But then it gave another whinny—more like a shriek this time—and Pippa knew: it was panicked. A panicked horse was like a panicked person. Logic was forgotten.
Zeph turned to Pippa, snorting anxiously.
“How did you know?” Pippa asked. Zeph’s starry eyes bore into hers, not answering, only pleading.
“Hush!” she cried to the horse, though she knew her words wouldn’t help. She needed to do something.
She began to shift the rubble. The stones were hard to move, wet and slippery in the rain. Pippa managed to lift the first few, then roll some others out of the way. Thud! They fell, heavy, in the muck outside the temple. When a piece of stone was too big for Pippa to move on her own, Zeph helped, using his nose to push it aside.
Pippa talked to the horse as she worked, even though the roar of the rain drowned out her voice. “Shhh, shhh,” she said, huffing. “It’s okay.”
At last, they’d cleared a hole just big enough for the horse to get out. She peered inside, but it was too dark and shadowy to see much.
“Here, come here,” called Pippa as reassuringly as she could. “You’re free now.”
Zeph nickered as though repeating her words.
The horse snorted. Zeph did too. A small silver nose reached out to touch his.
Pippa let out a long, soft whistle and held out her hand. The little horse took a step backward into the shadows. Pippa remembered the figs that she had pocketed for Zeph. She pulled one out and offered it.
Zeph snorted eagerly.
“Not for you,” she chided.
She waited patiently, and at last the silver nose appeared again, followed by a face. Its nostrils flared out, wide and round as two drachma coins, and its ears flicked back and forth furiously. Its eyes were a deep, dreamy black, just like Zeph’s but even blacker, if that was possible. It sniffed, and slowly . . . very slowly . . . it nosed her hand.
Its muzzle was soft, soft as clouds.
“Come on,” she coaxed. As slow as sunbeams move across a meadow, the colt—for it was a colt—stepped out of the temple.
Buffeted by the rain and wind, the colt’s whole body trembled, from his long legs and knobby knees to his . . .
Pippa gasped.
Wings. Two wings rose from his back, spindly and silver, with dustings of gold glittering like a starry sky. They were half folded, like delicate fans, but huge. Rain dripped from the long feathers, pooling at his hooves.
Winged horses weren’t supposed to roam below Mount Olympus. It was a rule. That’s why Zeph had lost his wings on the way down. Long ago, Bellerophon, on a quest to become a hero, had tamed Pegasus with a golden bridle, but when he had tried to ride the winged horse up to the palace of the gods, he’d nearly died. Bellerophon was now the immortal groom of Mount Olympus. But since then, no winged horses had touched mortal soil.
Until now.
Though the colt’s wings were huge, the rest of him was small. He wasn’t fully grown, although he wasn’t as small as a foal either. A yearling, too old to need his mare but still too young to be by himself. He wasn’t alone now. Zeph nosed the colt again, leaning his head down tenderly.
All at once, Pippa thought of the fence and the wild horses. So many times they had broken through. Maybe one of the mares had been breaking in for a reason—to see Zeph. It was the only explanation. And also explained why he was so eager to help. This was his son.
And his son was hurt.
Pippa’s heart thrummed. She felt a surge of protective love.
She could see that the colt’s left wing looked strange, held closer to his side than his right one. He was injured. Had a rock fallen on him?
“It’s okay, little one,” she said. She couldn’t let him stay here; she had to bring him back. He needed a good meal—barley mash with beans—and someone to look after his injured wing. The rain still pummeled the earth.
She didn’t have a lead rope, but she did have her belt, a long, thin piece of cloth that held her chiton in place. She took it off and tied a simple loop.
The colt retreated slightly, so she stuck her hand into the pocket of her chiton to get another fig.
She dropped it on the soggy ground. The colt sniffed and took a step forward. Quickly, he munched it up. His ears perked.
With a simple flick, Pippa tossed the rope around his neck.
He didn’t like that. He pulled back, his ears flat against his head. Despite his small size, he nearly pulled her over. She planted both feet as firmly as she could on the slippery soil.
