Horses!

by Gardner Dozois

  "With us . . . well, it was just a general title, for all superior ranks," I said.

  "Yes, but they almost got me then, with those three pips. I nearly became one of them—it seemed easier to bend than buck . . ."

  "It was always easier to bend," I interrupted. "We had to fight to keep our soulsI remember that."

  His eyes brightened. "And we did, didn't we? We never—I never let them get my soul. You didn't have to contend with their bribes. When the thunder has run its course, the persuasion starts, and it's harder to resist, believe me. Their acceptance of you—their admittance to their damned—I kept on fighting though, as I always had—as we did." He paused.

  "Still, got it now." He patted a pocket which no doubt contained the check book. All the while he spoke to me his eyes were roaming over faces in the bustling crowd of farmers, horse dealers, and market types. I wondered then how I could have failed to recognize him. That ambivalent look of the snake in a suspended moment—the second in which it is between the decision to strike or slither away out of danger—was in Jake's expression. That same mixture I had witnessed before, only this time it was fear and excitement, one pressing him forward, the other urging him away. And so he was captured in a perfect balance between the two, seeming to be caught, not in physical motion, but in spiritual argument, between two strong desires.

  "Can you help me?" he said. "Which of those people are Romanies?"

  "True Romanies? Or just gypsies?" I asked, surprised. "Either. Which are the horse dealers?"

  I nodded towards a short, swarthy man close by. "Him. He's one. His name's Henry Troupe."

  "How do you know? Is he known to you?"

  "I see him around and he's carrying his stick. If a gypsy's ready to trade, he carries a stick to indicate it. Do you want to speak to him?"

  "In a moment." He paused, then said, "Where do they get their horses? They breed them, I suppose?"

  "Yes. Much of the stock comes from Spain, Andalucia. There's a horse fair there once a year. Most of the gypsies go."

  "And what do you do?" he asked, suddenly confronting me with a question more direct than polite, and I was taken aback a little.

  "Gamekeeping. I'm a gamekeeper."

  "Ah. Yes. You always did like the outdoor life. Bit of a nature freak, yes?"

  I felt affronted. "I don't see . . . what's freakish about it. I like to be in the woods and fields . . . it's a living."

  "But you have an affinity with nature, don't you? Bit like a church to you, isn't it? Sanctified woods, sacred fields, the sepulchral mound of the mole?" The tone was mocking.

  "Rubbish, man." I was beginning to get annoyed with him. He turned his attention back to the gypsy.

  "Well, never mind, anyway. Those fellows—they have an affinity with horses. Superstitious as well—to the back teeth. Power over horses, and under the power of superstition. Remind you of anything?"

  I started. "Good God, you're not still . . . you can't be. You are. You're serious."

  He turned to face me again.

  "I couldn't give it up like you, you see. Oh, you can sneer, but you escaped, damn you. I still had it all . . . the bloody kit to polish, the inane drills, the fucking lot . . . I still had it, up to here." His eyes burned with a feverish anger and in spite of myself, my own irritation, I winced inwardly. Suddenly, he smiled, but somehow the smile seemed more threatening than the fury it had replaced. He said in a pleasant tone, "So, I continued our experiments, alone. Look, I'm going to have a word with that chap. You wait here. Afterwards I'll buy you a pint—for old times' sake. We'll celebrate my final escape. Don't go away . . .

  He left me and walked across the cobbled, strawstrewn square to speak to the gypsy. I watched as the big-boned, stocky man brought his face up to answer Jake, while Jake himself seemed to curve over, as if he were about to swallow the fellow. I wondered whether it would be prudent to just walk away, thinking that the bargaining would take some time-gypsies will haggle over a penny in a hundred pounds—but Jake was soon back.

  "Made an appointment for later," he said. "Come on. Where's the nearest alehouse? What about over there?" He pointed to The King's Head.

  "Not my local," I said, "but it sells beer."

  "Good. Let's to it, man." He slapped my back and led the way.

  We drank steadily, until evening came upon us, sifting through scattered incidents that were best left lying where they had fallen in earlier years. Finally I asked the question that I knew he had been waiting for.

