White Horse Talisman

by Andrea Spalding

  They passed a small tree. Chattering with alarm, a large blue-black bird with white markings flew across the track.

  “One for sorrow,” Holly muttered.

  “What?” said Chantel.

  “The magpie rhyme for telling fortunes.”

  Chantel looked baffled.

  Holly chuckled and chanted,

  One for sorrow, two for joy,

  Three for a girl, four for a boy,

  Five for silver, six for gold,

  Seven for a secret never been told.

  Good, that’s old magic. Seven for a secret never been told.

  Chantel gasped and put a hand up to her head.

  The dream horse spoke in words Chantel could under–stand. Its voice echoed and rolled inside her head. She reeled in the saddle.

  Hello, child. Don’t be frightened. I’m the White Horse, your friend. Walk towards me.

  “Hey?” Holly leaned over and grabbed Snowflake’s reins as they slipped from Chantel’s fingers. “Are you okay?”

  Chantel nodded. The color ebbed and flowed in her cheeks. “Did you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  Only you hear me, child. Do not be afraid. Walk this way.

  A sense of warmth and friendship washed over Chantel. She slid off Snowflake and took the reins from Holly. “I’ll stop here. You go to the fort. I’ll wait. It’s cooler here. I’ll be okay.” She led Snowflake off the track towards a fence across the swell of the hill.

  Puzzled, Holly stared after the tiny figure leading the white pony. “How does she know where to go?” she muttered.

  Adam and Owen trotted up. Holly pointed. “Look at Chantel. It’s as though she’s been here before.”

  Adam gazed resentfully at Chantel. He did not rein in. There was his little sister being “interesting” again! She was always doing something to get attention. She constantly did it to Mom and Dad, and now she was trying it on Holly and Owen. Well, too bad; this was his holiday and he wanted to see the fort. “She’s daydreaming again,” he said as he trotted by. “Let her wait. She’ll be fine.”

  Holly and Owen exchanged startled glances.

  Chantel looked back and waved happily.

  Holly and Owen shrugged. They followed Adam.

  The three older children rode to the crest of the hill and dismounted. Holly repeatedly glanced back at Chantel, but the small figure stayed in one spot. Holly turned her attention to Adam and his reaction to seeing the enormous circular ditch and high bank surrounding the flattened summit of the hill.

  “I thought you said there was a fort here.” Adam was puzzled.

  “This is it. This deep ditch and high embankment. It’s called Uffington Castle, but it’s not a castle made of stone. Up there the bank was topped with a high palisade, a big fence, but the wood rotted away thousands of years ago.” Owen pointed into the hollow of the deep ditch. “That was for protection. Dad said there would be stakes sticking out of the bottom, to prevent raids and impale intruders.” He grinned, drew an imaginary sword from his belt and started to fight with Adam.

  Adam feinted back, slipped and grabbed Owen. They rolled down, over and over until they lay in the ditch bottom, laughing hysterically.

  The placid ponies flicked their tails, dropped their heads and lipped the short turf.

  “Idiots!” shouted Holly. “Come on. We’ll catch it if any–one finds out we’ve left Chantel on her own.”

  Adam and Owen scrambled up the sloping sides of the ditch and dodged around Holly, using her as a shield. Laugh–ing, the three of them led the ponies over to the fence where Chantel had left Snowflake.

  Chantel was still standing on the very edge of the hill, staring. Adam, Holly, and Owen joined her.

  The view was breathtaking. The hillside dropped away before them, falling steeply towards a wide green valley. But where the short turf began curving downwards, ancient hands had excavated narrow trenches deep into the chalk. The grass had been removed, leaving a series of thick white lines curling over the swell of the hill. The carving was so large that the complete horse could not be seen this close. But the face was clear, a long nose, ears, and a gigantic white eye looking up at the heavens.

  “I see you,” whispered Chantel. She could feel the magic pulsing from the ground.

  Holly, Owen, and Adam were oblivious.

  “This smaller side valley is called the Manger.” Holly gestured down the steep side of a combe opening onto the main valley. “The White Horse is supposed to feed there at night.”

