by Marc Secchia
Peter said, “I guess we’d call this occasion a thanks party. A celebration of life. For I still have a wife and a daughter when I could have had none. For that, I am profoundly grateful.”
* * * *
Much later, the party quietened down as the guests began to leave. Mihret helped Zaranna to wheel through her bedroom, which adjoined the lounge, to her en suite bathroom. She showed off her new foot. The technology was amazing. The foot flexed at the ankle, allowing a good range of movement and a walk which had fooled Anaya and Aditi.
“I’m going to be a runner,” Mihret said abruptly.
“A … runner? You’ll be fantastic,” said Zaranna. “Will you compete?”
Mihret smiled shyly. “I’ve a signed photograph of Haile Gebrselassie at home – you know him, yes?” At Zaranna’s confirming nod, she added in a rush, “Well, I’ve met him and Haile said that when I’m back in Addis he’ll train with me and we’ll run together. You need a special foot for running. We couldn’t afford one, but your Aunt, um –”
Zaranna giggled as Mihret’s gesture sketched a large lady. “Aunt Alto – Angela?”
“Yes, she said she’d speak to her church and they’d sponsor me. So it’s all arranged.”
“Oh. It’s great to have dreams.” Was it? Zaranna blinked as the thought popped into her mind. What about her crazy, tortured dreams? “I’ve been practising drawing. I thought I might follow in my mother’s footsteps, one day. But it’s hard to make money as an artist.”
She shifted off the toilet seat and back onto her wheelchair. This much, at least, she could manage. Mihret stood by her desk, flipping idly through Zaranna’s sketchbook. The young girl wore a traditional, white cotton Ethiopian dress and a filmy white scarf, and had her hair done in another fantastic, intricate style which had apparently taken three cousins two full hours to braid. Had Zaranna not known, she would never have identified Mihret as an amputee – but a runner? Coolness.
“You could be a runner too,” Mihret added. “At the Paralympics, they run with blades. There’s a man, a double amputee like you, they call the Blade Runner. You could run like him.”
Zaranna chuckled, “Except I never was much of a runner, even with two legs.”
“We’re off,” said Holly, from the doorway. “What’s that, Mihret?”
Hand in hand, Holly and Dan entered the room. Zaranna wanted to stare holes in Holly’s legs, shown off by a pretty blue sundress that was both entirely inappropriate for the November weather, and had made her dad’s eyebrows twitch fiercely in disapproval. She wore pretty, over-the-top blue party heels. Zaranna tore her eyes away before the jealousy ate her alive. Heavens, now she’d begrudge her friend a pair of legs? What kind of a wretch was she?
“Wow, great drawings, Zars,” said Dan. “Amazing detail on the physique of these horses.”
Suddenly, Mihret yelped and dropped the sketchbook.
“Hey, careful with that,” Holly complained.
Dan picked up the book, dusting the cover. “Alright, Mihret?”
She had turned pale, and her hand was icy-cold against Zaranna’s fingers. The girl said, “Sorry. It was the … the beast. The –”
“Dragon?” said Dan, peeking at the page without showing it to Mihret.
Holly peered over his shoulder. “Did you draw this, Zars, or did you copy it from your mother? It’s awesome.”
Mihret said, “In my culture we call that creature ‘Saitan’, which means Satan. It’s evil and you shouldn’t be drawing something like that! Something bad might happen.”
“Rubbish,” said Holly.
“Holly, try a little less sensitivity,” said Zaranna.
Dan put in, “She’s written a name here, I think. Can you make it out, Hols? You’ve more experience with Zaranna’s chicken-scratchings than I have.”
“Rhenduror the – yie!”
This time, it was Zaranna’s turn to yelp, for the very instant she spoke the Dragon’s name the lights flickered, and the room plunged into darkness. A chorus of annoyed and amused comments came from the next room. Soon, torchlight flickered and her mom brought in a couple of candles.
“Come say goodbye to everyone, Zippy,” she said. “I think we’ve a proper November blizzard blowing in, and these folks will want to get home tonight.”
“My car still won’t start, Mrs Inglewood,” Alex put in, looking rather wind-pinched in the cheeks and nose. He must have been outside, tinkering.
“Handy for some,” said Dan, very softly.
“You can stay over in the spare room,” said Susan.
