by Chris Ward
They talked of happy things, but at one point her kindma spoke a little of her mind.
‘Dear when you get back there are some things I would like to tell you. Important things which perhaps I should have mentioned before but, well, your kindpa and I thought it best not to worry you, and well, now here you are a grown woman, almost married…’
Sylvion looked at her intrigued, but with her mind on other things. ‘I can’t wait kindma, but first I need to visit the Equin, I hope you understand.’ She reached over and held her kindma’s hand. Sonja Greyfeld nodded kindly.
‘It can wait a few more hours; you go, and please be careful, so much has changed around here, and the forest… well, you know my feelings.’
‘I’ll be fine, kindma, please don’t worry.’
After her breakfast she left the house and went to saddle Lightfoot who whinnied joyfully at her appearing. She strapped on a small saddlebag containing a few refreshments and of course she always wore her sword, a fine weapon that had been in the Greyfeld family for more than three generations; it had been a gift to her from her kindpa Sontim, just before he went missing, and had become a precious last reminder of this beloved man. With these few preparations completed she was mounted and away, trotting her faithful horse down past the rows of carefully maintained vegetables and into the orchard. The air was fresh and scented, and the sun warmed her skin most wonderfully. It promised to be a perfect day.
Her kindma watched her daughter leave, standing anxiously by a window. In a few minutes Sylvion had entered the forest and was lost from sight.
Shortly after Sylvion’s departure, Captain Bach and his now immaculately turned out men trotted up to the front gate of the Greyfeld estate and dismounted. They quietly tied their horses to a convenient old oak which had grown there for almost five hundred years and whose huge branches reached the ground over a wide area. The pompous captain lined his men up under the shelter of the enormous tree and gave a speech; he loved the sound of his own voice and dreamt of one day being in charge of a complete division of men, a hundred, maybe more. Then he would organise parades, and have all sorts of opportunities to impress with his eloquence.
He drew himself up, puffed out his chest and surveyed his motley band of four soldiers.
‘Today there are to be no mistakes. We are after the girl, alive and unhurt. These are the king’s orders; remember that before you do something stupid. The girl has a sword and can use it as we all saw yesterday. However I would like to think that five of us with the element of surprise can apprehend her. And in case you were wondering why I didn’t have her taken in last night, it’s because I didn’t want the townsfolk knowing anything about it. Apparently this family is well respected and we don’t need any more trouble at the moment. We have the town pretty much doing what we want so we don’t want to push them too far by doing anything really unnecessary.’ He glared hard at Soldier Sleeman who dropped his eyes. ‘There are only five of us to deal with the whole town, this is not enough. I have another man arriving any day now, who will make a big difference, but until then it is just us.’ He paused to allow the importance of his words to sink in. He knew that all four of his men were slow witted and needed simple instructions. He detested them all.
‘Soldiers Moss and Sleeman!’ The captain spoke with authority.
‘Sir!’ they both replied in unison. Soldier Sleeman sported a black eye from his early morning encounter with his Captain’s fist, and was anxious to avoid any further trouble.
‘You will go quietly around to the back and prevent anyone leaving by whatever route may seem convenient. Not just a door. Do you understand?’
‘Yes sir,’ they chorused.
‘The rest of us will go in through the front door without asking.’ He smiled wickedly and drew his sword, and waved it menacingly in the sunlight. His eyes followed the blade in eager anticipation. ‘Anybody who tries to stop us can be cut down. We only want the girl.’
‘Yes sir,’ said all the men quietly.
‘All right, let’s go.’
*
Sylvion followed the faint track her own feet had made in years past. She knew the ground and rocks, each tree and every glade for some distance into the forest. The sun streamed down through the canopy and birds and small squirrel like creatures scurried about their business. She knew there were wolves and sabrecats throughout the forest for she had often come upon their tracks, but they were mostly nocturnal by habit and she had never confronted anything dangerous enough to cause her harm, and especially after she had encountered the Equin.
