It's like having my head shoved deep under water. When I manage to fight my way to the surface, Tal and I are twenty yards from Jack, headed towards him at a dead run. And Jack doesn't know anything's wrong. People gallop across the diagonal all the time.
I have a vision of fifteen hundred pounds of steel-shod horse crushing Jack's skull. I shut my eyes and sit back hard and close my fists on the reins.
Somehow Tal does the impossible, skidding to a halt just yards from the corner, flinching as the sand burns skin from his heels. Lather splatters onto Jack. My thighs scream from absorbing the forward momentum without flipping over Tal's head, and it takes a minute to catch my breath.
Oh my God. That was so close.
“Show-off.” Jack grins and wipes the froth from his hair. He looks at Tal admiringly. “He is so fine."
“He knows it, too!” I laugh. It's only a little shaky; maybe not enough for Jack to notice. Jesus. We almost killed him.
He moves closer and rubs Tal's forehead. He traces the outline of the thin blaze, down the right side, across the muzzle, up the left, slowly, slowly. I swallow hard. He runs his hand down the dark neck like it's made of platinum, sweeping across Tal's chest and down one foreleg to the knee. “So fine, so fine,” he murmurs. He runs his fingertips over that wet coat and looks up at me, still grinning. “Sure wish I had a horse like this."
I grin back, but most of my attention is busy shoving down something that came leaping up again at the smell of sweat and the glide of Jack's hand across slick flesh. I am very, very careful not to let his hand brush across my leg. I don't dare, even though I'm on Tal. He is my shield and my protection, but he can help me only so much.
“I have to walk him, Jack. He's really hot.” And I pray to God he didn't just tear a ligament, stopping like that.
“I know, I know,” he says reluctantly, and steps back, trailing his hands down those big, dark shoulders. I move away from him as fast as I can.
When Grandad shows up at noon, I lead Tal to the south paddock and turn him out. He bounds off, racing Owl down the fence line, tail high, snorting loudly.
“Look at that,” Grandad says. “You'd think he was a stallion. Any problems today?"
I look down at my feet, biting my lip.
“How bad?” he asks.
“Almost ran somebody down."
He looks out across the field for a long moment. “But she didn't get loose, right? Nobody got hurt? So maybe ... maybe it wasn't as bad as all that. Maybe you've got it licked now."
I nod miserably. Neither of us believes that, but Grandad never quits hoping.
Jack is wheeling the hay cart in as Grandad and I head back through the stable. Grandad scowls and abruptly stops walking. “Is he working here now?” he asks me sharply. Surprised, I nod. He glares for a few more moments, but Jack doesn't even seem to notice. “Dawsons.” Grandad grinds his teeth. “They're up to something."
That's news to me. I thought we were friends with the Dawsons. They're the second-smallest of the old families around here; we're the smallest.
He looks hard at me and jerks his head towards Jack. “Callie, don't you ever let him near your horse, you hear me?” He strides off to the truck. I hurry after him, mouth open, wondering what's changed with the Dawsons, and why nobody told me.
* * * *
On the second day of school, I'm sitting on the retaining wall by the principal's office when Mom pulls up. I hop down, swing my backpack over one shoulder, and get in.
“Again?” she says, and sighs. “Oh, Callie."
“It wasn't my fault,” I say.
“It never is."
“I told her to stop. She came up behind me and kept pushing. I told her to stop and she wouldn't."
“So you hit her."
I don't bother to answer. I watch the trees go by outside.
“Callie, you have got to stop—"
“It's not my fault!” I yell.
The rest of the drive home is silent. That's Mom's acknowledgement that I'm right.
I lean my head against the window glass and fight back tears of frustration. It's getting worse and worse these days. Nobody understands how hard it is to stop at just hitting. Nobody gives me any credit for that.
And nobody understands how damned good it feels to touch someone.
* * * *
We're back from a late fall dressage show with a score in the high 60s at Third Level, which is a very big deal. Grandad is so proud you'd think he sired the horse himself.
“Just you wait, Callie girl,” he tells me as I unwrap Tal's shipping bandages. “You wait and see. You'll go far on this fella. He's got what it takes.” He pats Tal's withers affectionately. “We'll put him in the little paddock for tonight. Let him walk around, stay loose."
