by Lucia Ashta
By the time we reached the midway point out of Dunladun, my senses were swirling uncomfortably, and I was anxious to leave. The shops I’d admired as we entered the town no longer held any appeal.
“Marcelo, I can get a hat later. Let’s just leave. I’m finding the city unpleasant.”
“Excellent. I’ve never much liked the place. I can’t understand why so many people travel to visit it.”
He navigated the horses around a cart in the middle of the street and then pointed them toward the town’s exit.
Even the horses seemed to want to leave the din behind, and before long, we were free of it.
A Woman in a Man’s World
Dunladun gave me a new appreciation for the quiet of the open road. I didn’t feel like talking for a long time, which seemed to suit Marcelo just fine.
We continued northeast. The woods surrounding us became denser. Less homesteads dotted the forest the farther from Dunladun we got. It was a pleasant view, despite its monotony.
“Marcelo, where exactly are we going? You never told me where Albacus and Mordecai live.”
“They live in Irele.”
“I’ve not heard of Irele before.”
“You’ll understand why once we get there,” he said.
That didn’t sound positive. “How far away is it?”
“From here it’s about a three-day ride toward the northeast. You’ll know we’re close when we start to climb mountains.”
At that time, neither he nor I realized how fortuitous it was that he should make these comments to me.
We were several hours away from Dunladun when we walked straight into Winston’s ambush.
Marcelo and I knew we still had a long way to go, and there was nothing to do but put the miles behind us. Marcelo’s thoughts distracted him, and the scenery distracted me.
Even once the attack began, several moments passed before I understood what was happening. By then Winston and five of his men had yanked Marcelo off his horse.
Marcelo fell hard. A whoosh of air expelled from his lungs over the sound of startled horses. I watched his head thump against the rocky edge of the roadside.
Winston capitalized upon his brutality, made exponentially worse by the element of surprise. Before Marcelo could shake his head clear of its injury, Winston was upon him. He straddled Marcelo and hit him in the face. I looked on, helpless, as blood streamed from Marcelo’s nose.
Winston hit him over and again. The slapping sound of skin against skin and the crunching sound of bone leveling bone made me jump each time. My stomach tied itself into an anguished knot while I reached for thoughts of how I could help.
Marcelo no longer resisted Winston’s blows.
I realized, horrified, that he was unconscious.
One of Winston’s men placed his hand on his lord’s shoulder, preventing him from killing Marcelo, and Winston looked up at him with a depth of fury that I couldn’t understand.
The rage ebbed long enough for Winston to bark orders at his henchmen.
Marcelo came to just in time to thrash violently against the men who tightened ropes around his hands and feet. But by then, Marcelo’s resistance proved futile. Our attackers tightened the final knots with an audible creaking of ropes that gave all the slack they would ever give.
Marcelo sought me out with wild eyes. Disoriented from the fall, he didn’t appear to know which direction to turn to find me. When his eyes finally met mine, it was with desperation. I was now at the mercy of these savage men. He wouldn’t be able to help me.
The open road wasn’t a safe place for unaccompanied women. I was painfully aware of that. And these weren’t just any bandits. Winston was undoubtedly there for me.
If Maggie were in my place, she’d be praying. I tried to think what I should do to protect myself and to free Marcelo. I could do magic—sort of. I might not have any control over it, nor could I anticipate what would happen if I tried, but surely I had to do something.
Winston had resumed beating Marcelo. Horrifically, Marcelo’s blood splattered across Winston’s face.
Winston seemed to relish his gruesome appearance, and wanted to hurt Marcelo all the more. His men looked on, impassive, and I understood that they must have witnessed Winston’s savagery many times before.
Marcelo’s eyes weren’t on me any longer. They were rolled back in his head, unable to warn me of the danger of discovery if I performed magic.
I was suspended in that frozen moment in time that passes in a heartbeat toward regret. I needed to do something, no matter the consequences. At this rate, Winston would kill Marcelo soon. I saw no indication that he planned to stop.
And once he eliminated Marcelo, he would turn his attention toward me. I appreciated with a wave of nausea how awful his attention would be. I didn’t know if I was his fiancée anymore or if he would care if I was, or if it would matter to him who my father was. A man like this would give into cruelty and have his way with me.
One last look toward Marcelo confirmed the decision I’d already made. His body wasn’t reacting to the blows anymore. He was almost lifeless. Soon, it would be too late to save him.
I had no choice.
I let all thought rush from my mind and put aside the panic that threatened to shut me down. I averted my eyes from Marcelo—I couldn’t stand to look at what Winston was doing to him—and turned them to nothing in particular. My eyes lost their focus and the sounds of the blows faded.
Then I did what Marcelo had earlier begged me not to do. I allowed my hazy thoughts to drift toward the air’s beauty. I felt the crisp air of almost spring against my face, flushed with fright and agitation; the air was cool and refreshing. I noticed my next breath and how the air filled my lungs. It was a precious gift, without any expectation of return on its gesture. My thoughts trailed my exhale.
