by Marc Secchia
The predator surged up from the unknowable deeps, engulfing the remainder of the salamander in a single, mighty bite. Crocodile? No, the legs were all wrong, more horse-like, but the tail part was definitely a fin and rudder rolled into one. The nut-brown hide was smooth and sleek, far more the wet pelt of a mammal than scaly crocodile skin. In size its body rivalled an intercity bus – a bus with seven black eyes fixed upon one little horse with alert interest, while it chewed beatifically on the remains of that large salamander-thing. Well. Could she hope to escape becoming Dessert a la Equine served with extra Swamp Sauce?
Zaranna waded further amongst the roots. The creature drifted closer.
Any moment, she expected the creature to pounce for the kill, but instead, a curious game of cat and mouse, or tasty meal on legs and oddly hairy swamp-monster, developed. She hobbled along. The creature stalked her unrelentingly. Each time she stopped, it stopped, as if it had not quite made the decision to whet its appetite. As night drew in, thousands of wasp-like creatures descended upon the mangrove swamp to feast upon the yellow flowers, and on her neck and withers. She pranced about, but they were as persistent as leeches. When she rolled in the mud, the huge predator made a rush for her, but the moment she stood tall, it backed away. So she had a choice between being eaten fast or eaten slowly. Eventually, Zaranna found a knot of roots and heaved herself up out of the water.
With a flip and a splash, the predator vanished.
She stood and shivered. At least the shivering chased off the pests – disturbingly, they looked like miniature black vampire-horses, complete with four hooves, tiny hummingbird-wings, and muzzles tipped with a pair of hollow fangs for sucking blood. Weirdness.
She hated dreams. In fact, Zaranna dreamed of nothing more than going home, because she was sick of being brave and slopping through a frigid swamp where everything seemed to want to eat her; she was hungry and alone and the noises of the night were not at all comforting. At least the blood-suckers vanished with the darkness. She tried not to imagine what else might be out there, or how her wounds would quickly become infected in this infernal quagmire.
It was just a dream – wasn’t it?
* * * *
“Awake, o sleeper.”
She awoke to a delicious voice tickling her ear. Alex. Oh, he was here and there had been enough snow and she was not dreaming and – oh, someone save her from drooling uncontrollably – he was wearing a white T-shirt that did nothing to hide his sinewy arm muscles or lean frame. He had a blob of shaving cream next to his nose. Mister So-Fit grinned down at her. Scallywag! He knew exactly what he was doing, making her shiver with delight.
Giggling, checking the duvet covered her decently below her throat, Zaranna pushed one finger out from beneath the covers and crooked it at him. “Come here, gorgeous man.”
Oh no. She sounded as if she had gargled nails all night.
Alex drawled, “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
The heat in her cheeks had a great deal to do with waking up warm and sleepy in the company of her true prince. Reaching up, Zaranna laced her fingers behind his neck and set about kissing Alex with all the relief and passion of a girl who had fought Darkwolf Clan, taken an impromptu Dragonride and survived a beastly day in a swamp, and therefore very much needed to feel the safety of a strong pair of arms. She luxuriated in the clean tang of manly aftershave, so delicious … and if all this came accompanied by the most kissable lips in history, who was she to complain?
“Uh, and a very good morning to you, too,” Alex spluttered at length, pleasingly rosy of cheek. “Missed me, perchance?”
With a cunning twist of her torso, Zaranna toppled him onto the bed.
“Zars! I promised your parents.”
“What?”
“Not on the bed. Honestly. Your dad’s just –” He pointed at the doorway, mouthing, ‘there.’
On cue, Spy-Dad’s voice issued from behind the wall, “Innocently reading my newspaper on the couch. Not eavesdropping at all.”
“Nearest my bedroom, Big Ears?” she called.
“Oh, is it?”
“Something wrong with the kitchen?”
“Fetch you a coffee, Zu-Zu?”
“That would merely tokenise your unrepentant show of repentance, Dad.”
Alex shook his head, retreating to her desk chair. “You have the funniest familial relationships. What’s this, Zars? Something you whipped up between last night and this morning?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” It was on the tip of her tongue to mention her dreams, but the way Alex sat absorbed in the artwork, the pensive set of his lips – what troubled him? “I was hoping we’d be snowed in.”
