The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn)

by Llywelyn, Morgan

  “Keep your iron weapons close to your hands at all times,” Epona advised Kazhak and the others. “It may be they have some special power over the wolf.”

  “Kazhak knows a better weapon,” the Scythian growled. “The speed of the horse, that nothing can resist. When we left dark mountains we galloped fast, outran this wolf. We will again. We will leave demon wolf behind us to starve on Sea of Grass.”

  At his order, the herd was readied, and by early the next day the women in the wagons were whipping the draft horses, thankful that none of them rode in slow ox-carts. They drove at top speed across the prairie, fleeing southward, while the men herded the domestic animals and the horses at an unrelenting pace. They did not stop until the animals were exhausted, but that night no one dreamed of the wolf.

  “Is good,” Kazhak remarked next dawn. “Always, the horse proves faster than his enemies. Man with horse has everything, Epona. Everything.”

  Perhaps flight was the answer. As long as they pushed themselves to the limit each day, their pursuer did not seem to be able to catch up with them. But if they stopped for any length of time to allow the herd to rest and graze, someone invariably awoke in the night with pounding heart and staring eyes, to whisper of a giant wolf prowling about the camp.

  When their paths crossed those of other herders, it was inevitable that the story of the silvery wolf was passed on, by women gossiping or children playing, or even other men, suddenly glimpsing it near their own wagons. The largest wolf ever seen on the steppe could not pass without comment. It was hunted, but no Scythian arrow could bring it down.

  Summer drew to a close, accompanied by the onset of severe thunderstorms and occasional pelting hail. On a dark and sodden day, Kazhak’s band passed a singular monument on a slight rise of ground and paused to do it honor. Epona stared in wonder at the Scythian tomb.

  It was, as Kazhak had once said, a timbered house, large enough to serve as a lodge for a Kelti family. Beyond its four corners were posts driven into the ground in sets of two pairs each, with a wooden wheel between the posts, and the rotting body of a saddled, bridled horse mounted upon the wheel in a lifelike posture, its legs dangling. Each horse carried a dead rider, a stake driven down from his neck through his spine and attached to the pole holding the horse in place. This grisly guard stood watch over the tomb of some nomad noble, scanning the horizon with emptied eye-sockets.

  “Brave young men were strangled to be with their prince,” Kazhak commented. “Great honor, is it so?”

  When they rode on again in solemn silence, Epona turned for one more look at that decaying company. She saw the precious metals tarnishing on the fading splendor of the horses’ trappings; she saw the bows and arrows waiting in each rider’s gorytus to be fired at some unguessable enemy. She saw the rain beating down on the heads of the dead men and dripping from the hooves of the dead horses as they hung suspended in midair.

  The rain ran from the dead to the living, to be absorbed once more into the earth mother and send back new life.

  It is always so, said the spirit within.

  The animals were growing more and more tired and thin as they were pushed on and on, trying to sustain themselves with an inadequate amount of forage snatched during toobrief pauses. The women in the wagons were peevish with exhaustion; the children were querulous and fretful. A baby wailed endlessly in one of Aksinya’s wagons. When Kazhak at last sighted one of the great horse fairs dotting the steppe in this season, everyone drew a breath of relief. Surely they could stop for a while, and rest. The women could sit on something unmoving and exchange gossip with other wives from other tribes of the Scyth; their families could enjoy the security of being surrounded by numerous capable warriors.

  A horse fair was the one occasion when many different nomad tribes came together in a loose confederacy, all other interests set aside in favor of exchanging animals and improving their breeding stock. Corrals to hold the mares were built of scarce and precious timber, and surrounded by traders’ booths piled high with brilliantly colored rugs, wagon crafts, and horse harness. Wagon camps dotted the landscape. Driving past them, Epona was surprised to realize that she had grown accustomed to many things she once thought she could never accept. The heads, for example. Grinning, rotting, stinking. Protecting. A sign of status she had come to respect, her eyes widening in admiration when she saw a particularly fine trophy or a tent decorated with an impressive number of skulls. Without being aware of it, she had absorbed the Scythian concept of the head representing the man, and now she was reassured by the number of bodiless warriors that stood on tireless guard throughout the area of the horse fair.