In a beautiful clearing cut through by a silver bubbling brook, she dismounted and let Lightfoot feed on the lush grass whilst she ran in the sheer joy of being alive in such a beautiful, peaceful place.
*
The soldiers, led by Captain Bach crashed through the front door which splintered easily and swung back knocking over a large vase of freshly cut flowers, smashing it into a thousand tiny pieces. Their dirty boots left evil tracks upon the newly swept floor. They separated and entered rooms to the left and right as the mighty Captain went bravely down the central hall. He swept his sword viciously to cut down an ancient woven tapestry, and then smashed a fist into a simple cabinet which contained five generations of family mementos. The sounds of their assault gave Sonja Greyfeld a fright. She was washing dishes and dreaming of her lovely Sontim, missing and never coming home. She dropped her favourite plate which broke in pieces upon the flagstone floor. She cried out, but no sound came from her terrified lips.
*
Sylvion did ten cartwheels in a row like she had done so often as a child, and then twirled around and around, her long tethered hair flying out like her simple flowing dress, with arms extended to balance her, round and round she spun, faster and faster, her head tossed back, she looked skywards, until completely dizzy beyond words, she fell in giggles to the grass.
*
The Captain roared, ‘Sylvion Greyfeld you are under arrest by warrant of the king,’ he pushed over a table which displayed a simple drawing of Sontim in his youth. The kindly frail old woman in the kitchen began to run.
There were demons in her house; the forest was seeking revenge, she must flee
Her legs wobbled but she made it to the back door just as three fierce and screaming soldiers burst into her beloved kitchen.
*
Sylvion grabbed two handfuls of the long lush grass and tossed it into the air where it fell around her in a mist of green like a wedding canopy, or a shroud.
*
The old woman made it out the door and stumbled blindly towards the vegetable patch; her lips moved silently as if in prayer, but not a sound could be heard.
Soldier Sleeman was waiting and with a smile of triumph, sure that this was not the girl they were after, and desperately keen to impress his Captain, stepped into her path and with a single thrust passed his sword right through her tiny body. He held her up with his free hand, huge around the tiny woman’s frame, and watched as her eyes registered disbelief, than pain, then closed forever. He let her fall and as she did, he pulled the sword smartly from her and then stood like a proud hunter with his prey; completely and utterly victorious.
*
Sylvion suddenly felt a pain in her chest, and for a moment she could not breathe, but then it passed and all around was deathly quiet, the clearing in the sunlight and Lightfoot gently feeding by the brook.
She took a deep breath and called her horse who obediently came to her.
‘Come Lightfoot we must travel on,’ and now an orphan, she mounted expertly, and eagerly went deeper into the Wildwood forest where thunder ruled and danger lurked. As she rode, she pulled a small horn from a saddlebag and putting it to her lips blew a long low note which reverberated off the hills and rocks. She repeated this every little while until suddenly Lightfoot halted on the edge of small and gently sloping valley with her ears pricked sniffing the air. She whinnied and excitedly pawed the earth.
&nb
sp; ‘They’re coming Lightfoot, the equin are coming,’ Sylvion patted her faithful horse’s neck and slid out of the saddle. She put her ear to the ground and listened and then felt. Far off thunder sounded, and rolled, and small creatures stopped their busy scurrying and disappeared to safety into burrows or nests deep in the rotting hollows of a tree. The thunder sounded closer, growing in strength and the earth shook under its power, and Sylvion’s eyes widened in anticipation.
Suddenly only a hundred paces away, and from under the trees higher up on the opposite slope a huge stallion galloped into view. He was of the purest white and powerfully built, yet wonderfully proportioned, full of vigour and life. He snorted loudly, then reared with nostrils flaring, turning a full circle before once more placing all his legs like thunder claps upon the ground.