“Wish granted. Seven inches all over Yorkshire, according to the radio. Deeper in the valleys.” His eyes did not so much as flicker from the painting. “Alright, Ingle-beauty, you didn’t tell me you could paint like this? It’s … awesome. Alive. Like you touched a snowflake and a butterfly, and your fingers cupped that beauty and treasured it, and poured it onto the canvas with such tenderness and care – this picture has soul. That’s it. I never understood before, never truly, deep in here.” He tapped his chest. “It has soul, yes. And goodness.”
“Alex, honey …”
He laid the canvas on her desk, fingers shaking. He shoved his hands between his knees, but then his legs started trembling. “I can’t do this. I don’t know how and I need help or I’m going to go mad. You don’t see your own brokenness until you’ve seen the face of wholeness – it’s like a mirror, see? You’re an angel. My angel.”
Yes. Perhaps brokenness lay at the root of her dreams. She longed for legs. She longed to ride. What deeper expression of her inner brokenness could she have found than the image of a Pegasus so heroic, he was a Michelangelo sculpture in the flesh? Not just galloping, flying. But why the detail of his insufferable attitude? Prince Jesafion of the Pegasus Clan. The nonsense her mind served up in the guise of reality. This was reality. Alex was reality, solid and fleshly and rainbows over beautiful autumnal hills. And he needed her. Desperately.
She whispered, “I’m no angel. A broken one, at best.”
“Yet you find butterflies in your brokenness.”
“Would it surprise you if I believed the butterflies found me?”
“The picture ambushes the artist?” He laughed a tender, funny laugh, reaching out to lace his fingers into hers. “You are weird and artsy, but hardly beyond the bounds of understanding. But this artwork, Zars, are you pleased with it?”
“Pleased? It’s my best. By miles.”
“I just wondered, because you were whimpering in your sleep when I came in. Was it a bad one?”
Zaranna had feared he would laugh at her dreams. Belittle her. Perhaps compassion was worse, or harder for her to accept, at any rate. She could only nod, for what she read in his eyes left her speechless. Part of her was busy deciding that she might start sketching and painting a few scenes from her dreams, or keeping a diary before these strange thoughts and experiences faded into the misted reaches of memory. The greater part of her was attached to her scared-rabbit heart, which pulsed ‘how-did he-know’ with every double beat, over and over. How could they connect without words? How could a man she knew so little, touch her so profoundly?
Alex said, “Until now, I thought I was the one rescuing you. Does that frighten you?”
“I couldn’t have made it without you, Alex. Does that frighten you?”
That slow, quirky smile crinkled his eyes, and seemed to spark across to her soul. “I’m not convinced mutual fright is either good grounds for any relationship, or the ground we’re established upon.” He winked at her, then hovered his forefinger over the butterfly as if he wished to touch it, but feared the consequences. “Hidden strengths – a phrase which often springs to mind when I think of you, Beauty. Hidden magic, begging to blossom.”
Zaranna froze, momentarily shocked. Even the cool trickle of a tear upon her cheek did not stir her. Surely, he could not know
? Surely he did not sense the magic, the elusive power of her dreams? Did he possess intuition enough to make that leap?
“Breakfast, kids,” Susan called from the kitchen.
Alex leaned forward to kiss a tear off her cheekbone, a simple, affectionate brush of lips upon her skin. “I’ll wait outside your door. Don’t go anywhere, alright? Not even in your dreams.”
Chapter 7: Unforeseen Aid
WAKINg TO THE slow ooze of dawn, Zaranna realised she was still in the swamp. Trapped in the same nightmare. Trapped in never-ending mists, in a place where light leached despondently through drooping branches to illuminate her hide without a hint of warmth.
