The Tower of Ravens (5 page)

The girl dragged out the blowpipe and the pouch of barbs, her fingers shaking so much she sent a spray of thorns cascading out as she fumbled to fit one into the pipe. She lifted the blowpipe to her mouth, struggling to drag oxygen into her lungs. The mare rose into the golden air, black and uncanny as a raven, and the girl expelled the barb with a great rush of air. It sang out into the sunset wind. Then there was no sound but the strong beat of wings. She let her hand drop. Tears rushed down her face. Her chest heaved in a great sob.

Then the surging movement of wing faltered. The mare dropped back down to the ground, the wings furling again along her side, her legs folding beneath her. She turned and collapsed to one side, her finely sculpted head drooping down to the ground. One-Horn’s daughter stood there for a moment, frozen between triumphant joy and dread, then ran over and flung herself down beside the mare. She ran her hands along the drooping neck, down the long slender legs with their feathery fetlocks, back to the mare’s soft velvety nose. The black skin was warm and silky; breath gusted out of the mare’s large, sensitive nostrils and her eye quivered behind the closed lid. Relief weakened the girl’s limbs so she could not move. She bent over the mare and laid her cheek against its soft skin. The horse’s breath was warm and smelt of grass.

The girl did not linger long. Excitement filled her with new energy. She did not know how long the soporific would work. She covered the sleeping horse with her cloak, left her bow and quiver of arrows on the ground, and began to run back towards the valley. She did not need to go back to the camp. It was the saddlebags in the hollow log she wanted, packed with everything she thought she might need. Over the past two weeks she had prepared carefully, winning a new water-pouch, a whetting-stone and some tinder and flint in a gambling game. She had even challenged First-Male to a game of chance and for once had not allowed him to win, so that she could claim the brooch of the running horse that had belonged to her father. First-Male had been very affronted, for no-one ever let him lose, but One-Horn’s daughter had not cared.

It did not take long to retrieve the saddle, bridle and bulging saddlebags but carrying them back through the forest, up the steep hills and over the ridge was an exhausting struggle. The boots were chafing her heels unbearably and her arms began to ache.

Much to her relief, the winged mare still slept. It was fully dark now, and the arch of night sky was freshly dusted with stars. A new anxiety constricted her breathing. Soon the herd would notice she was gone. Would they wait till morning before they began to hunt, or would they start looking for her straightaway? Surely she had a few more hours before they began to track her? Would the horse wake before then, or would she sleep on till dawn?

One-Horn’s daughter began to make ready. It was incredibly difficult to strap on the saddle in the dark, with the mare lying down, but at last she managed to push the girth under the mare’s belly with a stick, dragging it through and buckling it with stiff and unsure fingers. The bridle was no easier. It seemed to have far too many straps than necessary, and she could not work out how to make the horse open its mouth for the bit. At last she wrenched the mare’s jaw open, and the horse stirred and hurrumphed in its sleep, startling the girl so much she had to bite back a shriek. She rolled up the cloak and tied it to the pommel, then slung her bow and quiver of arrows on her back and clambered up into the saddle, gripping the pommel, afraid the horse would wake before she had time to tie herself on properly. The mare slept on, however, and so she was able to lash herself on tightly, using the reins to secure her arms to the horse’s neck, and a coil of rope to tie her legs and body to the saddle and stirrups. It was not a comfortable position, but the girl knew her greatest danger was being flung to the ground from high in the air. She would rather endure an aching back and arms, and the cutting off of circulation in her hands and feet, than risk such a fall.

She was tired after her exertions and rested her head on the dark flowing mane, wondering how long she had before the horse woke up or the herd found her. She even drifted off into an uneasy doze for a while, though the throbbing of her shoulder sockets and her wrists kept her from a deeper repose. At times she felt she was falling and would jerk awake, the leather biting into her flesh, only to drift asleep again. Then she heard a sound that brought her wide awake at once. It was the hullabaloo of the hunt. Although the sound was still faint, the girl knew how swift were the satyricorn. She had only a few minutes.