  “And see the small conical hill, way down in the middle of it?” Owen pointed.

  “The one with no grass on top?” asked Adam.

  Owen nodded. “Yup. You’ll never guess why.”

  Adam shook his head.

  “That’s Dragon Hill. A dragon was killed there. Nothing ever grows where dragon’s blood was spilt.”

  “Cool.” Adam stared in fascination at the small, bald-topped hill far below, then turned to join his cousins as they ran beside the chalk lines, tracing the shape and size of the White Horse over the hillside.

  Only Chantel stood still, mesmerized by the great white eye at her feet. Slowly she stepped forward and began to walk around it.

  Holly turned and saw her. Amazement crossed her face. She stopped and pointed.

  “What’s up?” Owen asked.

  “Did you tell Chantel about walking widdershins around the eye of the White Horse?” asked Holly.

  Owen shook his head and also turned to watch.

  Adam ran over to them. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Chantel.” Holly’s voice was a breathy whisper. “She’s doing the ritual.”

  Chantel continued to circle the eye.

  “She’s only walking in circles. She’s goofing around again,” said Adam.

  Holly shook her head. “She’s walking widdershins around the eye. If she does it seven times, it’s an ancient ritual, a real spell.”

  Adam looked blank. “Widdershins?”

  “Anti-clockwise … four … five … keep counting.”

  “So what? What’s it supposed to do? Turn her into a frog?” Adam laughed.

  “’Course not, but she’ll get whatever she wishes for in either seven minutes, seven days, seven weeks, seven months, or seven years.”

  Adam laughed again. “Yeah, right. What are you trying to do? Freak us out?”

  Holly laid a hand on his arm. “I’m not trying to freak anyone out, Adam Maxwell. I’m just telling you what they say in the village. And I hope your little sister has wished wisely, because she has just been round the eye seven times.”

  Chantel stopped and gazed down at the ancient chalk face. Her dream memory of the beautiful horse was clear and vivid. “I wish I could see you again,” she whispered. “I wish you were my horse for the summer.”

  A roll of thunder rumbled around the valley.

  Startled, Holly, Adam, and Owen lifted their faces sky–ward. Dark blue and purple clouds had built up behind them, rolling, boiling and rapidly obscuring the clear sky.

  “Better boogie,” shouted Owen. “That’s a heck of a storm. Let’s get the ponies before they’re spooked.” He ran uphill towards the fence, Holly following.

  Chantel was listening to the voice in her head. She crouched down and scraped frantically at the surface of the chalk eye at her feet.

  Adam ran to Chantel, grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away. “Come on, you idiot. We’ll be caught in the storm.”

  Large drops of rain began to splatter the ground.

  “You’re hurting me.” Chantel shook off Adam’s grip. She scraped at the chalk again, and plucked something from the ground. It glimmered gold as she closed her palm around it.

  “We’ll leave you behind,” yelled Adam, running uphill. “You’ll never find your way back on your own.”

  “Will so,” muttered Chantel as she followed.

  The ponies shifted uneasily beside the fence, but quieted when the children arrived.
Adam ignored his sister, so Holly helped her mount, then swung up herself.

  The rain became a downpour, soaking everyone. The thunder rolled.

  “Cut across the hill,” called Holly. “It’s the short way home. Lean backward as we go downhill. Follow that magpie.” She pointed to a lone bird flapping towards the village.

  Holly dug her heels into Harlequin’s ribs. He snorted and headed across the side of the hill. Adam followed. Chantel held the reins in one hand and clutched the gold in the other. She urged Snowflake forward. Owen brought up the rear.

  They were halfway across the slope when it happened.

  A spear of lightning sizzled and struck the ground in front of Chantel and Snowflake. A thunderclap shook the earth.

  With a whinny of fright Snowflake reared, tossing Chantel like a rag doll. She flew through the air and fell silent and unmoving on the wet grass. Her hand stayed tightly clenched around the gold fragment.

  As fast as it had started, the storm stopped.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWO FOR JOY

  The Wise Ones held council.

  Equus’s eyes shone. “I’ve made contact. A girl child sees and hears me.”

  Myrddin groaned. “One child. Millions of people, but only one child hears us.”