‘Thunder, it’s Thunder Lightfoot, he heard our call.’ Sylvion could not contain herself and ran out into the clearing followed by a highly excited Lightfoot. The huge white stallion whinnied a welcome and stood proudly like a statue as the beautiful young woman ran forwards. As Sylvion ran the valley filled with a hundred other such horses, all beautiful, all large and equally full of life but none so grand as their magnificent white leader.
Thunder was much larger than a normal horse, standing over twenty-two hands at the shoulder, and of the others full grown, none was less than eighteen. As the horses stopped to graze the thunder ceased, and a quiet peace descend once more upon the forest.
Sylvion stood before Thunder and spoke. ‘I have missed you friend, it is over a year and you look no different than when we first met ten years ago.’ The big white horse shook his head, and coming forward gently nuzzled into Sylvion’s shoulder; she reached up and stroked the huge neck and smiled into the creature’s most beautiful black eye. If any had been watching it would have appeared that Sylvion was having a conversation with the horse, and in her time this would have brought cries of witchcraft, but in truth the beast could not talk, it was just a horse in respect of language, but the Equin as Sylvion had always called them, were no ordinary beasts. They had lived and ruled in Wildwood forest for hundreds of years. They were special creatures with magical qualities, for they did not die, and could only be killed by a silver arrow, or by leaving the limits of their forest, which they had never done. They were majestic to behold and when they galloped together the sounds of their hooves could be heard for leagues around, echoing from ridge to ridge and rolling down the long forest valleys in waves; but there was a deep sadness which traveled with them, for they could produce no young.
And Thunder was their leader
Sylvion had read the ancient legend of the old Revelin who had first settled in the far north and who had now vanished from the land, although stories told of a remnant that still lived in the Great Northern forest; but no one had ever seen them. Their old legends told of the Equin, a lost people who had rebelled against the second Revelin king of the north and who had, by evil magic, been turned into mighty horses and allowed to live forever out of sight in the deep forests of the north, to prevent the southern people from passing and taking over the land. It was because Sylvion possessed this knowledge that upon her first chance meeting with Thunder as a child, she had spoken of the legend that the great horse had befriended her. Only her innocence as a child prevented her destruction. She had learnt over the years that whilst they could not speak, they knew things beyond themselves and were almost human in their ways. She could not explain it but if she spoke she was understood. She had tested this in childish ways. On several occasions she had told Thunder that she would return, and he had always met her at the place and time she had nominated. She perceived in the Equin a loneliness and a yearning for company beyond themselves, and so over many years and visits into her adult life Sylvion had spoken of the world beyond the forests, and had brought gifts of food and childish drawings which the horses would view and toss their heads and snort as if communicating between themselves.
And yet more entrancing still…the Equin could dance.
The horses rolled in the lush grass and played, kicking up their heels and galloping suddenly, moving like a coiled spring released. Sylvion spoke to Thunder who gently lowered himself to the ground, bending his powerful front legs and then hindquarter until he sat majestically on the ground. His massive face was still as high as the woman full standing, and he allowed her to stroke his neck and scratch his ears. In times past she had found that he particularly liked to have the right ear rubbed, and although he could do this against any tree, she could do it far better, and as if by habit when she talked too long and he tired of her words he would push her over with a simple butt of his head and snort until she once more fulfilled his simple craving for human contact and an ear well rubbed.
‘There is a great evil in land,’ Sylvion spoke to Thunder, and several other steeds that had gathered to listen to her talk. They sat in a circle around her. Lightfoot was allowed to graze on the edge of the group. Sylvion knew her horse wanted to come closer and was always hugely excited at their meeting, but the Equin prevented her coming too close, and she had never understood why. It was just their law, and to be respected; but Lightfoot, a big and impressive horse by any standard never gave up hope of being accepted.