Frantically she began to kick the mare with her heels, and lash her neck with the end of the reins, rocking her body back and forth, urging the horse to wake, to flee. The shouts came closer. She lashed the mare harder. A convulsive shudder ran through the horse’s body. She felt the satin-smooth skin ripple and twitch. Then the horse hurrumphed and suddenly jerked up onto its knees. The gril was rocked wildly, banging her chin on the pommel of the saddle and inadvertently biting her tongue as the mare bounded to her feet. She only had time to gasp and blink back tears, before the horse began to buck and rear wildly all round the clearing. One-Horn’s daughter was jerked back and forth, up and down, bashing her face on its neck and withers, all the breath knocked out of her. The ropes cut her flesh cruelly. The horse galloped through the trees, trying to knock her off against a branch. She clung on grimly, trying to control her nausea and dizziness, feeling as battered and bruised as if she was being beaten with a club. One of her knees whammed so hard into a tree trunk that she thought it had been dislocated. Her skin was scraped and torn.

Fly
, she silently urged the mare.
Fly away from here else they catch us
…

The mare spread her great feathery wings and leapt up into the air. The girl’s stomach flip-flopped and she could not prevent a high-pitched scream from bursting out of her throat. Although it was still night-time, the moons had risen while she had dozed and the sky was bright with stars. She could see the dark shapelessness of the forest dropping away below her, incredibly fast, and feel the cold bite of the wind on her face. She shut her eyes and gripped tight every muscle in her aching arms and legs, determined not to fall.

As soon as the mare was in the air, the dreadful jolting and jarring was over. The mare flew smoothly and steadily, higher and higher. She could feel the smooth working of its muscles beneath her legs, and hear the rhythmic beat of its long wings. The sound was somehow soothing and after a while she dared to open her eyes. They seemed suspended in black fathomless space, stars all around and nothing below them. She shut her eyes again with a gasp, and rested her cheek against the horse’s withers.
Don’t let me fall
, she thought.

The mare’s wings straightened and held steady. They hung there in the starry sky for an inestimably long moment, hovering. The girl took a deep painful breath and tightened her grip. Without warning the mare folded back her wings. They began to fall, hurtling towards the ground. Suddenly her wings snapped open again and the girl was flung backwards, crying aloud as the bonds jerked at her wrists and ankles. The mare neighed in distress as the jerk on the reins bruised her tender mouth. The girl fell back into the saddle with a painful thump, catching her breath with tears, and the mare neighed again and tried to buck. Again and again the mare sought to dislodge her, but the girl’s knots held and she did not fall. So the mare flew on again, shaking her mane and neighing in distress, occasionally trying to buck off the heavy weight or shake away the hard, foul-tasting metal bit in her mouth.

They flew for an eternity. Then the sun was rising ahead of them, striking the girl’s tired eyes like a silver-tipped whip. She shrank back, hiding her face in the flowing black mane. There was no sound but the steady beat of wings and the whistling of the wind. She guessed they were too high to hear birdsong. Without lifting her head she opened her eyes again and looked down past the sleek black shoulder. Below were wisps of rose-tinted clouds. They drifted apart and she could see a thin, shining curve of water winding through green forest. She could not believe how high they were. It hurt her lungs to breathe.

As the day wore on, the black mare grew weary and her attempts to throw the girl off grew feebler. The girl herself was near-fainting with exhaustion and pain. When at last the horse flew down to drink at the river and rest a while, she found she could not free herself. Her skin was so chafed and swollen that the leather reins had sunk deep into her flesh and she could not reach the knife strapped inside her boot, or unbuckle the dagger at her waist. They rested together, the mare lipping at the water, occasionally shuddering as she tried to shake the weight off, and the girl lying with her head resting on her bound arms, her arms and shoulders and knees and ankles throbbing unbearably. The sight of the water tortured her, for she was very thirsty. She tried again to reach the little black knife, but her movement spooked the horse and it shied and bucked. Helplessly she jerked and flopped around, and the horse neighed in terror and took off again, galloping through the forest, using its wings to leap through the underbrush or turn a sharp corner, bashing the girl against trees and rock-faces. One-Horn’s daughter cracked her head hard against a stone cliff and felt pain lance down her neck and spine, then away she spun into a deep red, roaring unconsciousness. Time unravelled.

A THING OF BEAUTY

“Such are the horses on which gods

and heroes ride, as represented by

the artist. The majesty of men

themselves is best discovered in the

graceful handling of such animals.

A horse so prancing is indeed a

thing of beauty, a wonder and a

marvel; riveting the gaze of all who

see him.”
 

Xenophon

On Horsemanship
, 431-354 B.C.

Kingarth