The Winged Horses of Anver:
The Choosing
Michèle McGrath
The Winged Horses of Anver:
The Choosing
“Come on, we’ll be late,” Roya called, as she came into the room. She was twisting honeyblossom into her hair and she was already wearing her festival costume with its swirling emerald skirts and close fitting jacket.
“I’m not going,” I replied, steeling myself for her reaction, “not this year.” I continued to stare at my screen, although I did not really see it.
“Don’t be silly, you’ve got to go. It’s your last chance.” She was looking at me with both sympathy and amazement.
“I’ve gone for the last five years and what good has it done? It’s awful, standing there and being passed over. You know that.”
“I know,” Roya said softly and she did. She had stood in the arena for her full six years and she had not been chosen. I knew that her failure still distressed her, but it could never happen now. She was too old. She was making a real effort to get on with her life, but I knew that each Festival Day the memories and the sadness came back. I was sad too. I think everyone is on Anver, if they are not one of the lucky ones. It is a shame that it has to be like that.
“You go if you want to, but leave me in peace. I want to finish this paper. At least it’s something I know I can do.”
“You can finish that anytime, it will still be there tomorrow or next month or next year. If you don’t go today you will have lost your chance forever.”
“I’ve no chance, especially now.”
“Other people have been chosen in their last year...” Roya whispered. It had happened, but it was rare. Those candidates were special and no one had ever used that word about me, even when our lives had not been tainted by Father’s disgrace.
“Don’t you understand? I can’t do it. I can’t bear the thought of all the eyes watching me fail again and gloating!” My voice cracked and suddenly her arms were around me, hugging me tight.
“I do understand, I do,” she whispered into my hair, “but if we don’t go, people will say we are ashamed of Father...”
“I’m not ashamed of him. It wasn’t his fault...”
“Then prove it to everyone by going.”
“I can’t. If I was just one of the crowd, it would be different. I’ll attend next year and every year after that, when it doesn’t matter any more.”
“Next year will be too late to prove the point.”
“Don’t ask me to go, Roya, please,” I found myself begging. I hadn’t meant it to be like this. I had meant to say very little, just to state my decision and leave it at that. “You know how lonely it is out there, even at the best of times and with your friends around you. We have no real friends any more.” People have been avoiding us since the accident.
“Only Mell,” she said softly and it was true. Mell was the only one of all our former friends who still acted as if nothing had happened. No wonder Roya was slowly falling in love with him.
“Roya! Meryn! They’re coming.” Mother came running up the stairs. “Where are you? Meryn, whatever are you doing? You’re not even dressed!” She was looking with horror at my old grey tunic and trews. My lacy red festival dress was still in its wrapper.
“I’m not going, Mother.”
“But you must...” she began.
“No,” I interrupted. “I decided months ago that I could not go through it all again.”
I had reached that decision on the night that Father was buried, but I had never had the courage to add to Mother’s distress. Now I could avoid it no longer. Mother slumped down on a chair as if her legs would not hold her any longer. She has become so frail, going through the motions of living to and putting on a bright face for the hostile world. I felt guilty and terribly sad to be adding to her misery, but I knew that this time, when I failed, I could break down in front of everyone, confirming that we are indeed a family of cowards, our Father’s children.
“You can’t be sure that you will not be chosen. What if...”
“Do you really think I’m the sort of person to beat the odds in my last year?”
She had no answer to that, of course. I watched her struggle to find the words to convince me, but they were not there. I turned away from the bewilderment and hurt in her eyes.
“If your father were here...”
“Father would understand. If I thought I could carry it off, I would do so, but I don’t want to add any more disgrace to his memory.”
I came near to weeping then and had to blink the moisture away.
Mother sighed. “You know that you are breaking the law?”
“I know.” Everyone who is the right age has to be there, unless they are sick or incapacitated. I had already thought of the sanctions that could be taken against my family.
“What will we say if someone asks where you are?”
“Tell them that I am not well enough to come. I’ll stay in the house and pretend to be ill if the officials look for me, but you know that they won’t come. They’ll be relieved that I’m not there to be picked. Think of how embarrassed they’d be if a miracle happened and I was chosen, after all they’ve said about us. Everyone else will be too wrapped up in the excitement and seeing who has been lucky this time to notice whether I’m there or not.”
“Mother, the procession is going past. If we are going, we have to go now.”
Roya was hanging out of the window, peering down the street and I knew that it was already too late. I could never get ready in time and I could not go as I was. It would be an insult to everything our society cherishes.