Zaranna kept a straight face, but her heart roared like Alex’s Ninja racing at over two hundred miles per hour down the aerodrome runway. No amount of willpower saved her from a very revealing, very heated blush.
“The grumpy old troll can sleep in the attic,” said Dad, with an especial wrinkle of his nose. “Under lock and key. Bear traps on the landing, motion detectors in the hallway and the vault door shall be sealed at ten o’clock sharp. Watch out, the rabid father bites.”
“Desperado-Dad, honestly!”
He ticked off on his fingers, “The rules are, no goodnight kisses. No morning hugs. Coffee will be taken on opposite sides of the kitchen table …”
Despite his teasing, Zaranna could not shake the odd feeling which had come over her as she spoke the dream-Dragon’s name. A knowing. Cold, avaricious talons slicing into the marrow of her life, as if their questing had finally been rewarded, as if the utterance of his name had somehow exposed her to the beast’s power. Suddenly, she was terrified. No amount of cuddling with Alex in front of the blazing log fire in the lounge for the balance of the evening could alleviate a wintry inner chill.
Zaranna knew that when she slept, she would dream.
This one would be bad.
* * * *
She lay awake for ages, listening to the rain pattering outside her window. At a quarter past one, according to her daisy-shaped bedside clock, the sound changed to a soft whispering – or perhaps it was silence, and she only imagined whispers, for when Zaranna rolled onto her stomach and pulled aside her drapes, it was to see thick, heavy snowflakes drifting to the ground, great flurries already piling up like white winter stoles around the pot plants and dangling wetly from the tree branches. Magic garden. Could she wish they would be snowed in and Alex would have to stay a few more days?
Picking up her sketchbook, Zaranna flipped past the page depicting Rhenduror’s head and neck, and idly began to outline snowflakes with her pencil-point.
Why the ‘despised one’? Mihret had been right. That Dragon had been a vision of evil. She should not invite evil into her life by granting it form and substance in her mind. Without being bidden, her fingers sketched a butterfly alighting on a snowflake. One of the carmine butterflies, its wings traced in yellow filigree and tiny porticos of colour, its yellow-tipped antennae and legs, its multifaceted insectoid eyes peering out at the viewer. Quickly, she pulled out her oil paints and squeezed a couple of tubes onto her palette, mixing, scowling at the colours … no, she must mix a more vibrant red … working at a frantic pace, she copied the initial sketch to a larger, A2-sized canvas. Come on, Zaranna. Focus on the minutiae – what she remembered just before the train struck, the butterfly gazing at her as it flitted by, so lifelike, so melancholy …
An hour later, Zaranna eyed the finished product, feeling exhausted and elated in equal measure. Mercy. Undoubtedly, this was her finest creation, bar none. This was the moment she had finally unleashed the inner sight her mother sometimes described, the instinctual harnessing of vision to creation, of thought to paint, of paint to life; a sense of the created artwork almost taking possession of its creator, so imperative was the need to grant that initial spark form and voice. She felt enervated. Exhilarated. Satisfied.
Zaranna began to set the canvas aside on her desk, and then paused. A name. Yes. She nibbled a paintbrush for a while, but there was in truth only one phrase that stuck in her mind – The Mi
racle of Magic. She titled the picture accordingly and signed with a flourish, a bold ‘Z’.
She said, “And when I sleep, I shall dream of butterflies.”
Click. Off went her bedside lamp.
Flick. She closed her eyes. She pictured God creating the cosmos, the heavens and the earth, and an impossibly deep voice crying, ‘Let there be butterflies!’
And there were butterflies. Myriad butterflies.
Zaranna chuckled at the brushing of downy wings against her face, and the feather-touch of many insect lips kissing her eyelids. Each tiny kiss seemed to weigh her eyelids down a little more, as if they poured a magical sleep-inducing fairy dust into tiny sacks. Soon, she drifted upon a cloud of fluttering wings. Their colours permeated her mind, effervescent and dazzling, throbbing to the slowing rhythm of her breathing. A living kaleidoscope swarmed across her vision. Moment by moment hypnotic new patterns formed, changing as swiftly as thought, while Zaranna became aware of a sense of pressing forward, of tremendous velocity spearing her into a realm unknown which lay concealed behind shifting veils of butterflies. The wings tickled her nostrils and flanks, blinding and intimate but never claustrophobic, and the sensation caused her to burst into laughter.