  Business was already very good. Men sat on saddlecloths spread on the ground, ignoring the dust that swirled around them, and bickered good-naturedly or did hard trading, fingers flying and eyes flashing. When one man felt another was taking advantage of him, the standard complaint of the Scythian was howled to the heavens: “This person is of the oldest race on earth! This person is suffering! Why? Who will rid this person of the thief who means to take the teeth from my head?”

  Kazhak and the other men set up their own area in a favorable location, and soon they had a crowd around them, admiring their horses—though commenting about the leanness of the animals—and showing even more admiration for the Kelti iron each Scyth wore at his waist, the knife and sword they never put aside.

  Out of deference to Kazhak, Epona stayed in her wagon most of the time, though occasionally she could not resist wrapping herself up so that even her golden hair was covered, and wandering among the displays, watching the races and contests, listening to the boasting and complaining. She stood on the edge of a group of bystanders as Dasadas traded four fine mares and an equal number of cattle, as well as his entire allotment of sheep, for a young bay stallion not yet proven at racing or with the mares.

  Kazhak grumbled about the trade. “Is a fool’s trade, Dasadas. What you need with this horse? You have use of my stallion for your mares, best stallion anywhere.”

  Dasadas defended himself. “This horse has longer legs, will be bigger, maybe faster, even. And is already trained to saddle. Is riding horse; Dasadas will not have to ride a gelding now.”

  Kazhak snorted. “Kazhak rides stallion, so Dasadas wants to ride stallion. You cannot always have what Kazhak has, Dasadas.” The other man met his eyes and they glared at each other, bristling like male dogs circling one another stifflegged, ready to fight.

  Epona stepped between them. “You must be brothers. Brothers stand together,” she reminded them. “You have a common enemy.”

  The moment passed, but they all knew it was not forgotten.

  Kazhak was disappointed with the showing his horses made; in past years they had been among the best, but now they were in poor condition and did not command the attention they had in former days. Still, Epona thought, watching them, they were the most magnificent creatures on earth. They. did not seem to belong to the same species as the stubby little draft animals—shaggy, primitive ponies, really—used for hauling wagons and carts in the west. She looked at Kazhak sitting on his gray stallion; she watched him and the others racing, contesting, staging mock battles on horseback to demonstrate the training of their animals, and she saw what their enemies must see: The mounted horseman on the splendid steed of the Scythian was a new being, larger than any other, commanding the horizon. Invincible.

  They left the site of the horse fair earlier than Kazhak customarily did, and when Aksinya grumbled, Kazhak told him, “We will not stay too long in one place. Is not wise. And we are not doing so good here, is it so? What you get for your best horses, Aksinya?”

  The other man spat in the dirt, and Kazhak shook his head in agreement. “So we go on. Next year, may be better. If we are no longer cursed by demon. Since that wolf started following us, many things have gone bad for us.”

  The more he thought about it, the more certain Kazhak was that the wolf was interfering with every aspect of his life. Epona ha
d not yet conceived, though he was with her often, and that was a bad sign. The other women, too, were causing unfamiliar trouble, complaining and making demands that had Dasadas and Aksinya avoiding their own wagons. Eventually Aksinya mentioned his problem to Kazhak, and Kazhak spoke to Epona.

  “You are talking to the women too much about things they cannot understand,” he told her. “You upset other women. Is not good, Epona. You tell them they have a right to do this, should be able to do that, but is not true. They are only women; they have no rights. You just make trouble for them.”

  “I’m not trying to make trouble. I’ve merely been telling them the custom of the Kelti, the way women are considered partners of their husbands and holders of their own property.”

  Kazhak’s face was troubled. “Men blame me for not controlling your tongue, Epona. Other women are trained god, you are not. Kazhak will lose support of their men. Kazhak needs all brothers now, if we are to win tribe away from bad influence of shamans.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Kazhak hopes,” he replied. “May be is too late already; may be was too late when Kazhak first left Sea of Grass. But we cannot surrender without a fight, so you must not turn men against Kazhak by talking to their women about freedom.”