  "The gypsy. What do you really want with him?"

  Jake's eyes glittered, partly with excitement and partly through having drunk more than his share.

  "They know something I need to know. Our old religion, man . . . it still runs thick in my veins. Can't get it out now. Runs too deep. Mingled with my blood. Have you ever heard of the Gytrash?"

  "The Gytrash?"

  "That's it. No, you haven't, have you? Well, it's . . . it's a horse. A phantom horse. The gypsies believe in it—so do I. Surprises you, eh? The old hocus-pocus rubbish, yes? Well, I do believe it. The Gytrash. It appears . . . look, when you see it, it's a warning that a loved one, your nearest and dearest, is going to die. The Gytrash appears, black-coated and white-eyed and you know that death is at hand, ready to swat." He swallowed more of his beer at a rapid pace, his Adam's apple bobbing away in front of me.

  I said, "Did you come here to buy a horse?"

  His eyes met mine. They were the eyes I remembered, from the old Jake. Eyes do not change—they are the exception in the aging process of the human body. Old people can have clear blue eyes that look as though they belong to a baby.

  "After you left I took the whole thing a little more seriously—began to explore libraries for the right kind of books. I learned a great deal. I thought we . . . well, the horse is a magnificent animal. It has grace in speed. It's powerful-

  muscularly powerful. Its lines are aesthetic. It has nobility . . ."

  "Are you here to buy a horse?" I persisted.

  "No. I'm here to talk—to the gypsies. I need to know certain things. Then I'll be ready."

  I studied his face in the dim light. The dusk filled the hollows of his cheeks with dark shadows and I felt disturbed, uneasy in his presence. Here was a man with an obsession. The kind of obsession that permits no barriers, no morals, no principles to stand in its way. He had narrowed his perspective on the future to a bayonet point, and at that point stood the Gytrash.

  I said, "If the . . . Gytrash appears only to those about to lose a loved one . . .

  "The loved one."

  "All right. But what happens when you conjure its presence then? I mean, if it's supposed to be some kind of premonition—a warning—surely, calling it up might precipitate . . .

  "Someone has to die. Yes."

  The tone was that of a man explaining a logical fact and a torpor took control of me, long enough to prevent me betraying my revulsion.

  "Who?" I uttered, after a long while.

  "In my case, a woman called Catherine." He said it so casually I almost struck him. Not in anger or disgust, but in spiritual anguish. His disregard for human feeling was unpalatable and I wanted desperately to be out of his influence. I was afraid that the corruption of his soul might be contagious and would permeate my own with its close proximity.

  Distance. I wanted spiritual distance between us, before the decay became a shared experience and I was drawn too deeply into something that was fascinatingly repulsive to me. The problem was within myself. Since leaving military school I had lived in a placid pool of unchanging events, but somewhere in my nature revolution was waiting to erupt. I craved a momentous change, which I had always hoped would come from meeting someone with whom I would fall in love. Now I was afraid that something else might draw me out of that pool, something that was exciting through its sheer repulsiveness. Whether I believed in the Gytrash or not was immaterial. The fact was, Jake did, and he was prepared to sacrifice this Catherine to an indulgence in th
e black arts. He was offering someone he loved, the woman who presumably loved him, in exchange for a mystical experience. I, who had no one, who had not found such a woman, who would have fought with devils and demons to protect such a precious, rare quality as mutual love, was both appalled and intrigued by Jake's decision.

  "Don't you think that this is a little bit insane?" I said.

  He smiled. "Don't you think that's a rather trite remark? I expected better of you. Catherine is aware of what I'm doing—she's not only agreed to it, she's been a source of encouragement."

  "Then you're both mad."

  "Perhaps. It doesn't matter, does it? If we are, then nothing will happen. If not . . . well, you may not understand this, but some people are prepared to sacrifice everything they have—even love and life—for the ultimate experience. I know what you're thinking. What does she get out of it? What she gets is a special death. For some people, life is not the most precious gift. It's a burden . . .