I nod, unclip the crossties, and lead Tal out. When I come back, Grandad says, “Come on, Callie girl. Let's go throw you a party."
I am very glad to do just that. Nobody else needs to know I'm not just celebrating Tal's first win at Third Level. I'm also celebrating that I stayed in control under pressure today, even with so many people around, some of them brushing up against me. It was hard, but Tal got me through. Together, we can do it.
* * * *
The next morning, Tal is gone.
Grandad looks so bad that I'm afraid he's going to have a heart attack. I keep trying to get him to sit down, but he insists on checking all the stalls and paddocks himself even though I've already done it twice.
“Jesus, no,” he whispers when we get to the last paddock and stare out at the empty field. I rub my sleeve across my eyes and notice I'm shaking. We just stand there for a long minute.
“See if any of the other horses are missing.” He starts walking towards the south end of the stable. “I'll see if all the trailers are still here."
I break the first stable rule I ever learned and run down the aisles. I look in the stalls, trying to remember which horses are away at shows. When I start to run out the west door to see which ones are outside, Jack is there, blocking the way with his body, arms out as if he's trying to catch a bolting horse.
“Callie,” he says urgently, “Callie, I'm so sorry. It wasn't me, I swear. It wasn't me.” He reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder.
“Don't you touch her, Jack Dawson.” My grandfather's voice rings down the aisle. “Don't you lay one finger on her.” He stomps across the cement. His face is red and sweaty and I have never seen him look so fierce. “Callie, go call the police. And your mother."
“I will if you promise to sit down."
“I'll be fine.” He never takes his eyes off Jack. He doesn't sit down, either. I run to the truck for the phone.
* * * *
The police come. Tal is worth a lot of money, so they take this seriously. They ask everybody a lot of questions and look all over the farm and tell us they'll be working to solve this but it may take some time. Grandad looks terrible, and they tell him, tactfully, that he should go home for now, they'll handle everything.
We are quiet on the way home. I drive. Grandad is upset about that, but I insist. The color of his face scares me.
Grandma meets us at the door and lifts her eyebrow when we come in. Grandad shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says.
“No, they won't find a thing,” she agrees, “but you had to call them anyhow. Come sit at the table. You've got to eat something."
Mom is already there. She passes me a plate of garlic bread. She looks very calm, and I have a bad feeling I know why. This is confirmed when she says, “I suppose this means we'll have to take care of it ourselves. If the police can't find anything—"
“—then it must be one of the other old families,” Grandma says.
“Very well.” Faster than I can flinch away, Mom takes my chin in her hand and says, “Calpurnia, Talisman has been taken. What is our best course of action?"
I get that sickening pushed-under-water feeling again, and the voice that isn't mine washes out into the room. “For
what reason was he taken?"
Murmuring, and then my mother's voice again, now hesitant. “We're not sure."
“Then I am little able to advise you."
Grandad's strong tones. “Worst-case scenario. Assume it was to make Callista vulnerable."
“Protect Callista. Retrieve Talisman. Bind the thief to this household."
That causes quite a stir. Loud voices, Grandad's rising above the rest. “—won't have that man in my house!"
“Your house?” Grandma's tartness brings everything to a halt.
“Thank you, Calpurnia. That will be all.” My mother takes her hand away.
I blink and pick up the garlic bread I dropped. I can still feel the ghost of her touch on my chin. It makes it hard to push my morrigan back.
Grandad clears his throat. “The thief."
“Hmm. Yes.” Mom taps the table absently.
“Callie, did you ever let Jack ride your horse?” I choke on my garlic bread, spluttering indignantly, and Grandad apologizes. “No, no, never mind, of course not."
“Did he ever ask to ride him? Or groom him? Feed him?” Mom has inherited Grandma's ability to lift one eyebrow.
“No. Just petted him a couple of times. Everybody wants to pet Tal.” I frown, remembering. “He said he didn't do it. Didn't take Tal."
“Doesn't mean anything.” Mom dismisses it.
“Might,” Grandma objects.
