Goldmayne: A Fairy Tale

by Kate Stradling

  She stumped back down the hall then, leaving Duncan alone in front of the black room that was now his bedchamber. He watched her disappear behind the library door, which slammed with a hearty thud.

  Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the dust-encumbered room she had assigned him. It was not yet noon. Surely he had enough time left in the day to find the laundry house and figure out how to operate its contents. He supposed it was very selfish of him to work on a room that would benefit him alone, but such it was.

  “Have to start somewhere, after all,” he murmured.

  Chapter 2

  Laundry back on his father’s farm had consisted of a washing board, a bar of soap, and a lot of scrubbing down by the stream. Duncan had seen the contents of a laundry house before—the huge brass boilers, the paddles, the bags of soap flakes. The squire’s manor had a laundry house, and he had delivered produce there often enough to have seen it in use on several occasions.

  It didn’t take him very long to figure out how everything worked. It took him far longer to drag down all of the bedding, the window curtains, the bed curtains, and the rugs. Thankfully all of Dame Groach’s outbuildings had water piped in—from a cistern or a well, Duncan did not know—and filling the brass pots was an easy matter.

  After stewing the fabrics in sudsy water, he ran them through the ringer and hung them on a line to dry. Then, he turned his attention to the dusty rugs. Those he beat thoroughly.

  Just as he would have to beat the wicked white horse later on, he recalled with every stroke of the paddle.

  He turned his thoughts elsewhere. The rugs had to be carried back upstairs, but the linens and curtains still needed time to dry. He ran the errand, considered whether to bring down more rugs or more laundry from a second room, but postponed that task for another day. He had originally been hired to tend the gardens, after all, so it only made sense to have a look around there and assess the situation.

  He found the garden shed with little trouble. It was overgrown with vines and infested with spiders. Most of the tools within had grown rusty from neglect. Duncan located a whetstone and set to sharpening everything, from the huge scythe all the way down to the smallest set of pruning clippers. It was well into the afternoon by the time he had finished, and his laundry was dry. He lugged it back upstairs, careful not to let it trail through the dust and mire of the house. At the doorway to the black room, he suddenly realized that the mattress would need to be beaten as well, or else he was just going to get dust all over his newly cleaned sheets.

  He placed the laundry on one of the fresh rugs and remembered the white horse again.

  “Every evening before the sun sets,” Dame Groach had told him. He didn’t know if that was a literal command, or if she just meant that it had to be done on a daily basis. Something in the way she had instructed him made him think that a charm of sorts was enacted.

  “I don’t believe in fairy tales,” he said with grim determination. But, well, he did believe in magic. Even though he’d never witnessed the stuff firsthand, he’d heard plenty of stories from reputable people back in his old village. And if the white horse truly was a wicked beast, and some charm existed to keep it in check, Duncan was under obligation to keep that charm intact.

  One glance at his cloudy window confirmed that the sun was already low in the sky. Duncan swallowed his childish fear and oriented his steps back out to the stables.

  The black horse, Goliath, greeted him with an unpleasant whinny and a glare. Duncan had not changed his water yet.

  “All right, all right,” he said, and he ignored the rustling sound from the other stall. Quickly he set about to complete that task, telling himself all the while that he was not trying to delay the inevitable, and lying through his teeth. Visions of the demon horse swam before his mind’s eye again. He was so distracted that he failed to dodge the nip Goliath directed at his hand as he refilled the horse’s water trough.

  “Ouch!” Duncan cried, and he dropped the half-full bucket of water. Its contents spilled out across the floor. “You ungrateful beast!”

  Goliath bared his teeth, and Duncan could have sworn he heard a chuckle from the next stall. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Apprehensively he stooped and retrieved the bucket. This time, he paid attention as he filled it again and transferred the contents to the black horse’s stall.

