by Chrys Cymri
His calm gave the Prancer the courage to continue. ‘But she didn’t need to have him taken away. She could learn, she could be--’
He broke off. The Dancer added the word he had avoided. ‘Healed.’
‘I’m not a Painter,’ the Prancer protested. ‘But there shouldn’t be Judgement without mercy.’
But the Dancer was no longer looking at him. He was gazing into the distance, past the hills which marked the end of the herd’s territory. ‘The herd was never meant to have one Painter and Dancer alone. In my father’s father’s time, the herd was served by three pairs. When one died, a mare would run with the Dancer, and would afterwards give birth to a new set of twins. But the numbers have dwindled, until only one pair was given to my generation.’ He swung his head back to the Prancer. ‘Did you see the lines?’
The Prancer blinked at the sudden change in tone. ‘Yes. Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Very few do, now.’ The Dancer sounded grim. ‘Long ago, I’m told, all unicorns could see the weaving of the elemental energies. Healing was always the role of the Painter, but all could mend small injuries with the touch of a horn. As the seasons turn I see fewer and fewer foals born with the abilities all once took for granted.’
The Prancer found himself shivering. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The magic is going from the Land.’
The Prancer suddenly longed to be running through the woods, chasing squirrels and kicking over toadstools. He was too young for all these adult worries. ‘What will you do about it?’
‘The humans have their own uses for magic.’ Again the eyes were fixed on the far hills, the direction of the human’s city, the Prancer realised. ‘I would go to them, speak to the king who holds power in our name. But I dare not leave the herd without either Painter or Dancer.’
The Prancer, unsure of what answer he should give, said nothing. He followed his father’s gaze into the shimmering distance. For a moment, he thought he saw something take shape from the green-brown earth. A human form, standing upright on two limbs, a red mane surrounding the strange, flat face. He felt the same strange singing through his chest as when he had received his first name at the roots of his birth-tree. This human was important. One day, he would know it by name.
The Dancer snorted. He broke into a trot, long strides carrying him away. The Prancer watched, the afterimage of his vision slowly disappearing into the day’s bright sunshine. The Prancer trudged into the woods, his hooves slowed by the unaccustomed weight of deep and heavy thoughts. Listening to the murmurings of the Teacher suddenly seemed like the safest place to be.
<><><><><><>
Shadows were lengthening as the sun drew close to the Land. The Prancer followed the course of blackness his own body cast, the wavering tip of his horn stretching out towards the hills. Humans used to come from the city which lay beyond, speaking to the herd in their strange, guttural language. ‘All hail and welcome,’ the Prancer said quietly, practising the latest lesson in Human.
Storm raised his head, swallowing a mouthful of grass. ‘You’re getting better at that.’
The Prancer’s shoulders twitched. ‘I’ve been working on it.’
‘It shows.’ Storm bumped the Prancer’s shoulder, his muzzle rough with young beard. ‘I’m going to give my name to the Dancer tomorrow. Will you be my witness?’
The Prancer nodded, honoured although the request was not unexpected. He asked shyly, ‘What does your name mean?’
Storm eyed him. ‘Don’t you know?’
A second’s duty was to know. The Prancer glanced away, embarrassed. He would meditate by his birth-tree tonight. The feeling that he should have instantly recognised the name still hung uneasily in the air.
The thud of frantic hooves against soil turned both their heads towards the woods. One of the secondary stallions burst into the meadow, sweat coating his flanks. ‘Dragon coming!’ he shouted to the grazing unicorns. ‘Scatter!’
The Prancer obeyed the sentinel without thinking. He kicked away from Storm, taking three long, jarring strides before freezing in place. The others in the meadow had done the same, the discipline of oft-repeated lessons keeping them from dashing to the relative safety of the trees. The sentinel would have given them the signal if they had time for that. Scatter told them that they had only seconds before the enemy would be upon them.
The herd faded from view. Hooves blended into grasses, eyes into sky, horns into sunset. The Prancer took a deep breath, then released his own thoughts. He became part of the ground, the breeze, the water. The fire of his life sank low, seeking refuge in the other elements.