  “Does that mean you plan to join the rest of the Royal Tribe at the winter encampment, even though we may still be followed by the wolf?”

  “Is so. Is needful that we be present for the Taylga, the Horse Sacrifice. Kazhak missed last year; perhaps that was big mistake. Kazhak should have been present at great ceremony that brings strength to the han. For the sake of the tribe.”

  Those words again. For the sake of the tribe. The spirit within told Epona there was no arguing with those words, so she looked down and said nothing. Yes, Kernunnos, she thought. For the sake of the tribe. But Kazhak knew her too well to mistake acquiescence on one issue for agreement to all his demands.

  “Now, Epona, you must give word: You will not talk more to the women about freedom.”

  “They are just starting to get interested. They ask me questions, Kazhak—as you ask me questions. What am I to say?”

  “Say nothing. Talk of freedom only makes trouble.”

  “Are you trying to order me …”

  “Am asking, Epona. For Kazhak, who needs your help.”

  She could not resist that. But neither could she resist one last dig in his ribs with her elbow. “And what about you, Kazhak? Shall I not speak to you of freedom anymore, either?” A smile twitched the corners of her lips and she watched him from under lowered lashes.

  “Kazhak is free!” he proclaimed. “Kazhak on his horse is freest man anywhere.”

  But it was not true, and that was amply demonstrated by the welcome Kazhak received as soon as his band reached the winter encampment. The royal tents, many of them, were already in place, and there was the bustle of activity Epona remembered from the previous season. But there was one major change. The display of trophy heads that identified the tent of Kolaxais was in front of a slightly smaller tent now, and the old han’s shelter was occupied by the shamans, who appeared as soon as Kazhak rode up.

  Their painted cheeks were fuller. Tsaygas and Mitkezh had eaten well during the grazing season; plenty of fat lamb had gone into their bellies. After a cursory salute, they immediately demanded to know of Kazhak how much his herd had increased, how many foals had been born, what advantageous trades he had made.

  “Kazhak reports to Kolaxais,” the Scythian told them through tight lips. “These horses belong to the prince; it is for him to know.”

  “We will tell him,” Tsaygas said in a voice greasy with mutton oil. “He trusts us to do the counting, to do the allotting now. He is too old, too tired to be bothered.”

  The Scythian did not dismount from his gray stallion. “Kazhak must see for himself,” he said stubbornly.

  Tsaygas’ eyes flashed. “Is not possible. Han is under protection of good taltos white taltos; demons might come with you. We have heard, yes, we have heard. Kazhak cannot see Kolaxais.”

  The gibbering chant of the shamans became a high, keening wail, causing the horses to flatten their ears against their heads and move their feet nervously. Out of the corner of her eye, Epona saw how the Scythians who had come forward to welcome Kazhak swiftly withdrew, finding business with their own herds and wagons, too frightened to stay.

  Kazhak saw it, too. Things were worse than he feared. The shamans had Kolaxais sequestered and were refusing admittance to him. He might even be dead, his heir officially unnamed, and the shamans had so extended their grasp that others were reluctant to challenge them. He would need time to learn the extent to which they had consolidated their power; surely not all his brothers had given in to the threats, the demons, the gibbered prophecies, and the terrors summoned from the hemp fumes.

  Suddenly he grinned; the expansive Kazhak-grin that could reveal everything or nothing. “Demons come with Kazhak? No! Kazhak returns with herd and brothers only. Kazhak brings magic woman, good woman, to heal sick horses.”

  The voice of Mitkezh was like a northern wind; cold, with a cutting edge. “Is well known on Sea of Grass that a wolf-demon accompanies Kazhak. We now know it was even with you here, last winter. We have made preparations to protect our people. Kolaxais, in his wisdom; has decreed that Kazhak is no longer his son, for Kazhak once swore on his father’s hearth that he would bring only honor to his prince and enrich his tribe. Kazhak has broken that oath. Kazhak has brought harm. Shamans know how to punish man who makes false oath.”

