Pegasus

by Robin McKinley

  The third time she woke, it had stopped raining, and Ebon was lying near her. There was a little bag with a long loop of ribbon—long enough to hang round his neck—lying on the ground beside him, and he was holding a small wooden bead with one alula-hand, and buffing it with a cloth he held in the other. She pulled herself onto one elbow to see better. She had seen him do this back at the palace, when they had their lessons together, but she had never had the excuse to watch from only a handsbreadth away before—to watch when she wasn’t supposed to be doing her own lessons. And there was something almost miraculous about this bead; it shone like a tiny moon.

  I think that if you sleep any more the Night Shaman will take you away and make you a star, but Dad says yesterday was a hard day and we won’t go anywhere today and if you want to sleep through it that’s fine. And I say that I don’t want to sleep through it and there’s stuff to show you and you don’t have to talk. And you should get up because what if the Night Shaman isn’t just a fairy tale?

  Night Shaman?

  Eah. He gets you both ways—if you don’t go to sleep when you’re supposed to and if you don’t wake up when you’re supposed to. Then you’re a star awake in the sky forever and ever, showing pegasi where to fly. When you’re little you think that if you fly high enough you’ll be able to see the stars even in daylight. I used to think there was some kind of mountain ridge up there where all the star-pegasi stood, shining and being awake all the time. And you should be able to visit them for a while when you don’t feel like sleeping and then come back again. Dad recommends against telling the story like that when I have kids, though, because I’m likely to have kids like I was a kid.

  You tried to fly up to the ridge, right?

  Of course.

  A star sounds like a nice thing to be.

  Not if you’re supposed to be a pegasus. The story really scared me for a long time—that’s why I wanted it to be somewhere you could go and come back from, because I never went to sleep or woke up when I should. He riffled his feathers and looked up through the trees, as if the memory still made him restless. Because I couldn’t. And the Night Shaman always needs more stars. What do human grown-ups tell you is going to happen to you if you don’t behave?

  Oh, that the bogeyman will come and carry you away, and grind your bones for his bread.

  Ebon, who had begun polishing again, stopped. The bogeyman? The hrundagia, with all the teeth, and the long tail it can throw after you and catch you when you think you’ve run away? You say that to a little kid? You humans really are savages.

  Sylvi sat up and laughed. That’s what my mother said when she found out one of my minders was telling me that. I didn’t see that minder again. I’ve never heard of the hrundagia.

  You don’t want to. They’re bigger, meaner, and smarter than taralians. And if they’re real, they live here.

  You’re right. I don’t want to. What are you doing?

  Ebon held it up so the sunlight glinted off it. It’s good, isn’t it? It’s the best one I’ve done. It’s coetotl wood. First you polish it and then you oil it and then you polish it and then you oil it and you go on doing that. There are some words you say over it too—like the ones I taught you, but there are more of them, and they make everything dark and light around you while you say them. And then at the end you hang it around your neck when you go to the Caves because it glows in the dark. This one’s for you. It doesn’t really need any more polishing but I begged some sihria oil off my master, and maybe it’ll glow a little more. The Caves have candles and torches and lamps everywhere but … well, you’ll see. You want to glow in the dark yourself when you’re in the Caves.

  Sylvi pulled her knees up under her chin and hugged them. We really are going?

  Ebon gave her a look even more disbelieving than when she’d mentioned the bogeyman. To the Caves? That’s what you’re here for. Never mind the talking. You can’t have forgotten.

  She hugged her knees harder. It’s just … the Caves. And … ssshasssha, she added, stumbling over all the sss’s.

  I know, said Ebon. But after yesterday … if you said you wanted to be empress they’d say, Oh, okay, what do you want your crown to look like? And even if you’d hated everything you saw here and stopped talking to me too and kept saying you wanted to go home … we’d still haul you to the Caves and shove you in, because we promised. I’m glad you’re not, you know, but we’d still take you. We told your dad we were going to take you to the Caves so we have to.

  Why?

  Why the Caves? Which part of the story do you want? I wanted you to see the Caves. And it was the best way to tell your dad how serious we were. I was already serious, and I wanted you to see the Caves. I knew Dad and Mum had been thinking about bringing Niahi to you, as soon as she was big enough to fly that far easily—she’d’ve had a hard time if she’d had to come for your twelfth birthday—but she could do it now. I hadn’t realised they were already thinking about how they might bring you to us. But … I think my dad and your dad get stuff over to each other even when they can’t talk about it. I think your dad was waiting for my dad to say something.