The breath nourished and restored me; it allowed me to live. Without it, I could not be, nor could anyone else. It was one thing that defined life. A wave of deep admiration coursed through me.
I no longer heard anything at all. I didn’t even hear Winston’s rallying cries of victory, as if he were courageous for killing an incapacitated man. I tuned out the responding cries of his men, saluting their leader’s misguided sense of manliness.
My awareness honed fully into my breath, and I heard and knew nothing but the beauty of the air and all that was contained within one humble breath. That one breath held everything within it.
I didn’t even feel the wind caress my hair as its energy began to build, pulling strands loose from my comb. No one paid attention to the breeze then, certainly not Winston or his men.
The wind gathered more strength.
Had Winston and his men looked my way, they might have suspected I was the one doing this.
Thick-stranded red curls whipped around my head like the wild snakes of Medusa.
In that moment, I must have looked like a witch.
But no one saw me for what I was.
The air responded to that part of my mind beyond defined thoughts and revealed its ferocity with suddenness.
A gust of wind strong enough to knock over grown men whipped in the air, building even more force, before blowing directly at Winston and his small troop. Not even a hair rustled on Marcelo’s blood-soaked forehead.
At last, Winston realized something unusual was taking place, and so did the horses. Winston had left them tied to trees off the road, and now they revealed their hiding places with anxious cries. Animals could feel extraordinary power more readily than humans.
The horse I was riding, on the other hand, didn’t waver. He didn’t rear or startle. He weathered the oncoming storm as if he knew I was creating it and that the eye of the storm was the safest place to be. His serenity affected the other three horses that traveled with us, and they too remained calm, unaffected by the ferocious gusts that tore at our attackers.
Luckily, the overwhelming nature of the winds prevented Winston from looking toward me.
It was easy for a man who disparaged women to dismiss the possibilities of their power. That prejudicial thinking would serve me well.
My eyes, however, registered none of it. The air responded immediately to its deeper knowing of me, and it ripped the six men from their roots.
It blew them away.
It was a simple solution for something as powerful as air, and the men faded first to a speck, then to nothing, yanked from the earth as they had yanked Marcelo from his mount moments before, a poetic ending to a vile situation.
I never learned how far the wind carried the men. It took me quite some time to return to myself. When I did, the horses were still, patiently waiting for me as if they were aware of everything that had happened and why.
Perhaps they were.
I looked around me as if waking from a dream, surprised to discover the visual confirmations of what, deep down somewhere, I recognized as what I had done.
Marcelo was on the ground, discarded in a pool of his own blood.
The sight brought me back to myself faster than anything else could. Within moments, I’d dismounted my horse to rush to him.
“Marcelo,” I whispered with more tenderness than I realized I had within me for this man. I wanted to touch his face. But nowhere seemed safe to touch. His face was battered. The handsome features I enjoyed were unrecognizable in a camouflage of color, blood, and the starts of incipient swelling.
I watched his chest, and I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until it all rushed out in relief. Marcelo’s chest had risen and fallen. He was breathing. He was still alive, but I couldn’t tell how long he’d stay that way. Whenever any serious injuries occurred at Norland Manor, Mother or Father promptly ordered my sisters and me away. It was not a sight for ladies, they told us. As a consequence, I had scant experience with wounds, especially any as severe as Marcelo’s.
I looked around. We were alone on an isolated stretch of road. I could see no homesteads ahead or behind us. Driven to the road by Winston in the first place, we had none of our usual things with us. There was nothing for me to rummage through to see if I could find something that would help.
I was alone with an unconscious, almost-dead magician, with only horses as company, in a man’s world, dangerous for women.
I suddenly felt very much like an inadequate girl and wanted nothing more than to crumble and cry at my ill fortune.
But even amidst the temptation, I wouldn’t.
When I rose from Marcelo’s side, I left the inadequate girl behind and rose a woman.
Something Very Much Like Magic
I didn’t know how long we had before Winston and his men would be able to pursue us again. Regardless, Marcelo didn’t have any time to spare. I had to get moving right away.
I told the horses to stay put and to take care of Marcelo. I said it to comfort myself, to help me feel that I wasn’t all alone in this. But as I walked away, the horses shifted slightly toward Marcelo. I looked back, surprised, but continued to move.
I arrived at Winston’s hidden horses quickly. They were surprisingly calm now, and I untied each horse from his tree without any problem. I retied each horse to his neighbor, until the six could follow one another in a line and, together, we returned to Marcelo.
I’d never seen ten horses as docile as these when close to one another, and I was able to tie them all together so they could follow the horse I rode. However, arranging ten horses under the guidance of one rider was the lesser of my problems. How would I be able to lift Marcelo onto a horse? He was taller than me, broader than me, and at present, he was dead weight.
My mind drew blanks as it searched for possibilities. If I knew how to control my magic, the feat of lifting Marcelo onto a horse could be easy. But I had no idea how to do it. I didn’t even know where to begin, and I feared hurting Marcelo even more with my lack of experience. He couldn’t afford any further injury.
I looked at my horse in desperation. I had plenty of horses to carry Marcelo. I just couldn’t get him onto one.