Zeph nudged the colt and gave a comforting whinny, which helped calm him down enough so Pippa could pull out the last fig.
“That’s all I have,” she said. “But there are more back at the stables.”
The colt snorted again. He must have been in pain. Yet his enormous eyes, framed in long lashes, showed a sense of curiosity, just like his father.
Pippa held the rope carefully as she climbed on Zeph’s back. “Come on,” she said to him gently.
Of course, the colt was not used to people, and the temple had just collapsed around him. . . .
But she would look after him. He was Zeph’s colt, after all. She promised—promised the sky, and the gods and goddesses, and the colt himself. She knew just what to name him. “Tazo,” she whispered. It meant to promise.
Four
The rain continued to fall as, together, Pippa, Zeph, and Tazo began the long walk back home.
The smell of salt hung heavy in the air. It reminded Pippa of the day before the race, when the rider for Poseidon, god of the seas, had been disqualified by Zeus, his brother, for cheating. Outraged, Poseidon had caused sea water to pour from the winged horse stables, washing away hay and saddlecloths alike. Bellerophon, the groom, insisted that Poseidon stop. But to no avail. At least the horses had been out grazing at the time.
Poseidon was surely behind the storm too, thought Pippa. Maybe he was mad at the mortals, or maybe it was a grudge with a god. She didn’t know, but in either case, it couldn’t be good. She glanced up at the sky, shielding her eyes from the rain with her hand, wondering if she could spy him—or Zeus. All she could see were the clouds, but . . . were those stars peeking through the clouds, against a dark sky? That didn’t make sense. It was late but not yet nighttime.
The sight made her shiver.
That, and the fact that her hair was drenched, and her tunic too. Zeph kept stumbling on the slick ground, making it hard for her to keep her balance, especially when she turned backward to check on Tazo.
He was soaking as well, water dripping from his feathers, mane, and tail. He wasn’t shivering . . . yet. But they had to hurry. He was hurt, and a hurt horse was more likely to become ill.
That worry was soon replaced by another. They were nearing the agora, and Pippa wasn’t sure what to do. There was only one road through the town, and, although the market stalls would be closed up because of the storm, she still might meet someone—a lingering merchant, a homeless beggar. She didn’t want anyone seeing the colt. Who knew how they would react? She wished she had a cloak or blanket to cover Tazo’s wings.
First, though, they had to pass Leda’s hut. And if Leda saw the colt, she would tell everyone. Perhaps if they cantered—galloped even—the old woman wouldn’t recognize her or see Tazo’s wings. But the colt was injured, and Pippa didn’t want to strain him.
Just then, Pippa spotted something through the rain: an empty sack, hanging from an olive branch in Leda’s garden, likely for carrying her vegetables to the market. Pippa glanced at the old woman’s hut. The shutters were closed. This was her chance.
Quickly, she slipped off Zeph and tied Tazo’s makeshift rope to the branch of a tree along the road. Then she hurried into the garden.
It was filled with flowering shrubs and trees heavy with almonds, apples, and figs. Herbs and vegetables—radishes and leeks, beans and cabbages—were bowed and beaten down from the storm. Pippa darted through the vegetables, grabbing the sack from the branch. She he
ard a noise—a creak like a door opening—and spun around, but the door and the shutters were closed. It must have been the storm. Still, she chastised herself. How foolish, stopping and going right into the very spot she should have passed the quickest!
But now it was done. Hurrying back to the horses, she wrung out the sackcloth, even though she knew it would soon be soaked again, then draped it gently over Tazo’s back, hiding his wings as best she could. He snorted and flinched, as though it was bothering his wing.
“Please, Tazo,” she whispered. “It’s the only way.”
Tazo didn’t seem to agree. His ears were back and he looked ready to bolt. But Zeph whinnied softly and nosed him. Tazo settled, though he still gave a shudder, and Pippa prayed to Aphrodite and Zeus again, this time that the cloth would stay on and that they’d make it through the town unnoticed.