  My blood felt as sluggish as mercury in my veins and I was finding it difficult to remain upright in my chair. I wanted to rest my head on a soft cushion, go to sleep, try to forget that people like Jake and Catherine existed. A wild thought came to me and I clutched at it.

  "Is she a cripple?" I asked. "Or ill? In terrible pain?"

  "Not physically. She's . . . spiritually oppressed. As I am. We need more than reality and death is a fantasy . . .

  "My God, I pity you. Both." I could have included myself but my ego would not allow it.

  "That's rather arrogant. We don't need it." He glanced at his watch.

  "Now I must go. My appointment." He reached across with his hand and when I failed to take it, rested it on my shoulder for a moment.

  "Perhaps we'll see each other again," he said. "I hope so."

  His face set into a hard mask. "I have to do this thing. You'll probably never understand—but I have to." Then he stood up and strode out of the pub, his tall, lean body stooping at the door before disappearing into the gloom beyond. I sat there for a long time, wondering how such a man had survived until now. Yet, as I reasoned, I knew how. He was a product of extremes—a combination of inflexible discipline and complete self-indulgence of spirit—which had resulted in a paradox: the rational lunatic. I did pity him, but I also envied him. He had an inner strength, a confidence that left me in awe of him. Had I that kind of strength, I could have . . . what? Gone on a quest for someone to share my life with me? You don't find that sort of person by searching for them. They happen in your way. The strange thing was, until Jake had mentioned those words—the loved one—I had not realized just how lonely I was. Now I felt destitute of emotion—hollow—not a real man at all. I was a walking effigy of men. A scarecrow. A straw man. Jake had revealed to me just how empty, how useless my life was, and had been since I had left the school. Yet, here was someone with the one thing I needed to make me whole, and he was prepared to throw it away for something—something transient, an evanescence, an experience as fleeting as a puff of smoke from a burning log. Somehow I stumbled from my chair and out into the blackness. There was a sharp wind blowing from the east which buffeted the pines that lined the road to Sutton Hall. Not looking up, I could hear them, tossing their dark manes above me, swishing their many tails beneath the lining of the sky.

  Three nights later there was an urgent knocking on my cottage door. I put down the book I was reading and rose, reluctantly, to open it. To say I sensed it was Jake would be wrong. I knew it was him. I was familiar with the sound of John Sutton's knock and he was the only person who ever came to the cottage.

  Jake stood before me, swaying slightly and exhaling plumes of cold air.

  "Did you see it?" I cried, unable to prevent myself asking the question that had haunted me since our parting. Again, I knew before he had time to answer. It was evident in his whole demeanor. The suppressed excitement suffused his features until it seemed to me that his face had reverted to its childhood complexion: smooth and glowing like an infant freshly awakened from sleep.

  "I saw it. . . ." He stepped inside and pulled at his gloves, feverishly. "I saw it. Let me tell you. I spent two days with the gypsies . . . then last night they took me out to the marshes. Left me there. I was terrified. . . ." He shook his head and laughed, finally managing to pull one of his gloves off. "Terrified. It's one thing talking about it, but out there—it's so bleak. Just miles of dark reeds moving to the varying pressures of the wind, unseen hands pressing down the grasses. And desolate creeks of slick mud, shining under the starlight. There are birds out there, you know—of course, you do—but hundreds of them, crouched in banks of saltwort and bladder-wrack. They fly out when you disturb them. Startles you. God, this is a lonely place you've chosen . . . the Essex marshes. I never felt so lonely in my life."

  "The Gytrash . . .

  "Yes, yes. I know. Let me tell you. I did it all—the incantations, the symbols, the magic rites. Once I had begun I was okay—I felt only excitement. I knew it would come . . . and it did. That place has atmosphere—the perfect atmosphere. It reeks of old religions, pagan worship. I felt the presence of those pre-Christian gods. I smelled their breath on the wind. It stank of their foul odors—rank, yet charged with power. I felt puny and vulnerable under their observations. They cluster in those salt marshes, you know. The primal mud is their last refuge. .. .

