by Marc Secchia
“Eesh, how many questions? Yes, it’s Alex. Life has just stopped.” And in a minor aside, she was about to be executed in her dreams. Great. “I just don’t understand how he could go downhill so fast, and I don’t know how I was so stupid to miss his sickness, and I brought my new prosthetics to Cape Town and I’m afraid to wear them anywhere and the thought of tying or strapping shoes onto those plastic feet just makes me want to vomit, alright? Ugh, sorry, Nonno. You didn’t deserve that. Look, can we … talk about horses? How’s your stable doing? You didn’t tell me the results of your races at Kenilworth. And will you take me to the airport to pick up Yols tomorrow?”
He nodded slowly. “Aye, popsicle. There’s heavy snow over southern England, by the way. Good chance the flight will be delayed until Sunday. Shall we rather talk about horses?”
The sky and the ocean seemed to open up as they negotiated the road’s curves toward Hout Bay. First there was just blue sky above a bluer expanse of ocean, broken by the steep, dark-green fynbos slopes of the mountains, then the strip of pristine white sand that heralded Hout Bay. They talked about racing and breeding, diet and training as they dived between the huge, spreading oak trees that lined the road; Whiz casually shifted gears to hurl the Dodge Convertible past a few cars and trucks, stood on the brakes to avoid a suicidal cat and wound up into the mountains to the Constantiaberg Pass.
She wished she could tell him about Equinox, but Nonno … would he take her seriously? He seemed to take nothing very seriously at all. Well, except this illness of Alex’s. But there was always the lingering shadow of her mother’s condition, the fear she felt that if she opened this particular can of worms, well, in another mixed-up Zara-metaphor, the worms would be Dragons and they’d tear into her and never suffer to be stuffed back inside again …
Two hours later, she was scrubbed, sterilised, clad in delightful hospital green, hair-netted, gloved, wearing a face-veil not unlike Sanu’s, and ready to roll through the Isolation airlock into Alex’s room. Merciful heavens, this place was like a maximum security prison. Apparently, this was the same room they used for suspected Ebola patients. It was hard not to feel completely discouraged by the transparent, sterile plastics draped over and completely covering the bed, or the fact that she would have to speak to him through all of that mess and touch him via a plastic sleeve.
The smell reminded her of surgery on knees.
A nurse helped her roll the hospital-issue wheelchair into position alongside Alex’s bed. “Now, he’s developed a rash overnight,” said the nurse, a lovely, large Xhosa lady with eyes that twinkled over the face mask. “Don’t be frightened. It’s a good sign.”
“Yes,” said Doctor Martinez, her voice emerging like raging tinnitus from the malfunctioning speaker system. “We’re probably looking at a virus – we just haven’t found it yet. This may mean the disease has run the worst of its course now.”
Looking through the plastic, Zaranna gasped. Alex looked as if he had been splodged with paint by an excitable toddler. Or run over by a clutter of cats after they had experienced an unfortunate encounter with a vat of deep magenta paint, leaving paw-prints all over his torso, arms and face. He lay flat on his back, covered up to the waist in a starchy white hospital sheet, which exactly matched the colour of his skin where it was not blotched. Zara tried not to look at all the machines and pipes surrounding him, entering his nose and mouth and taped to his arms, but she pressed her fist against her mouth, to stifle a sob.
“Oh, Alex!”
The Doctor said, “I’d like you to hold his hand, Zara, and speak to him. This is more helpful than you think – oh, I think Whiz just received a call from England. Hold on … you go ahead.”
How many times must Alex, or her parents, have sat by her bedside? Reaching her left hand into the sleeve as directed, she wriggled her fingers until she was encased up to the armpit. Then she reached out and touched his fingers.
“Hey, Alex. My handsome Scottish Highlander.”
The nurse clapped her gently on her shoulder. “You tell that boy to get better. No doubt. You do some praying and singing, and you give him all the love of your heart and soul, and I promise you, there’s nothing can stand against.”
Zaranna sat with Alex for a long while, telling him all about her troubles on Equinox. It was easy to share when she knew he could not possibly be listening. Whiz and Doctor Martinez – Christi – were chatting earnestly outside the window and the nurse had left to attend to other patients, leaving her alone in the room. Her eyes traced the contours of his face. Come on, Alex. Fight. Wake. Those blotches were odd, less like paw-prints and more like … a foot with talons? One rear-facing thumb, five digits splayed to the fore, so widely that the last, smallest digit was almost a second opposing thumb. Exactly like Rhenduror’s paw.