So they left me, hurriedly. They had barely time to get to the arena before the procession entered the gates and I was grateful when they had gone. There was no going back now. But the house felt empty, echoing with my loneliness.
“Father,” I thought suddenly, “why did it have to be you? How can our lives ever be the same now?” My father was killed several months ago at the Blenden Mines, when the shaft which his team had been exploring collapsed. He was returning to the main gallery to report the fault, when the ground became unstable. His deputy was the only one who was found alive. His dying words were ‘Fyn ran...’ He never had time finish what he wanted to say. Some people think that he meant to say that ‘Fyn ran away’. Those of us, who knew them both, believe that he meant ‘Fyn ran to sound the alarm’. My father was a brave man who doing a dangerous job. He had a fine record and, on this occasion, he had just been unlucky, but everyone was making us pay for his misfortune.
I started to cry then, as I had not cried since the night they had brought his broken body back for burial. When we learned the circumstances of his death, I had not been able to cry at all. So it was a relief to be able to cry with no one to witness my distress, no one to care, no one to rejoice. I gave way to the release of all the emotions I had bottled up for so long.
But however deep the grief, crying does not last forever. After a while, my tears began to dry and I managed to pull myself together again. I turned back to my work, hoping to distract my thoughts. The paper I was reading was part of the work I needed to complete to qualify as a healer. This was what I had decided to do with my life. Most people make that sort of decision when they know that they are no longer eligible to be chosen, but I had made mine early, when I decided that I would not attend my last Festival.
Despite my resolve, it was difficult to keep my attention focussed. Our house is quite near to the Festival grounds, so I could hear everything that was happening inside the arena and I could not really escape. I heard the procession entering. I heard the cheers and the announcemen
ts. I stuffed my fingers into my ears, but it did not help. The gasps and the music were still there, ringing in my head. Although I had intended to stay in my room, I could stand it no longer. The sorrow and the might-have-beens were giving me a blinding headache. I went outside into the garden. At least, this year, I could grieve in the cool, dark greenness. No one would come back until the Festival was over and perhaps, by then, I would be ready to face them all.
I sat on a small bench under the snowbroom trees, listening and remembering. The first time I had been a candidate, I was just ten. I had a new flame coloured dress and honeyblossom was braided into my dark hair like a crown. Roya was standing beside me, holding my hand. She was a candidate too. I remember trembling with fright and excitement as the procession approached. All the horses wore beautifully embroidered saddlecloths and wreaths of starflowers were hanging round their necks. More flowers were woven into their manes and tails. Their riders walked proudly beside them, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. Slowly they moved through the arena and passed the waiting lines of candidates.
The oldest horses always lead the procession and they are majestic. Their coats turn silver as they age and their riders are older too. They are the honoured leaders of our world. But this is not really their day. All eyes are on the yearlings that follow them. They are so lovely that they take your breath away. Their coats shine like pure gold and they walk alone, heads held high and wings folded tightly onto their backs. When they leave, their newly chosen riders will walk beside them. That year, I was so sure that I would be one of them.
Although I had seen the Festival many times before, it is different when you are in the arena, the focus of it all. You are close enough to hear the speakers’ voices tremble as they recite the terms of the treaty that governs our species and read out the names of those who died in the Great Emergency, so they are never forgotten. You can smell the spicy scent of the horses as they come slowly towards you. You can look deep into their dark eyes and for an instant wonder if all your dreams are going to come true.
That first time, I could hardly stand still. I held my breath, waiting. Which one of the beautiful creatures would be mine? One by one they passed me by. I was sobbing when the last one had passed and reality hit me. Roya was also blinking away tears.
“Never mind,” she told me then, trying to hide her own disappointment, “there is always next year.”
There were four more ‘next years’, but the result was the same for both of us. Others succeeded and left for their new lives on the Western Island. It must be a strange place and a strange life because, when the riders return to visit their families, they have changed. We no longer seem to have much in common, no matter how close to them we have been before. This was particularly hard for Roya. In her last year, Kier was one of the chosen. Roya and Kier had hoped to stay together, either as riders or as lovers. It never happened. Roya was heartbroken, because Kier seemed like a stranger when they met again. She appears to be happy enough now with her new love, Mell, but part of her sparkle has never returned.
Sometimes, when I look at her, I curse the Choosing and the barriers it puts up between people, but I never tell anyone how I feel. It would be heresy. The horses are the Guardians of Anver. The friendship between our species is vital to the survival of our planet. When such thoughts come into my head, I always drive them away. Dwelling in the past does not help Roya and any of the others who have been rejected. It just makes me feel bitter.
