. It fills the air surrounding him. As though this world was never enough.
It is early morning. A time she chose for the least amount of people.Which in retrospect, despite her suicidal thoughts, might have been foolish, because there is a difference when someone comes to take your choices away. She moves closer to a tree as he answers her, one hand on the rough bark of a birch to anchor her to reality.
“I know that life doesn’t stop simply because the body dies.”
Tali stares at him, trying to see beneath the hat. Such a strange creature. He has long dark hair and wears a leather overcoat that nearly touches the ground. Odd apparel for a walk by the river.
“Then why hasn’t he come back to me?”
And an odd conversation to be having with a complete stranger.
He lifts a long-fingered hand. There are rings on some of his fingers. Morning sunlight glints off the gold so that her eyes are drawn, and when she looks up again somehow he has moved right next to her. Her heart, already beating too quickly, pounds with fear. He possesses a musky, animal smell, or perhaps that is his coat. She doesn’t know and shouldn’t care about such minor details, yet nothing is normal about this man.
“Because one can never go back,” he says. “Oh, we might try, but changing time was never an option.”
Tali’s lips tremble. She doesn’t want to hear the truth. Tears splash to the ground. When he leans forward and traces a tear with one long finger she is locked in grief yet again. Locked so tightly she does not move.
“You will meet him again in another place, another time.”
“That isn’t what I want,” she whispers. “I want him now.”
He enfolds her within that great leather coat. She should be terrified and while her heart continues to race, it is no longer in fear but in anticipation. Will she meet her lost lover no matter what this man says?
But he doesn’t take her back. Not back to that time where she might have said, “No, don’t go.” He takes her up and up so that she thinks she must be going to Heaven. Despite his coat she feels the burn of the wind on her cheeks and the force of it against her eyes, so that she closes them. If he means to kill her then she has made her choice.
It isn’t death he offers.
They stand on a mountaintop. She has no idea how he brought her here, it happened so fast. She looks at the snowcapped peaks of other megaliths, at the stark, magnificent beauty of a place others rarely see.
“This is your world,” he says to the un-asked questions spiraling though her mind. “This is strength and beauty. It is permanence and ambiguity. One day even the mountains shall erode but something else will take their place. Nothing stands still, nothing remains the same. Nothing remains as we wish it. We all want answers, but is it wise to have them?”
“I need to know why he went.”
“And what if he tells you he couldn’t take life anymore? What if he truly didn’t love you?”
“I wouldn’t believe that.”
“What if he tells you he was murdered?”
“Then I would find his murderers and take my revenge.”
“What if he tells you he slipped?”
“Then I will call him an idiot for being so stupid, but I’d still love him.”
“So you have already formed the answers you wish. But what if it isn’t the answer he gives?”
Tali wraps her arms around her body. It is as cold on this mountaintop as her heart. “I don’t know, but who are you to ask these questions?”
He smiles, lifting his face, and for the first time she sees him. She would not call him handsome but intriguing. The angles of his face are sharp as knives. She had thought, once they were flying, that perhaps he might be an angel.
“What do you wish me to be?”
She draws in a sharp breath. “I—I want you to be my answers,” she says, “but you are asking me
the questions.”
“Because in the end, the answers belong to us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You want to know what I am, but knowing it changes nothing. The same as knowing how your lover died. It will
change nothing for you, because it is you who are here.”
She stares across the vista. “It changes everything. Without him I am nobody.”
“Then why did he choose you?”
“Don’t,” she says. For he chose her for her strength.
He laughs at her and she knows why. She has the answers she wants and she needs no one to tell her. The
truth is, there aren’t always labels even when we most desire them. There isn’t always logic where logic should exist. She takes three steps to the edge of the peak and stands there in the ice-wind. Her body is already numb from the cold,
but her heart is no longer frozen. She turns to face him. “What you are really talking about is choices. I choose to believe that he didn’t mean to go. You said that life doesn’t stop simply because the body dies. Therefore I choose to join
him.”
And she jumps.
She knows, because of what he has said and what he has already done, that this isn’t just a man. So she
refuses suicide; she chooses another kind of life. She uses her imagination, not fearing as her body tumbles free, because her mind shows her other possibilities.
#
Imaginarium dives, wings out-stretched, obsidian eyes focused. He can be what she wishes; her lover, her
friend, her imagination. He chooses. Her spirit soars with his, because she has chosen, too, this strong, strong spirit which refuses death.
Perhaps he is an angel; perhaps he is death; perhaps he is god, because he can be whatever he
wishes. And he becomes the dragon within. He chooses to take Tali with him on that path. He is not her lover. He is possibilities and she can soar with him. Or she can find another path.
He waits.
Even Imagination can get lonely.