  The shadows within the stable deepened as the sun met the horizon outside. Duncan cast his eyes about for a lantern and discovered one on a shelf near the door, next to a couple of old sheepskins. With a little effort, he had the wick lit. Goliath snorted unpleasantly.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Duncan murmured, and he looked around for the cane Dame Groach had commanded him to use. He found it easily enough. It was a sturdy piece of wood, well-worn and hanging from a hook between the two stalls. Duncan grasped it tentatively in one hand and the lantern in the other, and he carefully stepped toward the darkest corner of the stable.

  His heart beat an erratic rhythm as he lifted the lantern to peer into the shadows there. The light caught a gleaming eye that stared right back at him, and a ghostly silhouette was outlined against the blackness. Duncan moved forward and studied the creature more closely.

  It looked like an ordinary horse.

  It was a wicked creature, though, according to Dame Groach. “All right, then,” said Duncan, more to steel his nerves than for any other reason. He eased the stall’s door open, slipped inside, and shut it tightly behind him, all the while keeping his grip on both the cane and the lantern.

  Pale light flooded the stall. Before him, the white horse stood next to the back wall, alert and very still. It was smaller than Goliath by far and skinny enough that Duncan could count the rib bones that showed through its skin. Gray spotted its flank and muzzle, and its mane and tail were that same dingy color. It reminded him of the manor house in a way; they both seemed like forgotten relics that needed a thorough cleaning.

  A wicked creature. Dame Groach’s warning sounded in his ears. He set the lantern on the floor and tightened both hands around the cane. Then, steeling his nerves, he lifted the weapon and started forward to complete his task.

  “Please don’t beat me.”

  Duncan yelped and nearly dropped the cane. He felt the stall door press against his back, but it took him a moment to realize that he had retreated there out of sheer instinct. Wide-eyed, he stared at the white horse, who stared back at him.

  “D-did you… just talk?” Duncan asked, steadily regaining his breath and his wits. “No, you couldn’t—”

  “I’m just as surprised as you are,” said the horse mildly. “I didn’t realize I could talk until just now either.”

  Duncan straightened and looked around. Someone was playing a trick on him, he was sure. He had heard of ventriloquism, voice-throwing and such. Someone was hidden within the stable, trying to startle him.

  “It’s no use looking around like that,” the horse continued in a very candid manner. “There’s no one else here but Goliath, and I’m fairly certain he isn’t throwing his voice over into my stall. Ha, Goliath. That mealy little coward!”

  In the next stall, Goliath snorted in rage.

  “You’re talking,” said Duncan.

  “Yes, we’ve established that, haven’t we? You’re not very quick about these things.”

  “Horses can’t talk,” Duncan insisted.

  The white horse rolled its pale eyes. “If you’d told me that ten minutes ago, I would’ve agreed with you.”

  It must be possessed by some sort of demon, Duncan realized, and he raised the cane a second time. “She warned me you were wicked.”

  The horse bucked its head and tried to back away. “She? You mean the old witch? That’s pretty rich, her calling someone else wicked. Look, please don’t beat me. I’m already skin and bones here, left to rot in the semi-darkness all alone, with nothing but straw and water to live off of. The beating is just gratuitous.”

  Duncan hesita
ted. He had no great desire to abuse the animal, or any animal, for that matter. “B-but, it’s part of my job,” he said uncertainly.

  “It’s not as if she’s watching over your shoulder,” said the horse. “She’s probably holed up in her library plotting someone’s demise. How do you think everything around here got so run-down? What did she snare you with anyway? Promises of magic lessons?”

  “I’m the new caretaker,” Duncan replied. “She’s paying me to upkeep the grounds and the manor house. And to look after you and Goliath, of course.”

  The white horse grunted. “So you’re just a nice, honest kid. You really should turn tail and run as fast as you can from here. Go back home and forget you ever crossed paths with the likes of Dame Groach.”

  “I don’t have a home to go back to. I’ve been sleeping in ditches and living off whatever I could forage.”