  You wouldn’t really drag me to your precious Caves if I’d been whining and horrible, would you?

  He looked surprised. Of course we would. We promised.

  Things change, she said, thinking of old Orflung asking her if she wanted to come here, thinking of what had happened last night. Things change.

  Not giving your word, said Ebon firmly. Giving your word doesn’t change. Ever.

  She looked at him and for a moment the chasm that had lain between every human and every pegasus since Viktur had first followed the path through the mountains lay between her and Ebon, and it was so wide she knew they could never bridge it.

  And then Ebon leaned over and shoved her hard with his nose. Aren’t you ever going to get up? It’s really pretty here and there’s a hill that has the best sunsets, and it’s a day for a good sunset. And there’s a shfeeah with a paper maker on the way, and an orchard. But you have to walk to it and I suppose you’re going to insist on having one of your baths first? I’ll make your breakfast—hrrifinig—pegasi usually had two or three more quick meals in a day than humans did, including hrrifinig between breakfast and lunch—lunch. Late lunch. Hurry up.

  She could see that it was a day that should have a glorious sunset. But what was even more glorious to Sylvi was that she finally met some pegasus children: little ones, with long knobby legs and little ribby bodies—and barely fledged wings. There were several of them, and they hid behind their parents and their bigger siblings and peeped out at her. How can you know anything about a people if you have never seen its children?

  She didn’t know how to make friends with them—she didn’t know what would look like a friendly gesture to a pegasus baby—and somehow she didn’t want to ask. If she had to ask it would be no good.

  But children are always curious. She sat down on the ground to eat her porridge, thinking about what she could do to attract them that wouldn’t look totally foolish when it didn’t work. After she’d finished eating she put her bowl on the ground and crouched over it (it was shallow enough that she could, and did, lick it out first), staring into it as if it was the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. This was not difficult to do: the bowl had the same gentle luminescence that every pegasus-made object she had seen did: the soft glow of the endless tiny rubbing of feather hands that produced it. And the wood it was made of was strange to her, and the colour of the tree-rings as they faded one into the next was very beautiful. She remained staring—very conscious of a baby who had come right out from behind its mother to stare at her—hoping that Ebon wouldn’t come along and laugh at her too soon.

  The almost-inaudible tap of tiny light hoofs. She didn’t dare look; the baby’s mother must be aware of what was happening.

  With one of her little
cousins she’d have needed a better toy than a bowl. But wasn’t she herself the new toy? Very slowly she put out one of her hands, very slowly uncurled one finger and very slowly touched the bottom of the bowl with her pointing finger.

  The baby was a small but definite presence a little to her right; she could see out of the corner of her eye the slender shadows of its legs move as it took another step toward her. And now she could hear as it breathed in and out sharply, as if surprised at the smell of human. Sylvi hoped it wasn’t an unpleasant smell. She continued to stare at the bowl, and at her own finger.

  Around her silence was falling: the silent voices were falling silent; the slight rustling of pegasi going about their business stilled.

  The baby gave a prance. No, Sylvi thought, I’m not going to look at you; you have to come to me.

  And it pranced up to her, and stopped, and put its face down, and touched her hand with its nose. Her nose: this fine little nose had to belong to a girl. Sylvi looked up then and smiled—smiled involuntarily, showing her teeth, the way humans do; humans bare their teeth when they’re pleased. But the baby didn’t skitter away, but wrinkled her muzzle in a pegasus smile as if she understood. Hroooo drifted through Sylvi’s mind, as soft and faint as the tap of baby hooves.

  Hrooo to you too, Sylvi said, trying to say it quietly, how do you silent-speak quietly? she thought in despair, and the baby positively giggled: Hreee hreee hreee hreee, kicked up her heels, spread her infinitesimal wings and galloped around Sylvi three times before dashing off to stand behind her mother again. She poked her head out long enough to give one last cheeky “Hreee.”

  Sylvi laughed, and stood up, and realised she felt better—lighter, freer—than she had since her father left—certainly since the night before, when she’d crawled into her nest of feathers feeling that she might never be able to stand up straight again from the weight she’d felt laid across her shoulders that evening.

  That, said Ebon, is Hilililin, and she’s a brat. It would be Hili who had a go at you first.

  She’s a very cute brat, said Sylvi.