Wind whistled under skin. The dragon’s shadow was flung across the meadow, twisted by the low sun. He emerged over the woods, legs tucked up close against the long belly scales, tail breaking loose leaves from branches. The large wings creaked. The air cupped under the spread of bare skin pressed against the Prancer’s ears.
The dragon flew to one end of the meadow. There he executed a graceful turn. Sunlight glinted from scales, red merging to cinnamon, amber, then back to red again. Emerald eyes gleamed as the massive wings lifted him higher, long snout sweeping as he searched for prey.
The Prancer had never seen a dragon before. He watched, fascinated, by the play of light on spines, the contrast of smooth wing leather against rough scale. Although he was twice the size of even the Dancer, the dragon was graceful in the air. The Prancer took a quick breath of awe, forgetting to be afraid. Forgetting not to think.
The long neck uncoiled, swinging the head towards him. The Prancer blinked, suddenly noticing that a shadow was leading away from him, that grass twined around silver hooves. He was visible, his position marked. And the relative safety of the woods was too far away.
The dragon chuckled. The Prancer raised his head as the left wing dipped, curling the hunter towards him. Flame flicked along the jagged teeth, the slitted nostrils. The red-gold reminded the Prancer of the human from his vision, long hair gleaming in the same hue.
A long, high whistle cut across the silence. The Prancer started, breaking free from the dragon’s mesmeric gaze. Storm reared as he shimmered into sight, and he called again. The challenge cry of a young stallion, daring an enemy to confrontation.
The dragon twisted, the air groaning under his weight. Storm broke into a gallop, plunging deliberately across the dragon’s path. The jaws swung down, reaching for the unicorn, but Storm flung his head back. Silver horn met with scarlet scale. The dragon roared as dark blood streamed down the spirals. Storm yanked himself free, shook red drops from his eyes. His laughter taunting the injured dragon, he ran across the meadow, leading away from the wavering unicorn forms.
Hunter and hunted skimmed through the air and over the grasses. The Prancer kicked himself out of his strange paralysis. All around him unicorns were appearing, their concentration broken. He ignored them as he galloped, his gaze fixed on the other colt, the dragon bearing down on Storm’s white body.
Great wings beat, lifting the dragon further into the sky. For a moment he hung there, his shadow blending with that of the running unicorn. The Prancer’s hooves cut deep into the turf as he desperately lengthened his strides. He was close enough to smell the thick dragon blood, the higher scent of Storm’s sweat. If only he could distract the dragon, give Storm a chance--
The dragon swooped, forelegs outstretched. Silver claws reached for Storm, glinting in the low sunlight. Storm’s tail flicked, eyes wide as he felt the weight above him. The Prancer cried out, a warning which came too late. The metallic talons expanded, then contracted. Blood blossomed as they sank deep into Storm’s sides.
Storm threw himself backwards, into the grasp. The tactic surprised the dragon. Storm was suddenly free, blood streaming from ten gashes as he stumbled. The Prancer was near now. A dozen more strides--
The dragon skimmed close to the ground. A single foot reached out, scooping the unicorn from the earth. Storm struggled in the grip, driving the claws deeper into muscle an
d bone as he forced his way closer to the gleaming eyes. The Prancer pulled up, his knees weak as he watched the silent, deadly battle taking place in the air. One of Storm’s kicking legs hit the ground. Skin rippled as he used the shock to drive himself forward. His horn rammed deep into one of the pupils. Green erupted into red, and the dragon howled in shock and pain.
Storm was flung free, spinning onto the ground. Bones snapped under the impact, then the sound was swallowed by the dragon’s roar. Flailing wings slapped against the turf as he climbed into the sky. His cries faded as he hurried away from the meadow, back towards the hills.
The Prancer slowed as he came near his friend. The dragon’s claws had reached deep. Storm’s breathing was laboured, uneven. Blood trickled from his muzzle, and his legs were bent back against themselves in unnatural angles. The red of the setting sun washed over the broken body. The Prancer stopped, touched the bruised muzzle gently.
‘Prancer,’ Storm said weakly.
‘The Dancer’s coming,’ the Prancer said, more out of hope than truth.
Something glinted in the wide eye. ‘Heal me.’