  "But..

  "I know. Finally, at the termination of the mystical orisons, I called its name—and the sound formed a spiral in the night airs above the marshes, turning faster and faster, increasing its circle, until the sound became a whirlpool of vapor that formed a tunnel back through space and time, to antiquity, to the origin of folklore—and through this celestial tunnel he came, beautiful and black, the height of three houses and eyes white with the fires of death.

  "It seemed to me that flying hooves struck the moon, as the

  beast descended to earth, set it spinning in a wheel of light—I was momentarily blinded by a magnificent refulgence which traveled along the back of the Gytrash—my hands, my face, my skin were alive with static—every hair on my body was drawn toward the beast, as if it were charged with a million volts of electricity. I remember screaming one word, half in fear, half in exaltation— `Catherine!"'

  "Oh, my God," I cried. This madman was exuding evil, filling my house with its noxious fumes.

  "Yes. It came." He spread his arms and seemed to fill the room, his dark overcoat still glistening with drops of moisture from the night mists. "Not just a horse—the Gytrash—I mean, it was huge. There was no mistaking it. I had been prepared for a trick—those gypsies are wily people, but not this. This creature—this supernatural beast. Then I was afraid. I turned to run. Like a coward, I turned to run. But it was there before me again, enormous, its black, muscled flanks shedding flakes of light, its mane and tail like textured darkness. . . . Each time I turned, it was there. I couldn't run. There was nowhere to run to.

  "It reared up, over me, filling the sky with its giant form, and I thought I was going to die. I could see its great hooves, gleaming dully in the darkness above me, and I was going to be crushed like a beetle. It made no sound, you know—completely silent—yet I could see steam rushing from those cavernous nostrils, like volcanic dust-clouds. I felt the white-heat of its eyes. This was a god-horse—it was Aeton, Nonios, Abastor, Malech, Abraxas, all rolled into one. It was the four horses of the Apocalypse, it was Skinfaxi, it was Balios, it was Borak. I can't describe my feelings beyond that point—they were all bound up in that steed. I was part of it. . . .

  "Stop it!" I shouted. There was a ferment inside me. A terrible sense of doom permeated my spirit. I had a premonition of some ghastly, evil event that lay in the future, which had no shape or form, but which gripped my heart like a hand and threatened to squeeze it dry of blood. I could hardly breathe. The atmosphere in the room was stifling and I pushed past him to lean on the doorpost, gulping down draughts of cold air as if they had miraculous medicinal powers that would remo
ve the stains with which he had darkened my soul. "Stop it, for God's sake."

  "There's not much more to tell," he said in a quiet voice. "It came down astride me, and then galloped away, into the night. I'm going back to London now. . . . Perhaps we'll see each other again soon?"

  "No," I said flatly."I don't want to hear from you." I turned to face him and he shrugged.

  "Well . . . good luck." He went out into the night, leaving me wretched and miserable in the open doorway. It was difficult to know which of my feelings was most dominant. Horror was there, and anger, and fear—but if there was a ruling passion, it was envy. I am ashamed to say I felt an overwhelming envy at having been so close to such an experience, yet not part of it. Damn him, I could have killed him then. He had disturbed my spirit, stirred it into a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, and now that it was active I could not see how I was going to find peace again.

  By the next morning I had convinced myself that Jake had taken some drug—something that had produced a hallucination of the image he craved so much. I did not want to believe in the Gytrash because if I did I would never rest easy again. I left the cottage and made my way to Hadleigh Downs, where Henry, the gypsy Jake had spoken to, kept his herd of horses. They were there, grazing on the meadow grass, and as I approached them they began cantering away, some thirty of them—grays, roans, piebalds, and one beautiful palomino with its honey-colored mane and tail floating like satin as it wheeled with the others, away from a corner.

  Henry was by the trough with his black and white mongrel, and he looked up as I approached, his swarthy face closing down its natural geniality as he recognized me. My office of gamekeeper had done nothing for my popularity amongst the gypsies, since the time I had to prosecute them for poaching.