Pippa untied Tazo and they kept going. This time she walked, leading the colt, Zeph following beside him. Her sandals slapped against her feet, water squishing between her toes.
The agora was quiet. No delicious smells or lyre music filled the air. No chatter or haggling. Everyone had covered their wares and hidden away. At least, almost everyone. One woman, wrapped in a cloak that hid most of her face, hurried down the street. Pippa held her breath, but the woman merely gave Pippa a nod and didn’t stop. The sackcloth had worked.
At last, they reached the farm, its sign creaking in the wind: “Stables of the Seven Sisters.” The name came from both the constellation and the seven daughters of Nikon and Helena. Pippa made it eight.
As Pippa passed through the open gates, the rope jerked. She glanced back. Tazo had frozen in place, except for his tail, which flicked back and forth.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Just a little farther and there’ll be figs for you.”
But Tazo refused to budge.
A moment later she knew why.
“There you are!” came Bas’s voice. Pippa turned to see him, dressed in a cloak, striding along the path toward them. “You said you weren’t going riding. Astrea said I shouldn’t have believed you, that she’d be riding, if she could—”
He stopped. His eyes went wide as he took in the colt.
“I found him in the forest,” explained Pippa.
“And you brought him here?”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“A wild colt followed you?!” Bas was incredulous. He stood, mouth wide open.
“I can’t just abandon him now. He’s hurt, Bas. And—”
She was about to tell him about Tazo’s wings, but Bas interrupted. “We have to get out of the rain. Come on.”
“To your parents?” said Pippa. “I don’t think we should. Bas, I’ve been trying to tell you something. He has—”
“No, we shouldn’t tell my parents,” continued Bas. “The rain, Pippa, it’s cursed! It’s destroying all the crops. Everyone’s frantic.”
“But where can we keep him while he heals?”
Pippa thought of the solution at the same time as Bas.
“The old stables!” they both exclaimed.
Bas led the way through the pasture. Tazo was reluctant to follow at first but soon became curious, sniffing and looking at everything.
Inside the old stables it was musty but dry and quiet, except for the soft drip-drip-drip of a leak in one corner and the whistle of wind through the window. The sweet smell of hay filled the air, although there wasn’t much hay stored there now, only a few sheaves stacked on one side, hard to see in the dim light. An old wooden cistern lay upside down, and two small stalls took up the back. A long time ago, this had been Nikon’s only stable, but Pippa found that hard to imagine, with the dozen horses he cared for now.
Once he was inside, Tazo seemed to like it. He shook his head, his mane showering Pippa with water droplets.
“Tazo!” she scolded, laughing.
But Bas wasn’t laughing.
His mouth hung open.
“That’s his name,” Pippa explained.
Still Bas didn’t respond. Instead, he pointed. A single silvery-gold feather had escaped from under the sackcloth and was drifting to the ground, glinting like a star in the darkness.
“Is that . . . Is he . . . ?” Bas stammered.
Pippa nodded. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
Slowly, she removed the sackcloth from Tazo’s back. He liked that and shook again, his wings shimmering and rising up slightly like two slivers of moon. He gave a short, pleased snort.
“A winged horse,” breathed Bas. “Here. But how . . . ?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Pippa said. “I think his mother must be one of the wild mares. Maybe something happened to her during the storm. But Tazo is Zeph’s son. I’m certain. I can just tell. His coloring’s the same, except the gold. I didn’t know what to do, other than bring him here.”
“A winged horse,” Bas repeated incredulously.
“Yes,” said Pippa, feeling like they’d wasted enough time, with two wet and cold horses to tend to. (Although Zeph seemed to have taken care of himself by finding the sheaves of hay.) “I think one of his wings is injured. He needs to be looked after.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Pippa draped Tazo’s cloth over a beam, then wrung out her hair. While Bas fetched supplies, she settled the colt into a stall.
“I told Father I found you,” Bas said when he returned. “He was happy to hear it.”
“You didn’t say . . . ,” started Pippa.