Then something incredible happened. I’d ridden horses most of my life, yet I’d never seen something like this before. It was enough to convince me that magic—or something very much like it—existed.
My horse advanced a few steps toward me, suggesting that each horse behind him follow. They lined up next to the body. Then Marcelo’s horse, the second behind mine, drew parallel to his limp form.
Like the domesticated camels of the Far East Father’s friends told stories about, Marcelo’s horse lowered himself to the ground, bending his knees under him.
I watched the horse, incredulous, until I found myself blinking away tears. My heart leapt. Like this, I was certain I could get Marcelo onto his horse.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, now more certain than ever that the horses would understand me.
With as much care as I could, I lifted Marcelo from under his arms and dragged him closer to the horse. I pulled some more until Marcelo’s upper body sat against the horse, his feet straight out in front of him.
I hadn’t thought how to keep an unconscious Marcelo from slipping off his horse once he was on it. Should I put him on his stomach or on his back? I decided I needed to protect his face, which had taken most of the beating, instead of allowing it to bounce against the horse with each stride.
I shoved and pulled until Marcelo’s waist curved around the horse’s back.
I scavenged through the saddlebags of Winston’s horses until I found another length of rope and a knife. The rope was long enough to cut in half, and I tied Marcelo’s hands to the left stirrup and his feet to the right. I hoped that would be enough to secure him as I stepped back to inspect my work.
I wasn’t convinced it would work, so I rearranged the ties between the horses so that his horse would ride next to mine. I’d have to watch him, and maybe even hold onto him, as we made our way.
Even though I was fully unnerved by the precariousness of the transport situation, I knew that what I had come up with would have to do. Marcelo was still bleeding, and he hadn’t moved once, not even while I dragged him atop a horse.
“You can get up now,” I told Marcelo’s horse.
I held onto Marcelo’s body while his horse slowly rose, aware of the care he needed to have with his cargo.
I put my hand on the horse’s nose while I thanked him, but it seemed insufficient. I brought my forehead to his and felt the heat of his nostrils on my neck. “Thank you,” I said again, and this time it felt right.
I walked to my horse, mounted, and set us all off at a slow pace. I monitored Marcelo. Besides bouncing unpleasantly, he seemed to be doing all right with the movement.
He continued to bleed from deep gashes on his head. Winston struck him wearing heavy family rings that gouged his flesh.
I picked up the pace as much as I dared, and we rode—a limp body, ten horses, and me—toward the first homestead we could find.
A Valiance without Size
It was mid-afternoon before I found a place to stop. Winston had attacked us on an isolated stretch of road. Had there been more choices—or any other choice at all—I would have passed this farm by.
It was rundown, though smoke exited the chimney. There were several corrals for animals, without an animal in sight. In fact, the farm was unusually quiet, and that made me nervous. The crunching sound of gravel under hooves rang out loudly against the surrounding silence as we made our way down the long, narrow road toward the farmstead.
My horse pricked his ears back against his head as if he, too, felt something out of place. Our wariness slowed our pace automatically. As we grew closer, I noticed that the windows were shuttered and the gates and doors closed.
I almost turned back.
But one look at Marcelo and the open gashes on his head convinced me to urge the horses forward. We plodded on.
Other than the steady trail of smoke that floated skyward, the farmhouse appeared abandoned. I edged the horses toward the gate tha
t led to the house itself and pointed them back toward the road. I also left them untied, in case we had to leave quickly. After how the horses behaved with Marcelo, I was less worried about their running off than I was about approaching the house.
I got down from my horse, patting him on the neck. “I’ll be right back,” I told him.
I could feel his stare and that of all the other horses on my back as I reached a hand to open the wooden gate. When the gate hinges creaked loudly, I could feel the horses’ apprehension mirroring my own. Still, there was nothing I could do about any of it. Without treatment soon, Marcelo would die.
The steps it took me to reach the front door of the rickety-looking house seemed to pass too fast. Before I knew it, I was there, swallowing my nerves yet again, raising my hand to knock on the door.
However, my hand never made contact with the wooden door. It never made a sound.
Even if it had, I wouldn’t have heard it over the screaming and banging that came from inside the house.
I couldn’t tell what it was. It sounded like war cries, cursing, and pots banging, all at once. The racket was intended to scare me off and, had I not been desperate, it probably would have.
Instead, I rose my voice so whoever was inside would hear me over the ruckus.
“I don’t mean any harm. Please. I just need some help.”
The din didn’t abate. My heart sank until I realized that the noise would have to stop at some point, and I could try again then.
I waited. The noise continued heartily.
Until it didn’t.
The cries grew hoarse, the banging less enthusiastic.
Finally, it ceased all together.
“Please. My friend will die if you don’t help me.”
Still, nothing.
“I have a few coins I can give you,” I said, though I had none. Marcelo did, however. Somewhere.
The silence grew deafening. I could almost hear consideration of my offer taking place on the other side of the door.
Then there was another creaking sound, and the front door opened less than an inch, only enough for one brown eye to study me. The height of the eye was that of a man, but even the sliver of face I could see told me otherwise.