A rushing noise permeated her awareness. Suddenly the flow of colourful insect bodies turned into a flood, no longer a friendly escort but a raging torrent pouring around her and over her, tumbling her along, the noise swelling into a deafening roar, faster and louder and more turbulent …
Without warning, her hooves hammered upon hard ground. With a violent swerve and a sharp cry, Zaranna barrelled headlong into mayhem.
Wolves! Their musky scent triggered an aeons-old instinct – danger! Terror! Rending jaws and slashing fangs! Her powerful chest struck and rolled two wolves in an instant. She reared, letting fly with her forehooves. Crack! A wolf spun away, its muzzle a mask of blood. Burning pain radiated from her haunches. Zaranna bucked forward and lashed out with her hind legs, again by pure instinct, crushing a skull and sending another wolf into a yipping retreat, tail tucked between its legs.
She whirled, nostrils a-flare, whinnying with shock and distress and – she was a horse again! And oh, there was another horse. He was in trouble. Strange, half-wolf half-man creatures surrounded a beautiful white horse, hanging off ropes looped around his neck and snarling up his left wing – what? A Pegasus? No time. Voicing a furious scream at a pitch that did more to stun her than the freakish attackers, Zaranna charged. Kick! Spin! She had no clue what she was doing, but her untrammelled fury appeared to have some effect, because two of the wolf-things abandoned the white stallion to toss ropes at her head now. She snapped up one rope between her teeth, yanked the creature into kicking range, and did her best to wallop its nose through the back of its head.
Nice. The wolf forgot all about the rope at that point.
Charging back past the stallion, she panted, “Need a hand? A … hoof?”
She tripped over a fallen wolf, performed an ungainly, abbreviated somersault, and crashed into the Pegasus’ left hind knee.
“Earthen Fires! Will you be careful with your hooves?” he snapped.
Zaranna stared at Egotistical Equine. No need for that stinging tone. He stomped powerfully, crushing a wolf which had aimed a bite at her neck. Gracious, he was tall and robust in comparison to her, but the number of these wolf-creatures hanging about his neck … calmly, he lowered his horn and speared another wolf in the belly.
What in the blazes was this dream? Her horsey-ness had just leaped headlong into a belfry filled with bats – or some other bewildering metaphor. Panting hard, she stared at him.
“I was managing just fine without you,” he clarified, with a snobbish toss of his mane.
“Oh yes, wonderfully well,” Zaranna snorted, anger flaring. “I’ll just stop hauling your conceited backside out of those stupid fires, shall I?”
The white stallion had a moment to look deeply affronted before a dozen wolf-creatures hurled themselves at the pair of them. He swept them back with a burst of brilliant, silvery-white fire from his horn. Zaranna was too slow trying to squirm to her hooves, for a trio of hairy, hard-muscled bodies bowled her over. A leg slapped her jaw, making her bite instinctively into rancid wolf-flesh. She spat, paugh! Rolled off the edge of a small drop! By chance she landed perfectly on her four legs and practised a rapid tap-dancing routine on the skull nearest her hooves. The other two leaped in with snarls, slashing at her left side and shoulder with their lethal fangs. Zaranna neighed shrilly and flung them off, but the pair only rebounded with rubbery glee to slam her against a small rocky outcropping.
Quailing, she drove the creatures back with another flurry of hooves. Some were clearly wolves, great, grey-furred creatures that stood the height of an Irish Wolfhound at the shoulder and prowled about on all fours, their slit yellow eyes spitting hatred. Others were half-creatures – perhaps werewolves – that moved crabbily on their hind legs, but their forepaws were curved and equipped with talons the length of steak-knives. They had squashed, man-like faces, as if a process of transformation from Human to grey wolf – or the reverse – had been arrested midway. Beneath shaggy brows and wild tufts of fur that entirely covered their bodies, their gazes betrayed intelligence, and they spoke to each other and to the other wolves with sharp, commanding barks. Zaranna stiffened and tried to back up as two half-beasts menaced her.
Just then her all-white ally leaped from above, thumping her aside with his shoulder as he took over manfully. Zaranna almost sank her teeth into his rump as he walloped her nose with his rear end. Gallant? Incredibly aggravating!
“Stay back!” he whinnied, as more wolf-creatures hurled their bodies into the fray.