The Prancer felt his throat close. Swallowing, he said, ‘I’m not a Painter.’
‘Then be Dancer.’ Storm’s eye closed. ‘Name me.’
The Prancer drew back. If Storm died with only his first name to this life, he would be reborn to the same level of existence again. Only with a second name came the step to adulthood. But it was the duty of the Dancer to name. Not his. ‘Storm, I can’t.’
Storm looked up at him. The Prancer saw his own reflection in the glassy eye. Both, and neither. The marks of both Painter and Dancer dark on his coat. If he were to touch Storm with his horn now, what would happen? Would he be Healed? Or would he feel the dread touch of Judgement, dying with only his failures on his mind?
As if reading the Prancer’s thoughts, Storm snorted softly. He whispered, ‘Dare you to fight a dragon.’
His eyelid drooped. A final breath eased from his throat. His spirit sighed from his body, and the Prancer could do no more than lower his head to honour his passing.
<><><><><><>
The sun had set, leaving the woods to darkness. The Prancer walked quietly along the trunks. For all his inability to Not-Think at the dragon’s attack, now he could bring nothing to his mind. It was easier to leave his thoughts scattered, unfocussed. Storm was gone.
Deeper and deeper into the forest he went. Younger trees broke through the undergrowth here, branches decorated with circlets of unicorn hair, dried flowers, pieces of stream smoothed stone. The sacred heart of the woods, where the herd celebrated births and marked deaths. Unsurprised that his steps had brought him here, the Prancer halted by his birth-tree. He looked up the smooth trunk of the young rowan, wishing suddenly that he had brought a gift. All he had this time was himself.
The silence among the trees slowed his pulse. Only after his heart had returned to its usual, steady beat did he realise how ragged the dragon’s attack had left him. He leaned against the slender trunk. Ache was spreading through his chest, no longer held at bay by shock. He had lost Storm.
‘I’ve never spent a night alone before,’ he told his birth-tree, speaking to that part of himself which had been buried under its roots, when he was newly born and the tree had been no more than a sapling. Despite the turmoil and sorrow at his mother’s death, his after birth had been carried into the woods. The part of himself which sacrificed its existence, so that he might be brought safely to life, and which lived on through the tree to which it had provided nourishment. ‘I was taken to my cousin and his mother the afternoon I was born. We’ve always been together.’
He felt the tree support him, allowing him to take weight off his weary hooves. Always he had followed the traditions of the birth-tree, bringing gifts at each change in the seasons. But only now did he know the comfort in the knowledge that another knew how he felt. A part of him was here, would always be here for him. It would wait until his death, when his body would be buried in the same spot, so that the part of his spirit left in the ground long ago could re-join the part of him which had lived and died. Storm would be starting that journey tomorrow.
‘He was my friend,’ the Prancer whispered. ‘Will I ever have a friend like that again?
Stillness spread from the tree, surrounded him. A thin strand of moonlight traced a path through the branches, touched the ground at his feet. The vision came to him a second time. A human, long red hair framing the pale face. In its wordless way, the part of him tied to the Land was giving him an answer.
The soft thud of hooves against moss raised his head. He blinked, the night suddenly dark again, nostrils expanding as he sought a scent. A voice asked softly, ‘May I approach the tree of the Prancer?’
The Prancer straightened. His aunt and milk-mother. ‘You are welcome, Malinn.’
She approached slowly, ducking her head in respect to the tree. ‘Windrush stands guard over him tonight.’
The Prancer turned his head, unaccustomed to bitterness. ‘I should be doing that. I can’t do even that right.’
‘What else have you done wrong?’ She came closer, her horn brushing the low branches. ‘No one holds blame against you for Storm’s death. He chose to challenge the dragon.’
‘It’s not that.’ The Prancer felt his throat close, had to fight for breath and words. ‘I couldn’t heal him. Maybe if I tried--but I couldn’t.’
‘Whatever you may or may not be,’ Malinn said sensibly, ‘even a full-grown Painter could have done little more than ease his way to death. I have seen a Painter in tears when an injury was beyond her power to cure.’