“No, of course not,” replied Bas. “Just that we were taking care of Zeph.”
“Good,” she replied. “You can’t say anything to them, Bas, not until we figure out what to do.”
Bas nodded solemnly.
Carefully, she rubbed Tazo down—his legs, his neck, and, as gently as she could, his wings too. Bas tried to keep him still while Pippa examined Tazo’s wing.
The colt’s wings were even more magical in the soft light from the oil lamp than they had been in the daylight. The feathers shimmered like real gold and were soft like rose petals, despite still being a bit damp.
Pippa touched the feathers as gently as she could. “Like your father’s.” She glanced over at Zeph. “Except his were bigger.”
Tazo’s ears flicked back, as though he didn’t appreciate the comparison.
There was a deep cut, but the wing itself didn’t seem broken. With fingers that could never master the loom but seemed built for this, Pippa cleaned the cut and tied a band of soft cloth around it, to keep it still and clear of infection. She didn’t have any salt and vinegar to clean it, or alum, ivy root, and pitch to treat it, but she would find some tomorrow. All the while, as the rain thrummed against the roof, Bas kept Tazo distracted by feeding him figs. He liked them and would’ve eaten them until he was sick, as Astrea did with honey cakes.
“No more,” said Pippa eventually. “He needs to eat properly.”
So they fixed him a supper of barley and beans and gave him some water, but not so much it would chill him. Then Pippa turned her attention to Zeph, who was waiting patiently in the other stall eating hay. He didn’t want to leave. And neither did she.
“I can sleep here tonight,” she said. “I can bring Zeph to the stables in the morning, so no one is suspicious.”
“But what about you?” said Bas.
“Tell them I’m sleeping in the stables, that Zeph doesn’t like the storm.” It wasn’t the first time Pippa had slept with the horses, but it was something Helena did not approve of, something a proper young woman would never do.
“But you’re wet, and you must be hungry.”
“I’ll be fine,” replied Pippa.
Bas shook his head but knew that it was impossible to argue.
“My parents are distracted by the storm,” Bas said slowly. “I’ll bring you supper.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Bas shook his head again, then gazed at Tazo, who was now suddenly asleep, his energy gone as quic
kly as it had come, his wings moving up and down in a steady, wavelike rhythm.
“What will we do with him?” added Bas.
“I don’t know,” Pippa replied. And that was the truth.
Winged horses weren’t supposed to be in the mortal realm. Tazo had survived this long, but if anyone else saw him, what would happen? Who knew what others would do, if they knew a real winged horse lived below the mountain? And the gods, what would they do? She couldn’t keep him, could she? She wanted nothing more.
“I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it,” murmured Bas.
Neither could Pippa. She didn’t feel cold or hungry or tired. Only excited and—despite the strange and frightening storm—thankful.
Even more so when Bas returned with a plate of food. Her appetite returned at the sight and smell of the grilled fish, bread and cheese, and cup of watered-down wine.
“Helena wanted you to have this too,” he said, passing her a clean peplos.
Just like Helena to think about her appearance.
Still, once Bas was gone, it felt nice to change into the clean, dry clothing. And, as she ate, guilt rose in Pippa. Helena and Nikon had given her so much—a home, food, and care. She could try harder.
Yet, when she finally fell asleep to the lullaby of the swishing tails and the rumble of rain, like a thousand hoofbeats, her dreams weren’t filled with nightmares of being tangled in yarn. They were filled with flying, on a horse with wings that lit the sky, bright as the moon.
Five
Pippa was woken, not by the storm—but by voices. Loud ones, drifting in from outside.
She jolted up from her spot on the floor beside Zeph. Zeph was already awake, his ears pricked.
Was it day or night? Light streamed in through the window, but when Pippa looked up through it, she saw that the clouds had disappeared and the sky was filled with stars, so many, so bright it seemed like they were woven together. Nyx, goddess of night, was certainly not tangled up in the storm now, and was putting on her best display.
The Colt of the Clouds Page 2