‘The king is mad and getting madder. There are soldiers everywhere and the Council fear an assault on the Highlands. I am to be married soon. Rema Bowman is his name, I would love you to meet him, he is brave and funny and kind and gentle…’
She did not see a number of the Equin around her flinch at the name, for ‘bowman’ had a dangerous association for them. They feared the arrow, and although silver headed arrows were not common, in ages past they had been used by men of valour, and any mention made them feel unsettled. The great horses could not speak but she knew they understood, and Thunder never missed a word of what she had to say. Others of the Equin would come and go, listen for a time then move off to play or graze with others. She recognised Moonlight, and Longface, the gentle Lacewing, and the impetuous Rush. She had named many of them and they knew her, but Thunder was her favourite. He seemed interested in all that she had to say and there was deep gravity to his manner, as though he waited for a change, a release perhaps from the spell if that were possible which bound him to the forest.
After a time she lay back against Thunder’s massive flank and dozed happily whilst he sat quietly, watching over his companions, only the gentle flaring of his nostril as he breathed and the occasional blink of an eye gave any clue that he was not carved from polished marble.
When she awoke the Equin were dancing.
For such large and powerful beasts they were graced with an ability to prance and move together in a harmony which never failed to take Sylvion’s breath away. The amazing manner in which they danced around each other, and with each other, mimicking, gently touching, brushing flanks and feinting and dodging, and so many all at once, was proof enough of a deeper mystery. And as they danced there was no thunder, just the gentlest rustling of the grass. Sylvion wept with joy, and when they finished, after almost at a finger span of the sun’s traverse, and all in unison, she clapped and clapped, and as she did all the Equin turned toward her and snorted their acknowledgement.
‘I must go now Thunder,’ she said stretching in pleasure. ‘I will return as soon as I can, and perhaps I could bring my Rema?’ She looked intently at the impassive horse, who shook his massive head and snorting loudly, stood quickly, and walked a little to loosen his legs from so long being bent beneath him.
‘I understand,’ said Sylvion, ‘He knows nothing of you, but think upon it, he is no threat and I love him with my life.’ And then, acting on an impulse, reached up upon her toes, and still a way beneath the favourite right ear whispered something. Thunder paused and looked hard at her, and then at Lightfoot standing patiently in the distance. Thunder whinnied once and trotted over to the grey, whose ears pricked up and Sylvion could see her flanks quivering in expectation. The mighty Equin, leader of the
thunderous and mystical, went up and nuzzled Lightfoot in a gentle friendly way as if to say, ‘You are a friend and welcome.’
And then he reared and all the Equin with him, and suddenly the valley was empty but the thunder rolled for ages as the mighty horses galloped away into the depths of the ancient forest to places Sylvion could only dream of, and where even she was afraid to go.
She mounted Lightfoot happily and together they trotted slowly homeward. The sun was an hour or two from setting and she knew she would be home for a warm dinner of roast duckling and potatoes and that tasty gravy only her kindma knew how to make. It had been a perfect day. Unbeknown to Sylvion, Thunder had not galloped much beyond the valley where they had spent the day. He let the rest charge on, for he knew where they were heading for the night, and worried about his friend, if worry could describe the emotion of such a beast, he followed at a distance, sniffing the air and sensing the fear which traveled on the wind from beyond the forest limit.
Sylvion first became alarmed as her horse broke out of the trees and she saw her house in the warm evening sunshine. There was no smoke from the chimney. Her kindma prided herself on never letting the fire go out. It had burned continuously for years, carefully stoked and tended; in the morning there were always glowing coals to light the dry new wood from the neat woodpile kept by the kitchen door. Sylvion sensed a coldness about the place which made her immediately fearful, and she remembered then the sharp pain she had felt earlier in the day.
‘Kindma,’ she spoke quietly to herself, ‘what has happened here?’
She dismounted and took the saddle and other bags from Lightfoot and let him loose in the orchard, thinking that she would return him to the stables when she felt it safer. She drew her sword and disappeared from view behind a hedgerow that led to the stables; crouching, she moved quickly and silently until she could stand once more, hidden behind the stone of the rear wall.