The Festival was almost over for another year. You could tell by the cheering that it was time for the yearlings to leave with their new partners. I was sitting on the garden seat, nerving myself to go back inside and pretend that I was content, when, suddenly, I heard a rush of air above me. I looked up, startled, as a great white body settled to the ground, furled her wings and walked towards me. I recognised her immediately, Sella, oldest and wisest of all the horses of Anver. My heart lurched. What was she doing in our garden? I had no time to hide, no time to act out the fiction of my illness. She had already seen me.
Soranya, Sella’s rider leaned down from the saddle and held out her hand to me.
“You must come with us,” she said urgently. “You are needed.”
“Come where?” I could hardly get the words out; I was rigid with fright.
“To the Festival. You, of all people, were supposed to be there today.”
“I am sick...” I started to say and then stopped. I was never a good liar.
“Alya’s foal has not chosen her rider. She wants you and you were not there.”
“Me? But how can she want me? Doesn’t she know..?” For a moment I truly felt sick. My fears and defiance, all the misery of the last few months, rushed through my mind.
Soranya interrupted me, “It is you she wants. The picture in her mind is very clear, even down to these clothes you are wearing.” She looked sternly at my tattered attire. She took a firm hold of my hand and pulled me towards her. “Hurry. She is greatly distressed.”
“Your pairing was foreseen.” The voice was silken and seemed to echo in my head. I looked into Sella’s huge dark eyes in amazement. “I told Soranya where you were. Come now!”
I had never heard a voice in my head before. For a moment I could not believe that Sella had spoken to me, no one is ever supposed to hear a horse but her rider. Then she repeated, “Come!” in a tone that must be immediately obeyed.
In a daze, I put my foot onto Soranya’s and let her pull me up behind her. She was surprisingly strong for a woman in her seventh decade. Sella cantered forwards and beat her wings in long sweeping strokes. I gasped as we soared upwards into the evening sky. It was terrifying. It was unbelievable. It was wildly exciting. So this was how it felt. The speed was tremendous. Soranya’s hair, unbound for the Festival, streamed out behind her and I had to duck to avoid its whipping strands. I glanced down and the town below me was tiny. I was higher than I had ever been or ever expected to be.
“Hold tight!” My arms tightened round Soranya’s waist as we swerved. In seconds we were circling the Festival Arena, above the banners and the brightly dressed people, some of whom pointed up at us. The procession of foals and their newly chosen riders was already leaving, but a group of the older horses were standing still. In their midst was a small golden foal who stood with a drooping head and unfurled wings. My heart thumped as I realised who this must be. I barely had time to think, because Sella landed, showering dust into the air from her hooves. Soranya lowered me to the ground and suddenly my legs were knocked from under me. A golden nose snuffled in my face as a squeaky voice said,
“Where have you been?”
“I am sorry,” I gasped, fighting for breath because I had landed with a bump and the ground was hard. “I did not know that you needed me.” I threw my arms round the foal’s neck and hugged her tight, smelling her sweet scent and ruffling the soft feathers of her wings. So that was what they felt like. At last I knew. I lifted my head and saw figures running towards us, Mother, Roya and Mell.
Tears were streaming down Roya’s face. My mother was laughing for the first time since Father’s death, with the delight of seeing one of her daughters chosen at last. Mell had his arm round Roya, holding her tenderly, sharing the moment with us. Roya was smiling through her tears, but her smile was bittersweet and I knew she was thinking of Kier and what might have been.
“It should have been you,” I whispered to her. “It was always your dream.”
“At least one of us...” She could not continue.
“Look after her well, Meryn,” the silken voice said, “as she will care for you.” I turned to see Sella and her rider watching me.
“I will,” I replied, joy and gladness breaking through my amazement at last.
“What will you call her?” Soranya asked me, in the formal phrase that sealed our bonding.
“Miri,” I said, looking fondly at the small warm creature nestling by my side, giving her the name I had chosen so carefully, so many years ago
.
Copyright © 2011 by Michèle McGrath
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the author.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
My books are fiction set in history.
Written in English (UK)
Published by Riverscourt Publishing
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About Michèle McGrath
Award winning author, Michele McGrath, was born on the beautiful Isle of Man in the middle of the Irish Sea. She has lived in California, Liverpool, France and Lancashire before returning home. Living in Paris and Grenoble taught her to make a mean ratatouille and she learned the hula in Hawaii.
Michele is a qualified swimming teacher and manager, writing self help books on these subjects. Although she writes in many genres, her real loves are historical romance and fantasy. She has won numerous writing competitions, had second places and been short-listed many times. She has had tens of thousands of sales and downloads.
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