Mom considers, then nods.
“You'd best have a word with Ben Dawson, all the same,” Grandma tells Grandad. “They've been getting ... ambitious lately. Trying to expand.” Which means they've started collecting assets. “After we eat, Edward. Scoot your chair back to the table and finish that plate first."
* * * *
I help Grandad wash and wax the truck, and he puts on his best suit while Mom and Grandma figure out the exact wording of the message he's to take to Ben Dawson. I will never be herald, so I don't know just what it is that Grandad does, or what he can do. I do know that we shine the truck just as we once would have groomed a horse and polished the tack.
He comes back fuming. He stomps into the kitchen with his shoes still on—almost as big a sin as running through the stable—slams his wallet down onto the table, and starts yanking off his tie.
“'How sorry we are to hear of your unfortunate predicament, Mr. Aldwine. Very sorry indeed. Such a shame, a val-u-able horse like that.'” He mimics Ben Dawson's voice sarcastically. “And the whole time, that damned bastard's grinning at me like he's licking cream off his whiskers."
“What's his formal reply?"
Grandad closes his eyes for a moment. “'We recognize no thief among us. Bring your proof and make your challenge if you wish to claim one.’”
Mom's mouth drops open.
“'Bring proof'?!” Grandma erupts out of her chair. “'Bring proof'?!"
“They want a war.” Mom's voice is angry and cold. “We couldn't ignore the insult, even if we still had any doubts."
I don't want a war. In a war, you destroy your enemy's household as fast as you can, so the first thing the Dawsons will do is kill Tal. That would be bad for more reasons than they know. Bad for everybody.
“What's Ben Dawson got?” Mom thinks aloud.
Grandma considers. “Ten in the family. Nothing special.” Not like us, she means.
Mom grabs her jacket and heads for the door. “They have a hostage; we need one, too. Jack's alone at the stable. I'll go fetch him before Ben calls him home."
“No,” I say. “Jack is the only one of them who knows anything at all about horses. If you take him, nobody will take care of Tal even a little."
“Callie,” says Mom, impatiently jingling a chain in her pocket, “you know they're going to kill Tal."
I hurt just thinking about it. “Maybe so. But he doesn't have to suffer in the meantime."
“Well, we need a hostage,” she says, and she walks out. I hear the truck start up. I go to the bathroom and rub water on my face with shaking hands. I'm careful not to look in the mirror.
* * * *
It's almost dark before I hear the crunch of gravel in the driveway. I skid down the stairs, hoping against hope that Mom is alone, but she pushes Jack into the kitchen ahead of her. I squeeze my eyes shut and ache for Tal.
“Hey, Callie,” Jack says. I open my eyes and nod back at him. There are fine silver chains around his wrists and—I gape and look again—one around his neck. He's not just hostage, then, to be ransomed back by his family when this is over. He's thrall, war booty. Property. And he doesn't have a mark on him.
I'd fight ’til I died rather than be taken as thrall.
“Washroom is down the hall and to the left,” Grandma tells him. “Supper will be ready in a few minutes."
“No, thank you, ma'am,” he says softly.
“You're already thrall.” Grandad doesn't pause in setting another place at the table. “Won't make any difference now, so there's no sense going hungry."
“All the same, no, thank you."
Mom rolls her eyes and shoves him into a chair. I just stare at him. Not a mark.
My stomach hurts too much to eat. Jack sits with a bare and gleaming plate in front of him. He doesn't even touch his water glass. I am half crazy with worry for Tal, wondering if they've got him tied so he can't put his head down or if they've given him dirty water or—
“Jack,” I say, before I even know I'm going to say anything, “you told me you didn't take Tal."
“I didn't, Callie. I swear, it wasn't me."
I feel another kind of craziness start to rise in me. I am so wild with fear and hope that I can't even speak. I stare at Grandad, mouth working but nothing coming out. “Tal,” I manage to squeeze out, a strangled sound. I try again. “Tal! Don't you see?” I jump up and knock back my chair, fighting down Calpurnia and this terrifying wildness. “Don't you see?! Nobody else knows anything about horses!"