Malinn had known the last Painter. The Prancer felt her words soothing him, but he fought against the calm. There was still more he had to say. ‘This afternoon, he gave me his second name.’
Malinn sighed. She reached out and nibbled his neck affectionately. ‘I knew he’d choose you as his witness. If only he’d given the name to the Dancer...’
‘In four moons, he’ll return to the Wheel, without completing any steps in this life,’ the Prancer said, repeating as he’d been taught. ‘He asked me to name him. But I’m not a Dancer, either.’ He dug a hoof into the earth. ‘Both and neither.’
‘You are not to blame.’ She sounded grim.
‘Malinn.’ The Prancer hesitated. He was not used to deep thoughts, regrets. The colt which had run laughing into a stream seemed years, not days, ago. Now questions he had never thought to ask were surfacing from some new part of him. ‘Was it my fault my mother died? Because there was just me, not two of us?’
‘Births can go wrong for many reasons,’ Malinn reminded him gently. ‘She had great courage, your dam. She lived long enough to give you the first milk.’
‘But why am I marked with the signs of both Painter and Dancer?’
Malinn studied him for a long moment. The Prancer shrank back against his birth-tree, suddenly aware that he should know. Something hovered just in front of his muzzle, but he was somehow missing it. Deliberately? ‘One day, you will name yourself. For now, I’m grateful that I did not lose both of my sons today.’ Her tone became brisker. ‘I go to speak the happenings to Storm’s tree. Will you come with me?’
‘I could give his name to my sire,’ the Prancer said quickly. ‘Couldn’t he speak over the body?’
‘Not now,’ Malinn said gently. ‘Didn’t you see? The dragon carried part of Storm’s horn away with him, lodged deep in his eye. Only with the horn complete can a unicorn be named.’
The Prancer lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘He wouldn’t have died, except for me. He died leading the dragon away from me.’
‘When you were brought to me, first milk still wet upon your muzzle, your mother dead, Storm was nursing. You were crying from hunger, fear, loneliness.’ Her voice took on a note of wonder. ‘Without a word from me, Storm stepped aside to allow you to nurse. From that moment, before you even knew him, he became your protector.’<
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‘I miss him.’
‘Yes, you will.’ She touched him lightly. ‘Come. Tomorrow the herd will mark his departure. Tonight is for us, his family.’
The Prancer took a deep breath. Then he pushed himself away from his tree, following his milk-mother into the woods.
<><><><><><>
He stood again by Storm’s birth-tree the next day, afternoon sun slanting through the grove. All the herd was present, most waiting respectfully in the distance, while those who had truly known the young colt gathered closer by the fresh earth heaped over the oak’s roots.
‘For a short time he was known again to us,’ the Dancer said quietly, beginning the words of the Departure ritual. ‘Now he has re-joined his birth self, and both have begun their return to the Wheel. We who celebrated his birth and first name now mark his departure. Let each of us speak our remembrances of him.’
Malinn, as was her right, stepped forward first. ‘I remember when he was first born to me. Wind and rain raged through these trees, and from that I gave him his first name. But he was unafraid of the groaning of the branches and the lashing of the rain. His courage and trust are what I remember, and in honour of that memory I will run with my stallion again when I am in season. His great spirit moves me to give another the chance to live through my bearing.’
The Dancer nodded as she returned to her place. ‘His dam will bear another foal in his honour. He is so remembered.’
A young filly came next, her head hung low in shyness. The Prancer recognised her. Storm had sometimes stood next to her in lessons, whispering in her ear when the Teacher wasn’t looking. ‘He used to make me laugh,’ she said quietly. ‘I wasn’t any good with learning Human, but he made me laugh and it didn’t matter so much. I’ll work hard, and become the best Human speaker in the herd.’
‘His friend will concentrate on her Human lessons in his honour,’ said the Dancer. ‘He is so remembered.’
The Prancer watched several more come forward, speak their memories. His turn would come soon, and he didn’t know what to say. There was so much in his mind, so much in his heart. Long days running through the grasslands, enjoying the strength of young muscles. The evenings of hide and find in the woods. Apples stolen from the herd tree, all the sweeter for being munched in secret. And the dares, always trying to top the other.