She froze. The Red One had tried to kill her and her mother. What if he knew about Alex? What if the Dragon knew his name, or had somehow lifted the knowledge from Zaranna’s mind? Was the rest of her family safe? What if this was not a physical malady? What if this was something related to names and curses and … well, things she had read about and Illume had hinted at?
She would have to pray as she never had before, as a conservative Christian. Words ran through her mind. Spiritual warfare. Demons. Powers and principalities of another world, Middle Ages witchery – who believed that nonsense? Yet she had seen a monstrous demon flatten Jesafion. Did she need require further convincing – surely, a form of madness in its own right?
Alright, girl. Time to unbridle those horses …
Grasping Alex’s hand firmly, she lowered her head and tried to recall Illume’s brief teachings about Name-power. Stir into that soup-pot a dash of exorcism and a seasoning of unbinding the chains of whatever accursed hold Rhenduror or the Hooded Wizard had upon her Dearly Beloved, and a prayer formed in her heart. Wordless, desperate, almost incoherent, yet filled somehow with an unexpected light – like the light Illume had shone into her delirious soul, and brought peace.
Fixing her eyes upon Alex, she bade her prayer rise, and ride across the divide.
Music! Butterflies flooded from her eyes, her lips, her fingertips … his body jerked as though she had applied a defibrillator, Stand clear! Three, two, one … krraaaack! The lights flickered crazily; every machine in the room switched off and then burst back into life, rebooting, peeping, alarms shrilling, and Zaranna stared about her in confusion. Well, whatever she had unleashed – it had done nothing at all. No. The paw-like rash was fading before her disbelieving eyes. Alex breathed … easier. He was not awake, but there was a definite pinch of colour in his cheeks now.
Suddenly nurses and doctors were bursting out of the walls, as it were, and Doctor Martinez ordered her removed from the room as a bevy of technicians rushed in and started checking the equipment.
Back on the outside, peering through the window at the hullabaloo surrounding Alex’s bed, Zara twisted and untwisted her hands in her lap. She had a headache the size of Azoron’s Gorge, but a curious feeling of accomplishment. Had she changed something? Dreamed a crazy prayer?
Whiz rushed up. “Hey, one minute I was flirting with a gorgeous Doctor and the next … what happened in there, Pixie?”
“I – I … some kind of power surge, I think.” What kind of power, Zara? How’s about a little truth? “All the machines went on the blink at once. Alex is Ok, I think.”
A nurse popped her head out to tell them Doctor Martinez would have no more visiting, thank you, and they could return in the evening if they called first.
Gramps was not impressed. “Huh, I think my Pixie arranged a break-up of me and my femme fatale.”
Zaranna growled, “Nonno, your love-life is your affair. For the record, I think she’s pretty special and I would encourage –”
Doctor Pretty and Special was motioning at the exit in no uncertain terms. ‘Out!’
Sanu would approve. One swift raid, trouble fomented, now to hope and pray for a miracle. Gracious, that use
of magic had knocked the stuffing out of her. She yawned like a Blue Dragon catching its dinner and allowed her eyelids to shutter.
Whiz said, “Honestly, do you teenagers never stop sleeping? You planning to sleep all the way back to the farm?”
She did. And she Dreamed.
* * * *
Zaranna occupied that little wooden cell for four days. Four! She had no need to be a monkey to climb these walls. She knew every splinter by name and family history. The grass was unfailingly delicious, the guards inflexibly polite, and her three excursions were all to face the High Council once more, to answer questions relating to their interminable debating over Jesafion’s fate. She did not dream.
She pleaded for Jesafion.
The mighty Councillors kept right on pontificating.
She begged and yes, tossed her pride to the dogs and indulged in a little screaming for mercy.
Commander Zanfurion summoned the guards and had her tossed out of the chamber. To Zara’s embarrassingly piquant pleasure, he was limping quite badly. She might have sniggered at that point, but she was much too grown-up to indulge in such childish behaviour.