  Kazhak sat on his horse as if stunned. The color had drained from his face. “Kolaxais says … Kazhak is no longer his son? That cannot be. Kazhak is good son, Kolaxais has loaned him much gold, many horses, shared his meat …”

  “Kolaxais does not say your name,” Mitkezh told him. “It goes unspoken, like the names of the dead. After the Taylga we will deal with you, white taltos good taltos will punish the oath-breaker, yes yes …” He fell into the chant, lost in it, spinning and weaving so his horse-tail pendants whirled about him.

  Tsaygas took up the thread of his speech, with a warning to Kazhak. “For now, pitch your tent, man without a name. Your animals will be counted for adding to the han’s herd. After Taylga, we will read entrails of sacrifice; we will determine your punishment.

  “We will prepare great ceremony to protect our people from demon you have brought, man without a name. Only shamans can protect. Go now. Go from sight of Tsaygas. You offend our eyes.”

  The shaman turned and strode back to the great tent that had formerly housed the Prince of the Horse. Epona noticed a small boy she recognized as Kolaxais’ own cupbearer holding the entrance flap aside for Tsaygas, and bowing low as he passed.

  The expression in Kazhak’s face affected Epona as if an arrow had been driven into her own breast. She tried to offer him some useless word of comfort but he brushed her aside. He was too tightly wrapped around his pain to be able to open himself to her.

  Searching for some distraction, Epona joined the other women in setting up the tents. For once Kazhak did not object to her participation in the work; he was too preoccupied to notice. The Scythian was moving around the encampment, greeting other men, trying to determine the extent to which the shamans had already turned his brothers against him.

  Many men avoided him, but a few greeted Kazhak as they always had and welcomed him into their tents. These few gave him hope. They, too, resented the shamans’ blatant seizure of the vast wealth of the han.

  Vladmir, a stocky Scyth doomed to the life of the tents by a broken hip that had never healed properly, expressed the opinion these men held. “Kolaxais always hard, but fair, Kazhak. When man needed help, Kolaxais would give. Shamans give nothing. Just take, then demand more. They make new rules daily, rules they say are necessary. But people do not understand rules; people break them out of ignorance. Then shamans punish. They take what little we have but still want more.”

  “They h
ave taken Kolaxais’ tent,” Kazhak said. His dark eyes seemed to have sunk in his head, just in the short time he had been in the winter encampment.

  “Is so,” Vladmir affirmed. “Shamans now hold the gold, too.”

  Kazhak’s shock was visible. “The gold of Kolaxais? The wealth of the tribe? But gold is blood of Tabiti; it must stay with the han. Is symbol of his chiefdom, of our royal descent. If shamans hold gold, who will let us use it when we need?”

  “Shamans have set a guard over the gold,” Vladmir said. “The guard is warned: If he falls asleep on duty he will be strangled, then flayed.

  “Many men already put to death, Kazhak. Brothers we not see again. Shamans promised some men rewards; some men were greedy. Accepted. Then, as each family came to winter camp, animals were counted by shamans. If herder did not bring back enough animals to satisfy Tsaygas, Mitkezh, these bought men killed their brothers. Dead man’s possessions were taken by shamans to placate demons. Or so they say.”

  “Why did you not resist?” Kazhak wanted to know.

  Vladmir held his hands palms up. “Happened little by little. Happened as each man returned, before he could talk to others. Soon fear was in the camp. When new ones came, they felt it. It is like a demon, that fear. It walks between tents, makes people cower inside.”

  Like a silver wolf, Kazhak thought.

  “One man must speak out against shamans, call his brothers in a loud voice to stand with him,” Kazhak said.

  Vladmir drew back his lips to reveal dark stumps of teeth. He reached for the little brazier burning nearby and threw a handful of hemp seeds onto it, welcoming the smoke that clouded painful thoughts. “You, Kazhak? No. Not enough would listen to you, now. Men are afraid for their lives.

  “As shamans control more property, they have more to buy weak men with. Such men forget Kazhak is brother. They listen to words of shamans, then go around camp to talk against Kazhak. Say Kazhak is bad son to the han; tell of demon Kazhak brought to Sea of Grass to kill Kolaxais, so Kazhak could take his place.”