  “That beats getting caught in her clutches, I assure you. I have no idea how long I’ve been cooped up in this forsaken little stall. The days all blur together. It’s like I’m in prison.”

  “What did you do that was so wicked?”

  Both ears flicked back. “Nothing really bad, I promise you that. Say, maybe you could carry a letter for me when you escape.”

  “You can read and write too?” Duncan cried, wide-eyed and thoroughly impressed.

  The horse snorted derisively. “No, idiot. How on earth am I supposed to write when all I have are hooves? By holding the pen in my mouth? Do be serious. I’ll dictate the letter, and you’ll write it.”

  “I can’t write,” Duncan responded. “Or read, for that matter. I might be able to recite something, if you didn’t mind repeating it enough times for me to learn it by heart. But I already told you, I don’t have anywhere to go from here. I’m not going to escape.”

  No response came. Instead, the horse simply eyed him with what seemed to be a very baleful expression, for a horse.

  “What happens if I don’t beat you?” Duncan asked abruptly. The horse probably wouldn’t tell him the truth, but he thought it was worth a shot.

  “I get to sleep with fewer aches and pains tonight. What did you think would happen, that I would sprout wings and fly away?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything about magic.”

  “Your mother never told you any fairy tales?”

  Duncan’s brows drew together in a scowl. “She told me loads. I don’t believe in them.”

  “But you do believe in magic?” the horse retorted with a disapproving glare. “You can’t very well believe in one but not the other. They go hand in hand.”

  Faced with a talking horse, Duncan was rather inclined to agree. As the aforementioned horse had such an arrogant attitude, though, he was disinclined to admit as much aloud. “Oh, forget it,” he said instead. He picked up the lantern and slipped back out of the stall.

  “You’re not going to beat me, then?” the white horse called after him. “I thought you looked like a nice kid.”

  “Count yourself lucky tonight,” Duncan grumbled. He supposed that skipping one night couldn’t hurt much of anything.

  When he moved to replace the cane on its hook between the two stalls, Goliath’s sharp teeth suddenly darted forward to nip at Duncan’s hand.

  “Hey!” he cried, and he instinctively used the cane to whack the horse’s nose away. The black horse recoiled, startled. “Quit biting, would you? I’m sorry I hit you, but—”

  Duncan’s apology was interrupted by a peal of laughter from the corner stall. The white horse trotted forward to hang its head over the half-door there. “You hit him? Do it again so I can watch, please!”

  “No,” said Duncan. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Goliath suddenly lunged forward in a second attack, and Duncan again batted him away with the cane.

  “Stop that!” he cried. The black horse backed away. It seemed unsteady on its feet, as though it had been dazed by the blow. In the neighboring stall, the white horse chortled merrily.

  “I didn’t hit him that hard,” said Duncan defensively. “I barely even tapped him!”

  “Again, please,” said the white horse through his laughter. “You’ve no idea how cathartic that was!”

  Duncan had no idea what “cathartic” meant, either. With a frustrated growl, he shoved the cane back onto its hook. He would have made his retreat then, but he belatedly recalled that he had not given the white horse any straw to eat. He took two seconds to pitch some from the pile in the corner. Then he extinguished the lantern and made for the doorway.

  The white horse had laughed heartily through it all. “Wait!” he called just as Duncan was about to disappear into the dimming twilight. “What’s your name, boy?”

  Giving his name to a wicked talking horse was probably unwise, but he couldn’t think of any reason why. Really, what would the horse do with it? “It’s Duncan,” he said.

  “Duncan,” the horse echoed cheerfully. “If you decide not to run away, and if the old witch doesn’t kill you during the night, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  It was an unsettling farewell. Perhaps the wicked horse was wicked because he planted fears into the minds of others. Duncan made no response, but simply shut the stable door and locked it tight. Then, keys jingling as he walked, he returned to the house.

  Mouth-watering aromas slammed his senses the moment he stepped inside. Supper would be on the table, and he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days. Stomach growling, he hurried down the hallway to the dining room.