I am looking at Grandad, but Grandma is the one who gets it first. “Then how could they take Tal? You know he won't let just anybody handle him."
Grandad sucks in his breath. “They would have had to bind him with salt and silver,” he says. Jack flinches and rubs his wrists.
My mother swears fiercely. “We've been thinking about this all wrong. They don't know what he is. They didn't take him as a hostage, or to make Callie vulnerable. They're not planning to kill him. They stole him as an object, because he's valuable."
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push back Calpurnia. Without Tal, I don't know if I can do it. “If they're not going to kill him, then I know where they've got him,” I say. “I know where he has to be."
* * * *
We take the truck. Mom shoves Jack in ahead of her. I drive, because my morrigan is riding me hard and no one wants to face her down.
I drive as far as there is a road. When there isn't one anymore, I heave open the door and grab Tal's spare halter and lead rope. I take the hatchet we keep in the back for emergencies, and I start striding over the scree. The others follow, well behind. The moon is up, but I don't need it to see now. I am deep into battle rage, and I know exactly where I am going.
On the other side of the hill, on Dawson land, there is a baby heartwood: a small, cold spring, and three young rowans just above it. Tal is pressed against two of them, the whites of his eyes showing clearly against his dark coat.
I start giggling, except the voice isn't mine, and I feel sick. Calpurnia's loose. I see my hands come up, and I can't stop them from running the blade of the hatchet across my lower lip. I hear leaves crunching and look up to see four of Jack's kin on the ridge, coming down towards us fast. I giggle, blow little blood bubbles, and let the hatchet fly towards Tal. Towards the rowans.
Later, I know, I will be very, very sick at what Calpurnia is doing now. I want to vomit when the blade bites into living wood. Blood and iron poison a rowan. Later, I tell myself. Later.
All the others freeze, aghast. Calpurnia has me rocketing forward in
that still moment, taking advantage of their shock. It works. I throw down the halter and grab the hatchet before anyone realizes I mean to do more. One of Jack's cousins, a young man with bright gold hair, is screaming. None of them can reach me before I chop the blade into the second rowan.
Tal gives a great shiver and leaps away from the trees. His coat is crusted with dried salt. Calpurnia wants a taste, and I can't stop her. I only hope it will be enough, that she won't decide to cut him to taste his bloodsalt. The moment my face is pressed to his body, though, she ebbs a little. Touching him is sweet starlight, fresh snow, the scent of autumn leaves.
"Callie!" I have never heard my grandfather's herald voice before, but there is no mistaking it. Calpurnia swings me around to see that my mother has one of the guards; my grandmother, another. The blond man is writhing on the ground. I ignore him. The threat is a thin, quick woman a few running strides from me. I let her tackle me, and then bring my knees up as we fall to kick her hard in the stomach.
Oh, God, I can feel her skin. I clutch at her, trying to pull her closer. She twists free somehow, and crawls to the rowans, putting herself between me and them. I admire her for that, but Calpurnia kicks her again, contemptuously, and giggles louder and faster.
“Is this all?” Calpurnia howls. “Four mewling infants to guard their treasure? Oh, nonononono.” She shakes her head unhappily. “Well, this will bring more.” And she casually slaps the woman's hand against the third rowan and brings the hatchet down on it. “There,” she says, thoroughly satisfied, and takes the hatchet and sits down on a rock to wait.
I don't think about it. I don't look. Or listen.
“Callista.” My grandfather is walking slowly towards me. “Callista.” That herald voice. “Callista, go and stand with Talisman."
I find that I can open my fingers and let the hatchet slide out. I can walk over to Tal, who wants to run from the blood smell but doesn't. I press my cheek against his warm, sweet shoulder, and we stand and tremble together. I want to go home.
It doesn't take long for the rest of Jack's kin to show up. Killing an old family's heartwood gets their attention fast. Ben Dawson does not look like he's licking cream off his whiskers anymore. His four guards all have fine silver chains around their wrists, to mark them for ransom. The woman looks barely alive. Jack is thrall, the Dawson rowans are weeping sap and blood, and Tal is free. Ben's in a bad position to bargain.
Strange Horizons, August 2002 Page 8