In the telling of her tale, Zaranna had managed to implicate Rhenduror thoroughly, but so far, there had been no further mention of Illume’s role. Rhenduror was apparently a known stooge of the Hooded Wizard’s employ, but the detail of his Dragonstone caused a fair amount of mane-tossing and harrumphing. That stone, called the Ixurbiel, had been a favourite possession of the Summer Wizard – but the Pegasi were convinced they had killed the Summer Wizard and cast all of his progeny beyond the Beyond.
So far she held a few scattered puzzle pieces and had no idea of the true picture.
She slept, and again failed to dream. How was this possible? Her body on Earth was hurtling Whiz-speed toward Noordhoek and she passed entire days on Equinox? She wanted to know what had happened to Alex!
In the morning, a polite knocking at the door roused her from her bed of straw. “Come in,” she called.
Silly, of course, because she had no control of the door.
The door opened to admit two exquisitely beautiful Pegasi. They were a mare and a filly, one tall and regal, a White Thunder beauty wearing a star-crown upon her slim pink horn, the other equally tall but more delicately built, and so graceful her walk seemed to generate an orchestral symphony in its own right. By her perfect azure hide and rippling turquoise mane, Zaranna knew her for Cyantoria, Jesafion’s beloved. Great. Supermodel Pegasus and her sidekick Cover-Girl. They were both wearing enough mane, tail, horn and hoof jewellery to furnish a small kingdom’s budget for a year or three.
Zaranna bowed deeply in the Equine way. “Your Majesties?”
“Zaranna of the Plains Clan,” said the White Pegasus in tones so modulated, Zara guessed she must have enjoyed elocution lessons as part of her royal upbringing. “I am Shensiss Tomix, mate of Arafion, Queen of the Pegasi.” She paused slightly as the guards pushed the door shut. “This is Cyantoria of the Blue Sky-Clan, Mystic Reader of the Sky-Fires.”
She bowed again. What did one say to royalty? Gee, compared to you, I suffer from an acute lack of titles? “I’m … honoured by your visit.”
Shensiss nodded slightly at her companion, who lowered her silver horn to form a bubble that rapidly expanded, passing over Zaranna with a slight tingle to encompass the entire room. There it stopped, shimmering slightly as if made from soap. At once, the atmosphere seemed to change, for Cyantoria trembled as if in the grip of some violent, pent-up emotion, and the Queen nuzzled the filly’s neck in apparent sympathy. They each stood three or four hands taller than Zaranna, making her feel rather overshadowed in that small room. She realised that Cyantoria had shielded the space for privacy’s sake. Uh-oh, what was this? Another beating?
Finally, Cyantoria burst out, “I have to know, Plains filly! I have to … please, tell me, does he still love me?”
“W-W-What?” Which planet did that question come from?
The Queen said, tightly, “Cyantoria means, has a Plains Horse replaced her in Jesafion’s affections?”
“What – no. No! I don’t –”
“But he ran off with you!” Cyantoria’s eyes, the still blue of lake water, brimmed beneath her long eyelashes. “He ran off with a Plains Horse and didn’t come back to me, and I’ve been so knotted up inside …”
“Lady – uh, Majesty, I mean, noble Pegasus …”
Great. And her tongue had decided to start misfiring like a damaged engine. Zaranna clamped her mouth shut.
Queen Shensiss said, “It seems the annals of the Plains Clans hold no record of a Plains Horse called Zaranna. No Equine Clan has ever heard of you. The noble Councillor Erlasion –” she said this with a heavy hint of irony “– grows most distraught at this apparent deficiency in his record-keeping systems. What say you, stranger?”
“Cyantoria, he’s … over the asteroid belts about you. Seriously. All five of them.” The Blue Sky filly’s eyes widened. Zara smiled, “I have seldom, if ever, heard a Pegasus wax more lyrical and at greater length about the attributes of his beloved.” True on all counts. “If Jesafion is to be believed, you are the zephyr beneath his wings and the sparkle of his horn. You are the very Morning Star of his Clan Title come to rest upon this earth. I could go on –” the filly was laughing now, faint with relief “– but I think the picture’s clear. He’s besotted, no word of a lie.”