Yes, she still had four strange legs and a muzzle and an unfamiliar desire to crop a few meadows full of fresh green grass. Dad, who was at all times Mister Resourceful and Dependable to the point of annoyance, would have told her to take stock of the situation. Analyse. Draw conclusions, no matter how illogical they might seem. The only fly in the ointment was, it followed quite logically that she might indeed have turned into Miss Crackpot. The accident had damaged her mind and this was the result – extraordinarily vivid, persistent, terrifying dreams that were indistinguishable from reality. Which reality, exactly? No. She could not entertain these doubts. Her sanity already felt unravelled.
Act, Inglewood. Do something. Anything.
Lacking any better idea, she set off in a direction that seemed ever so slightly brighter than any other. Several times, she had to cross deep channels or even open bodies of black water, where there was no protection from potentially filling a monster’s belly. Chaplain Murray could not have envisaged this when he endeavoured to instil courage into an amputee, could he? She must remember to thank him. Perhaps without reference to the horsey bits.
Lost in the dream, lost in the mists, Zaranna did what she could. She tried to maintain a straight line by taking bearings from several trees in a row, insofar as she could see and calculate. She kept her spirits high. She searched for edibles, although her stomach was gnawing so persistently on her backbone by now, even the fungi were starting to look appetising. At intervals, she rested. Zara worked out that by swimming without raising a splash, she could avoid attracting the worst of the predators – in the main salamanders, anacondas and the hairy crocodile-like beasts, a highly camouflaged type of carnivorous spider that hunted in packs, and a staggering variety of flesh-eating plants. Only a few were recognisable – pitcher plants, Venus fly-traps and super-sticky sundews – but even an indifferent botanist could tell at a glance that these species were nothing like what existed on Earth. Giant dimensions were one clue.
Unfortunately, Zaranna did not have to wait long to discover what a sundew the size of a small car might eat. A rasping hiss alerted her to danger. She ducked in the nick of time as a bird whizzed past her left ear. Splat! The sundew lashed out and caught the creature. What was it – a bird? A bat? No, the creature was clearly reptilian. She stared as the plant changed colour from a lacklustre khaki to a mauve that did violence to the eye. The leaf curled back, spring-like, to the base while the reptile-bird struggled helplessly within its curled up leaf.
More hisses amongst the trees! She whirled, but too slowly, for a host of burlap-winged bird-creatures mobbed her in a trice, slashing at her back with their clawed feet and cruelly hooked wingtips as though seeking to carve her flesh off her bones, dead or alive. Ribbons of pain! Zaranna bolted. She ducked, bucked, galloped and jinked, but the swarm was far too quick and agile to be thrown off the chase. Forgetting any trace of humanity, the mare rolled over and over in the shallows, shrieking and whinnying, choking on dank muck, but the reptiles either clung to her neck and withers, or simply returned to hacking her to pieces the moment she surfaced.
Gallop! That was her sole thought, now. She raced endlessly through fields of moss-slick tree roots, spraying mud in all directions. Pain! Wounds multiplied upon wounds.
The world was acid-etched in pain and terror.
Then, she plunged into the deepest water yet. Thick as soup. She could not find the surface, lungs burning, blackness in her mud-covered eyes … panic sinking like an Arctic chill into her very soul … when something seized her. Zaranna howled in despair, sensing huge, powerful fingers that reminded her of Rhenduror’s talons – though they did not crush her, the memory of that horror was enough to instantly fossilize her heart.
Magic! Oh please, let her unleash the butterflies, the storm … she had an odd impression of light blinking in surprise.
There was no need. Whisper-soft, the brilliance whisked those thoughts away. Then came a thunderclap of peace, beguiling silence, and the knowledge of rest.
* * * *
Zaranna snapped awake. Reaching for the bedside lamp, she switched it on and checked her body for injuries. Ugh. The wall received the benefit of her fiercest glower. Just another instance of a little mare imprisoned in a nightmare. Three o’clock in the morning. Wide awake.
Alright. Enough of these stinking demons. She’d exorcise them on paper. Picking up her journal, she set about adding her dreams to what she had written since the accident. Touching her tongue to her lips, she pencilled in the margin, ‘Alex, if you’re reading this, just remember, I’m no madwoman. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.’ The word ‘best’ received the accolade of a few hearts bubbling around it – silly, but after that dream, silliness did not seem optional. It was a breath of normalcy, just a girl fancying a boy, minus any Dragons, swamps or butterflies – save those fluttering in her stomach when she remembered their goodnight kiss. Ooh, definitely one for the diary. A swift sketch of Alex appeared on her page.
