by Kate Forsyth
The rest of the day was spent carefully filing holes in his teeth so she could hang them on the thin leather thong around her neck. She already had a fair collection of teeth and bones – mainly those of birds and small mammals, but a few sharp yellow goblin fangs as well. She stripped his finger-bone of skin and flesh and scrubbed it well, then hung it in the centre with the goblin teeth on either side, then the other bones and teeth from the largest to the smallest, finishing with the dead man’s small, white teeth. All the while she worked she was aware of Reamon’s distress and revulsion but would not let it bother her.
The necklace looked good when she had finished, very full and heavy. She hung it around her neck, conscious of its weight against her skin. It rattled when she moved. She tried to keep her movements smooth, knowing she had aroused a lot of jealousy with her newfound glory. She told herself she would have aroused contempt and scorn instead of jealousy if she had not claimed the clothes and teeth, but the truth was she was enjoying the new respect in the eyes of the other satyricorns. Soon she would be gone. She did not need to fear their envy.
Many stories of the fabled flying horses were told around the campfire. It was said they could not be tamed, and that any who dared try would be thrown from a great height and killed.
Yet Reamon had once told her that some men of his race had succeeded in taming the golden winged horses of the west, and these men became great princes and warriors. The only way to tame a flying horse, he said, was to stay on its back for a year and a day, without dismounting once. If a rider managed this feat of skill and determination, then the respect of the flying horse was won and it would submit to its rider’s will. Few ever succeeded, however, and many died trying.
One-Horn’s daughter thought to herself that if a man like Reamon could stay on a winged horse’s back for a year and a day, surely she could do it for a mere day or two. Just long enough to escape.
It was her plan to tie herself so firmly to the flying horse that it could not throw her off. She thought the horse’s response would be to soar as high into the sky as it could. Eventually it must tire and come down to earth, and then she would cut herself free, letting the horse go. She did not care where she found herself, as long as it was many miles away from the herd.
Her big problem was how to capture the winged horse and keep it still and quiet long enough to saddle and bridle it, and to tie herself to the saddle. She had thought of rigging up a trap with a net but was afraid she might break the horse’s leg or wings. She knew it was no use leaping from a tree trunk onto its back, because satyricorns had tried that in the past and had only been thrown off.
From the moment she had seen the horse, an idea had been brewing in her brain, but while the herd was still looking at her sideways and keeping track of her movements, she dared not see if the idea might bear fruit. She waited two full weeks, long enough for the herd to begin to forget. During that time she kept up her usual solitary habits, practising her archery in the high meadows, bringing in the occasional fish or bird, sleeping well away from the fire. Eventually the other women stopped spying on her, being too busy with the normal squabbles over the men and the food.
At last One-Horn’s daughter felt free to return to her cache in the forest. She chose a chilly, misty evening when the herd was tired after a long day spent hunting, and filled with roast bear and tia-tio. Busy with their wrestling and boasting and gambling, they would not notice she had gone. Or so she hoped.
Going by a tortuous, labyrinthine route, and taking care to leave no trail, One-Horn’s daughter came at last to the hollow log where she had hidden the saddle and saddlebags. She paused there for a long moment, listening, before daring to drag out her prizes. She had brought with her a hot coal wrapped in a pouch of fur. She used it to kindle a fat-dipped reed which she stuck in a knothole, and then she quickly rummaged through the saddlebags.
On the day the herd had hunted down the rider and his horse, he had somehow managed to knock out three of his pursuers before the herd had dragged him down. He had done so from horseback, at a full gallop, and without apparently drawing a weapon. None of the herd had thought to wonder how he had done it, except for One-Horn’s daughter. As usual she had been lagging behind the rest of the herd, not having their speed or stamina, and so she had seen the three women fall. While the others had raced on after the horse and rider, One-Horn’s daughter had stopped and examined the fallen women. All three had had a sharp-pronged black thorn sticking out of their skin. She had pulled the thorns out and thrown them away, and all three women had woken some time later, red-eyed and grumpy and complaining of headaches. One-Horn’s daughter thought the rider must have had some way of throwing or spitting out the thorn, since he had hit the women from quite a long distance and with amazing accuracy.
With satisfaction, she found a pouch of black barbs tucked in the front flap of one of the saddlebags. With them were two small bottles, one red and one green, and a long blowpipe. Over the next few days, she was able to establish that barbs anointed with liquid from the green bottle only knocked their target unconscious, while those doused in the liquid from the red bottle killed. The girl’s plans crystallised.
She began to spend as much time as she dared searching for the herd of flying horses. Whenever she had a chance, she interrogated Reamon for all he knew about horses in general and winged horses in particular, although she feared him guessing her plans. She practised buckling and unbuckling the saddle and bridle, and whittled herself a quiver full of new arrows. She kept the blowpipe and pouch of barbs in her pocket, dousing the tips with the soporific liquid first. Whenever she could, she practised using the blowpipe, until she began to have a fair measure of accuracy.
Having a plan to work towards steadied her and made it easier to deal with the petty unkindness of the other women, though at times she found it hard to hide her excitement, which thrilled her blood like pine-cone ale.
One clear fine evening, she was hunting high in the alpine meadows when she heard the distant neigh of a horse. Her heart leapt so sharply in her breast that it pained her. She looked about quickly and saw the herd of black horses galloping along a far ridge. There were more than a dozen of them, led by a tall, deep-chested stallion with horns as long as swords springing from his brow. The mares that followed him were smaller and daintier, and their horns were not so long, but they were still far bigger than the wild ponies she was used to.
The girl gazed up at the herd for a long moment, enthralled by their beauty, but then, as they cantered out of sight behind the ridge, she dropped the brace of coneys she held and began to run after them.
She ran till her breath tore in her chest, clutching at the stitch in her side, bounding over boulders and between trees, tearing her flesh on brambles and bruising her feet. Her anxiety was acute. Two and a half weeks had passed since the last time she saw the winged horses, and she dared not lose her chance. As she came leaping and stumbling over the stony edge of the ridge, tears were beginning to blur her vision. She did not think she would be able to bear it if the horses had flown out of sight. She would just keep running, she swore to herself, and take her chances.
The horses were standing together in the meadow, heads bent to graze the sweet new grass. The stallion flung up his head and stared at her, his ears laid flat against his skull, his eyes ringed with white. Then he trumpeted a warning, rearing up on his hind legs before galloping about the herd, biting one mare on the flank when she was too slow to react. Black wings snapped open and the herd leapt up into the air, neighing in alarm. The stallion leapt with them, his wings so vast they blotted out the sun.
The girl flung up one pleading hand, calling silently, No, wait …
One of the mares turned to look at her, even as it launched itself into the air, tucking its legs up under its chest and belly. The stallion had soared over the ridge and the sky was again full of light, so the girl could see the mare clearly. She was very tall but delicately made, with slender limbs and a small, proud
head. Her long, scrolled horns were opalescent blue, and more blue flashed at the tip of her sable wings.
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, her 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 more 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 girl 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 hur
t 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.
‘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.