“Look, the reason we fled is that we had Darkwolf Clan and Dragons snapping at our tails right here in Sentalia Vale, up north near the swamp. Ending up in Obscurant Vale was a complete accident and I’m very sorry about that, and if I could only get those pernicious Councillors to listen –”
“Pernicious?” interjected the Queen.
“Sorry.” She was helpless before the overflow of her heart, now. “They want to bargain away Vales and lives and all … and they aren’t lifting a wing-feather to combat the real enemy!”
Queen Shensiss said, “I see. And you would do something different?”
She paused uneasily. “Why are you here?”
“I will be frank with you, if you will be frank with me.”
Alright. One hoof over the precipice. “I will, o Queen. I promise.”
“The King and I agreed that I should come to you and beg for Jesafion’s life.” Zaranna made a sound between a cough and a wheeze. “Because we suspect you might be telling the truth, bizarre as it seems, and because a Pegasus King cannot be seen to act in … certain ways.”
She gasped, “I can’t promise. I mean, don’t you think I’m crazy?”
“That’s testable,” said the Queen. “I brought a Seer. Cyantoria?”
Zaranna was left spluttering in a helpless whirlwind of impressions and thoughts. How could they ask this of her? Yet they must. The King must think Jesafion’s life was endangered. It was, of course, but to entrust such a mission to a capricious stranger who had assaulted the Council and broken the most sacred taboos of all Equines …
Cyantoria’s deep blue eyes seemed to flicker, as though an additional membrane had passed over them. In a strange voice, she said, “No, Zaranna. He is desperate. The mood of the Council turns against Jesafion. There are four other, younger Princes. Some have influenced the Council against their older sibling. The King wishes to use you as the tool of his will – if you are willing, and if you are who you say you are. For a Dreamer holds power beyond the mortal realm, the power to change fates and balances and circumstances, and we believe your tale already illustrates this. You wield weather magic and healing. Healing is a vanishingly rare power amongst non-Pegasi. Now, I want you to form in your mind images of your world. If you are a Dreamer, show me who you truly are.”
Zara felt as if she had swallowed a thorn bush. “Alright.”
A girl in a wheelchair. Sharing coffee with her parents. Flying down the highway in Whiz’s Dodge Convertible. Laughing as she surfed along a wave. Fleeing the Darkwolf Clan. Jesafion holding forth vociferously about the multif
arious charms of Cyantoria’s very hoof prints …
The filly laughed again, breaking the connection. “You had to show me that last one, didn’t you?”
For the first time in days, Zaranna chuckled happily in response. “I’m sure he’s lovely, Cyantoria, but I think you’ll understand when I say, he’s really not my type.”
“Well?” demanded the Queen. “What did you see?”
Cyantoria said, “She’s a Shapeshifter, o Queen. Her primary form is humanoid rather than Equine. She rides in a strange chair on wheels and comes from a world where the sun is so bright you can’t look at it, and metal beasts travel black pathways at incredible speeds. An Equine form is peculiar to her and she thinks horsehide itches something awful. She’s a Dreamer.”
“I’m a what and how much?”
But Zaranna could not complete her question, for the Queen knelt on bended knee! “O Dreamer, I must beg –”
“No! Oh please, don’t … yes, I will, gladly! Please don’t bow to me. I don’t –”
“Deserve it?” The Queen gazed up from her humble posture, her gaze so full and poignant and despairing that Zaranna could make no reply. “When was deserving ever the issue? Did I deserve to become a Queen? Yet here I am. Did you deserve the beating Zanfurion handed out? Clearly not. The Hooded Wizard has offered to start dropping off my son’s body parts one by one, by Dragon, if we do not directly hand Sentalia Vale over to him.”
Ugh. Standard behaviour for a knee-sawing fiend, however – if that had ever been Worafion’s attack at all. Not for the first time, Zaranna wondered who was manipulating whom. Could a Dragon somehow use or twist a Dragonstone against its wielder?
“Meantime, he’s equipping his armies?” she guessed.
“Exactly. And my husband’s wings are tied, so to speak. It’s likely the Hooded Wizard’s hand reaches even into the leadership of Sentalia Vale – and your tale reveals more of your heart than you know. How one so new to Equinox can show such deep and wise care for its denizens, is beyond a miracle. Zaranna, we Pegasi have treated you abysmally. I cannot apologise enough.”