Flaring his wings, he drove the snarling mass back. Zaranna ducked beneath his sweeping, blood-splattered left wing to rearrange the face of one intrepid adversary attempting a slinking sneak attack.
“Behind me, you silly mare!” he shouted.
Grief, these wolves and their half-wolf brethren did not know the meaning of ‘give up’. Zaranna retreated, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the great Pegasus despite his repeated attempts to corral her into the space behind him.
“You go,” she panted. “Fly away.”
“Leave like a coward? By the Earthen Fires, who do you think I am?”
“I’ve no freaking idea who you are!” Zaranna whirled, lashing out accurately with her hind legs. Awesome! The things this horse-body knew to do! Her hoof-rims were as sharp as blades, and twice as deadly. “What’s your name, o mighty colossus?”
“Jesafion. Yours?”
Obviously, a complete sense of humour failure on his part, and an apparent immunity to her sarcasm. How did a horse scowl?
“Zaranna,” she panted, lunging at another wolf. It slunk away, belly to the ground, snarling so viciously it revealed a severe case of black, rotting gums. However, there was nothing wrong with its rack of fangs.
“Ridiculous name. Sounds almost Human,” he sneered, lashing out in turn to keep the wolves back. “Follow my lead, little mare. I will protect you.”
“At once, Your Ego-Stuffed Oafishness.”
Zaranna clicked her teeth shut. Heavens alive, where were these insults coming from? Great dream. She cried out again as fangs sliced into her lower belly. With a flurry of hooves, she beat the wolf backward until it limped away on three legs, yipping its misery to the heavens. The others closed in. Fifteen? Twenty? A wall of wolves encircled them, and she was aware of others sneaking around behind, atop the small ridge protecting their backs.
“What are these things?” she asked.
“Wolves.”
“I knew that! The half-man things.”
Again, his fire hissed forth, sharp and beautiful, but it stuttered as if he were running out of gas. Jesafion gasped, “You no-Clan fool, how can you not know the foulness of the Twisted for what they are?”
“You don’t get these where I’m from.”
Now, his magnetic
, dark-as-night eyes sparkled with shock and calculation. “You aren’t lying?”
Zaranna had the sense this Jesafion might make for a powerful force of good, if only he could take a permanent detour past his overweening ego. He was a magnificent beast, all lean lines and imposing bearing, the stuff of horse posters and showground champions. Sharp ears pricked out of the beginnings of his flowing white mane, and several inches above the widely-spaced eyes, a horn of white ivory and clear crystal protruded from his forehead, brushed by a white forelock that partially veiled his left eye, lending him a coltish air. Jesafion’s muzzle was long and finely boned, leading to a sensitive mouth – the mouth of a patrician or a philosopher. She just did not appreciate the expression that seemed to label her amongst worms and cockroaches. That rather spoiled … everything.
Like now. With a disdainful curl of his upper lip, he sniffed, “Liar. I know a lowly, no-magic little mare when I see one. What do you think you’re doing, standing against Darkwolf Clan?”
“Doing better than you.”
His harrumph of amusement was so patronising, Zaranna saw red. Perhaps she had a problem with suppressed rage following her accident. Perhaps he was just an equine idiot. Either way, his stinky attitude ignited a volcano inside of her, but before she could rip into him, a weight crashed upon her back. Claws and teeth dug into her neck, opening searing wounds. Dimly, she heard the beast grunt, “I’ve captured the little one.”
Captured? Zaranna leaped forward as though stung. A dozen Darkwolf Clan closed with her, blocking her path, tossing a noose around her neck and trying to entangle her hooves, but Zaranna was beyond reason now. This was a nightmare. Suffused with pain and fear, she lashed out in all directions, bucking, prancing, slipping on dark lupine bodies, her ears filled with snarls and always, multiple points of pain slicing into her back as the wolf-creature hung on four-pawed. She tasted blood and returned bite for bite and blow for blow, but the heaving press of bodies was simply too much. Her strength failed.
Despairing, she snaked her head about, still snapping at a furry ear as bodies piled atop of her and a wolf bit her muzzle, hanging on and forcing her down to her knees. She saw Jesafion wading withers-deep through wolves as he struggled to reach her, then glimpsed a vast, vaulting sky of the deepest turquoise, incongruously bursting with carmine-and-yellow butterflies. If ever she needed a miracle of magic, it was now.