  “Did you remember to beat the white horse?”

  Duncan yelped and whirled to discover Dame Groach in the doorway of a room he had just passed—a smaller parlor, he thought.

  “Yes,” said Duncan. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He had remembered. He just hadn’t actually done it. “I’ve just come from the stable,” he added for good measure.

  “Did you beat it vigorously?”

  His heart skipped a beat. “N-no, not very.”

  A disapproving noise sounded in the back of her throat. “At least it was done. In future, put your muscle into it. Beat that wicked creature with all your might.”

  “What will happen if I forget?” he asked. He couldn’t help himself, seeing as how he’d already given the horse a night off.

  Dame Groach eyed him with her black, beady eyes. “If you forget to beat that horse even once, he’ll regain his strength during the night, break free of his stall, find you, and trample you to death while you sleep, do you understand?”

  Duncan swallowed and nodded. Suddenly his appetite had vanished.

  “Good. There’s supper on the table, if you’re hungry. I’ve already eaten. I’ll be up in the library.”

  She toddled off down the hallway. With growing unease, Duncan watched her depart. He didn’t want to be trampled during the night by a wicked horse, but he couldn’t very well turn around now and run back to the stables. Dame Groach would know that he had lied to her then, and she seemed to be far more dangerous than the white horse had been.

  Perhaps the horse needed more than one night to regain its strength. Duncan would do his best to obey all of her orders in the future, if only the horse remained in its stall this one night. Yes, everything she commanded him to do…

  His mind stuttered to a halt. “Canaries!” he suddenly blurted.

  At the end of the corridor, Dame Groach stopped and turned an inquiring look upon him, clearly questioning his sanity.

  Duncan stammered out an explanation as best he could. “Y-you said there were canaries in your room. I haven’t fed them yet today.”

  She grunted, the sound barely audible over the distance between them. “I’ll do it today. Remember tomorrow, though.”

  Then, she was gone. Duncan stood in the hallway for several moments longer, anxiety roiling around inside of him. His first day on the job, and already he had committed a grave error. Lying did not sit well with him. His father had always punished him so severely when caught. He couldn’t imagine
what Dame Groach’s reaction would be if she discovered the truth.

  But, then again, if the white horse came and trampled him in his sleep, he would be dead before she could punish him. That was a very slight consolation, indeed.

  Chapter 3

  Given that he had been threatened with a most untimely demise, Duncan should have had a very fitful night’s rest. Instead, he slept like a rock. It helped that he had a full stomach and that he had worked hard all day long, including an evening that consisted of beating the dust out of his bed mattress and putting the black bedchamber back in order.

  Toward dawn, he dreamed of horses—an evil black creature that snapped and gnashed its enormous teeth at him, and a laughing white one that ridiculed him mercilessly. As he awoke to the pale light of early morning, he half expected the two beasts to be standing over him, their heavy breaths in his face.

  Instead, he opened his eyes to the freshly laundered black bed-curtains and a relatively clean room.

  The white horse clearly had not trampled him to death while he slept. Perhaps it had taken the opportunity to escape into parts unknown instead. Duncan quickly rolled out of bed.

  He had the presence of mind to snatch up the ring of keys before he bolted out the door and down the hallway to the stairs. The bathroom door was shut, he noticed, and his mind registered the sound of running water, so he concluded that Dame Groach was within. All the better that she was preoccupied.

  He trotted through the house and out the back door. The stable door was still shut, and the lock undisturbed. Duncan slowed to a more sedate pace as he pondered this. Perhaps the white horse had kicked through the back wall with its regained strength. Or perhaps Dame Groach had lied to him because she had no real reason for beating the creature every night.

  His hand was steady as he selected the correct key and opened the stable door. The gray light of dawn streamed in behind him, and the black horse snorted an unpleasant welcome. The shadowed corner stall was eerily quiet.