She smiled at his profile. Mmm. Singe that paper, o Prince of Scots!
Gracious, she would never write a coherent word at this rate. After giving her pencil another thoughtful, extended chewing, she began to write. Paused. Honestly, now she was afraid of penning the Dragon’s name? What should she write? RX4. There. She knew that stood for … him. Four R’s in Rhenduror the Red – the name tickled her tongue before she could snuff it out.
The light flickered.
“Blast it!” Zaranna gasped, clutching her stomach as if she had the worst ulcer in history. Merciful heavens, that stab of pain was just fear, right?
“Alright there, Zara?”
“Mom!” Her heart-spasm sent blood roaring into her ears. “Were I a cat, I just lost a life.”
Susan smiled sleepily. “Thought I heard something. Awake at this hour, Peachy Precious?”
“Yeah. Just writing in my diary. Stuff about Alex.”
Nasty half-truth. Zaranna bit her lip, but her mom did not appear to notice. “You two are so sweet together. But don’t think I didn’t notice that goodnight kiss. I dreamed about you crawling up the stairs to get to Alex’s room. I’m sorry, honey bunches. I hate myself for not trusting you, but mothers think such stupid things sometimes. I had to come down …”
“Mom. I don’t mind you checking up on me. Shows you care.”
Those brilliant green eyes seemed shadowed, as if they gazed inward upon an ocean of grief. Susan touched the butterfly upon the snowflake. “I wanted to ask – can I have this picture? I mean, can I frame it and hang it in the kitchen? It just speaks to me of … happier days.”
“Have you seen that type of butterfly before?”
Zaranna could not believe her errant tongue. No! The query hung between them, as fragile as crystal and as fleeting as a baby’s breath. Her mom blinked again, before a curiously blank expression seemed to smooth over whatever might, for a scintilla of a second, have existed.
“No, Zars, I haven’t. But it’s a stunning piece. You’ve your mother’s imagination. Now, can I fetch you a glass of milk, or a biscuit?”
“Both.”
The word was a shattered croak, but again, her mother reacted as if nothing were amiss. She padded off to the kitchen, leaving her daughter to gape at the empty doorway. Hot flushes and chills ran the length of her body, even down to phantom
toes as her brain failed once more to grasp physical reality; but the real issue, the ice frosting her veins, was that expression. Vacancy. She cudgelled her memory. Had she just seen … surely not. Hysterical tittering slinked around the edges of her awareness, fey and flustering, for she pictured her mother’s face as a blackboard covered in the intricately beautiful equations of life, only for an invisible hand to wipe over it in one fell gesture. Smudged. Brainwashed? A mad doctor clamping his victim into a chair, lowering the bowl-shaped helmet, an ominous humming as a vast, shadowy machine warmed up … crackle! Zap! Hands clenched white-knuckled on armrests, a helpless scream …
“Sweet Pea, are you quite well?” Susan’s cool hand rested on her forehead for a moment. “No. What’s this night-time waking? Too many thought-bees buzzing inside your brain-hive?”
“Butterflies.”
She did not trust herself to say more. Sipping her milk as a form of self-defence, she observed her mother without wanting to be seen to be looking strangely at her. If anyone deserved the nickname ‘beauty’, it was Susan Inglewood. Holly said so, and she was an authority on the avant-garde and a zealous follower of fashion. The first time Dan laid eyes on her mother, he had tripped off a sidewalk and sprained his ankle. What was it about her? Poise? Charisma? She was all contrasts. Fiercely kind. Tranquil, yet ablaze with passion. As tall as any man, yet she carried herself with queenly dignity. Even muzzy and sleep-tousled, she managed to light up the room without trying. Yet was there something … peculiar, about her? Like now, a special gleam stirring within her stormy green eyes, a lambency that always seemed to lurk beneath the surface, yet when Zaranna looked closely, the spark seemed to evade her examination, to slip beneath the surface, just a will-o’-the-wisp tease?