  Equus stamped a hoof, and a shower of stars sparkled the heavens. “Celebrate, Myrddin! One child is better than none. Besides, three other children were with her. Take heart. Given time perhaps they too will hear us.”

  “Time is short,” snapped Myrddin.

  “Shhhh,” Ava soothed. “Traa dy liooar, remember. Time enough.” She ran a wing down the horse’s neck. “Be gentle with the child, Equus. Humans are afraid of powers they do not understand.”

  Equus hung his head. “I know. I sent a lightning message to them all. But it made her fall, and she broke a leg. She is in a place of healing.”

  Myrddin tutted and Ava sighed.

  “I had forgotten the fragility of human children,” Equus said. “But I’ve sent her healing dreams. She and I will talk again.”

  “How can you warn a child about the Dark Being?” said Ava sadly.

  “I’ll explain one task at a time,” replied Equus. “She must understand about being a Magic Child before she can help us against the Emptiness.”

  “We may not have time,” Myrddin insisted.

  Ava smiled and held out her wings in blessing. “Have faith in the Lady. There will be time enough.”

  CCC

  Chantel lay still and white on her hospital bed, her hand still clenched. No one had been able to pry apart her fingers.

  Only the occasional flicker of her closed eyelids showed she was alive. But though she seemed unconscious, she spoke with the White Horse.

  Hello, child.

  Is that you, Horse? Did my wish come true? Are you my horse now?

  Yes, I’m the Great White Horse, and you are the Magic Child.

  What does that mean?

  That together you and I can ride the wind and share magical secrets. Relax. Open your heart and mind to me.You are the new Magic Child with a powerful gift. But now you must heal, so sleep and dream, sleep and dream. You can learn through your dreams. Dream of the past, child. See through the eyes of Alin, one of the people you call Celts. He was the first Magic Child.

  CCC

  Alin stood among the circle of youths on the hilltop. Many were hopeful, some were apprehensive, and one or two shook with terror.

  Not Alin. He stood proud and straight. This was the day he had prepared for all his fourteen summers on earth. The Day of the King, the day the Celtic people honored the Great White Horse God, the day the Chosen One would ride the wind like the Horse God himself.

  Alin pulled back his shoulders and stood tall in the sunshine, a tiny smile on his lips. He watched intently. His heart knew his fate.

  The hooded body of the oldest priest spun blindly in the center of the circle, faster and faster, dizzily swinging his staff in front of the boys. Finally, the priest staggered to a stop, just as Alin knew he would, with the staff pointing unerringly at him.

  The other boys gave a whispering sigh as they drew back, leaving Alin alone. He strode towards the edge of the hillside. The crowds gathered on the terraces far below in the valley known as the Manger saw that a choice had been made. A faint roar of approving voices drifted upward on the wind.

  Alin eyed the tabooed slope down to the Manger. It was a long way down and heart-stoppingly steep, but this mo–ment was what he had secretly trained for. He could ride it — given the right horse.

  Next Alin turned towards Dragon Hill.

  There stood the distant, glittering, gold-clad figure of the current king. Alin raised his arm in salute and bowed. The tiny figure raised its arm in acknowledgement.

  Stepping back from the edge, Alin turned and looked at the hooded priest. The priest’s staff gestured towards the horse corral built on the crest of the hill between the carved chalk spine of the Great White Horse and the protective ditch circling the hilltop fort.

  Alin looked over the wattle fence and surveyed this year’s choices. They were fine horses, strong and wiry, their mus–cles playing under their haunches as they nervously moved around the small space. His eye lit on a red mare with a foal nuzzling anxiously against her side. The mare turned her head and gazed unblinkingly at Alin. As their eyes met, Alin’s heart quickened. She could do it. She had the wiriness and sure-footedness to tackle the hill, the strength in her hindquarters to hold on, and the will to survive for her foal. He stretched out his hand and exhaled gently.

  The mare’s ears flickered and she stepped forward and let him rub her forehead.

  Two more priests appeared. One grasped the mare’s forelock, threw the gold and enameled bridle over her head and buckled the small ceremonial saddle with gold stirrups onto her back. The other took Alin’s arm. He was led away, back to the edge of the hill, where he was rapidly stripped and left to stand naked and vulnerable.

  All this was done in silence save for the wind, the rustle of dry grass, the occasional whicker from the horses, and the ethereal song of the skylark.

  Alin drew a deep breath, spicy with earthy smells, the sweat of horses and humans, the dusty chalk, the smoky odor of the priest’s wool and leather robes, and the acrid smell of fear from several of the youths in the surrounding semi-circle. He glanced back at them, aware that now he was no longer part of their easygoing group. He was no longer a fellow conspirator in a prank against the elders, a worthy opponent on the wrestling ground, or a trusted partner in the wild boar hunt. Now he was the Chosen One. The few yards between him and his comrades were as great a distance as that between them and the far horizon.

  Alin glanced at each well-known face. Some reflected awe, others pity and grief, some fear, and several gazed back as though he were a stranger. Only his best friend Halydd shared his joy. They exchanged a glance of triumph as the priests chanted a blessing and the attending acolytes responded with their ritual keening.

  Once again the old priest raised his staff. The mare was led for–ward. The people roared, and Alin knew his time had come.

  The old priest threw back his hood and lifted a braided necklace of white horse hair from around his neck. A gold talisman twisted and twinkled in the sunlight. He threw the necklace over Alin’s head.

  Alin glanced down. The outline of the White Horse was etched into the golden circle. He clasped the talisman and held it to his heart. “May the Great White Horse God be with me,” he murmured, and dropped the braid against his chest as he turned to his horse.

  Grasping the bridle, Alin knotted it loosely and looped it over his arm. Next he twisted his bridle hand into the red mare’s mane. “I won’t drag on your mouth, little mare,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll stick to your back like a burr.” He leapt into the saddle. Using his knees he urged the mare forward towards the very edge of the steep slope into the Manger.

  The crowd below roared again, then fell silent.
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  As he looked again down the almost vertical drop, Alin’s stomach cramped with fear. He felt the red mare’s answer–ing shudder of terror as she realized what was demanded of her. There was no going back his fate was sealed. He was the Chosen One. Death was ahead of him, either within the next seven minutes or at the end of the next seven years. It had always been so for the Chosen Ones.

  Alin’s terrified gaze flickered towards the golden king far below on top of the dragon mound. He knew for the first time the terrible glory of being the Chosen One. Seven years ago the king had been a youth like him, and now his fate rested on Alin’s skill. Alin trembled. Blackness began to gather behind his eyes.

  Just then Halydd started to sing.

  Come all ye men at arms, Choose your horse, and sing.

  Strong and true, Halydd’s voice rang out.

  We’ll leap the downs,

  and ride the wind, And glorify the king.

  One by one the other boys joined in. Defiantly they roared the chorus together.

  We’ll glorify the king.

  We’ll glorify the king.

  We’ll leap the downs, and ride the wind,

  And glorify the king.

  Alin’s heart lifted and the blackness receded. His friends in arms were with him again, egging him on to ride the wind. This was what it was all for — to glorify the Horse King — to perform a great feat that would show the Horse King that his followers were worthy of protection for another seven years.

  Alin gave a great yell, “To the Horse King!” and jabbed his heels hard into the ribs of the red mare.

  She leapt forward over the edge and began the heart-stopping downward journey.

  A piercing whinny came from the horse corral as the foal realized her mother had gone. The small creature took the wattle fence at a standing leap, scattered the priests and followed.

  Astounded, youths, priests, king, and spectators watched the foal leap over the edge and slip and slither in the wake of Alin and the red mare’s death-defying descent. In a trance, Alin felt the world pass by in slow motion. He closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping his balance and helping the red mare ride the wind.

  The wind roared in his ears, competing with the blood pounding in his head and his heart’s rapid beats. Alin heard the red mare’s frantic scrabbles and hoof beats as she strug–gled against the vertical pull of gravity forcing the pace. He gripped with his thighs, thrusting his heels forward over her withers, and lay right back against her haunches to compen–sate for his weight. His body was one with hers. He willed her to fly.