  The walkers set off almost at once, Ebon and Sylvi, Niahi, Feeaha, Aary, Dorheemiha, and Flanoohr; and the queen, Aliaalia.

  There was a minor hubbub behind them—followed by the sound of tiny galloping hooves and an exasperated out-loud call. Even shouting, thought Sylvi, they have that musical resonance.

  Why did I know this was going to happen? said Ebon. Hili bolted to Sylvi, hid behind her and poked her nose out to look at her mother, who was trotting toward them with her wings half roused. Sylvi could feel Hili panting as she leaned against Sylvi’s legs. “There’s not much of me to hide behind, is there?” she said out loud.

  Lady, said Hili’s mum uncertainly.

  Lady, Sylvi replied. “Fwif.”

  Viawahah, said Ebon. Hilililin’s mum.

  I— began Viawahah, and then stopped, obviously at a loss, dropping her wings and her head in a gesture, Sylvi thought, like spreading your hands and shrugging. It’s hard for them too, she thought. Of course it is.

  Hilililin is a darling, she said.

  “Hrooo,” came a little voice behind her knees.

  Viawahah’s head came up and her wings flattened and then folded neatly across her back: her upper lip just wrinkled and then smoothed again. She is a broliglag.

  Monster, translated Ebon. It’s a small monster that gets into things. Like rats.

  I am not a rat! put in Hili.

  No, said Ebon. Your tail is too hairy.

  I am not a broliglag!

  Yes, you are, said Viawahah, and you’re too little to walk to the Golinghagah Hill. Come along.

  I am not too little!

  And furthermore, you weren’t invited, said Ebon.

  At that, Hilililin drooped. She touched her nose to Sylvi’s hand like a good-bye, and went and stood by her mother.

  The next time I come, said Sylvi, you’ll be bigger, and I’ll invite you.

  Promise you won’t jump off anything and say you’re flying, and you can come now, said Ebon.

  Hili’s head snapped around, and her mother’s wings began to rouse again. But—

  I promise!

  She can ride, said Ebon. He gave Sylvi a look through his eyelashes and added, I have a nice, broad, flat back, good for carrying passengers. I won’t let her fall off. He knelt, and then lay down, legs curled under him, and drew his nearer wing back. Climb up, small one, and mind where you put your hard little feet. Hili dithered for a moment, and then rushed forward and threw herself up Ebon’s side.

  “Ggh,” said Ebon.

  I’ll steady her while you get up, shall I? said Sylvi. She had already stepped forward and begun to put her hands out … and stopped. The pegasi had fallen silent again—that too-silent, too-still way they had. Sylvi curled her big strong human hands back against her body, trying to tuck them between her elbows and her rib cage where no one could see them, where she couldn’t embarrass herself or the pegasi with them, with what she could do and they could not. Surely the pegasi carried their babies on their backs sometimes? How did they do it?

  She hadn’t meant to speak to be heard, but her inexperience betrayed her.

  We have draia for many purposes, said the queen softly. Yes, of course we carry our babies. In the old days, before the Alliance, we had always to be ready to fly for our lives; and our children do not fly till they are several years old, and cannot fly far for some years after that. But we rarely carry them on our backs. There must be at least two of us to hold the baby while the bearer stands up; and our shamans have found no supporting word for this. A baby as big as Hili is now would be very difficult—indeed dangerous to those holding or lifting her. Our hands, once broken, do not heal readily.

  I’m … sorry, said Sylvi, feeling wretched.

  Yah, said Ebon from the ground. Since we have her, let’s use her. And she just said she’d come back, so we can use her some more. Come on, Syl, the sunset is soon. Grab the broliglag and let’s get on with it.

  So Sylvi unfolded her hands again, feeling them like great ugly shovels suspended—sternly, unforgivingly—out in front of her. Hili quivered ever so slightly when Sylvi touched her—but at once put her nose to one of Sylvi’s hands again, this time as if in apology. She seemed to Sylvi to weigh so little that she might have floated off Ebon’s back if she moved incautiously.

  Ebon stood up and Hili gave a little squeal of what was obviously pleasure. Watch yourself, you, said Ebon. I said I wouldn’t let you fall off—I didn’t say I wouldn’t make you want off.

  CHAPTER 14

  The next day they flew again, and when they landed they had arrived at the entrance to the Caves.

  Tomorrow morning they would go inside. Tomorrow morning she, Sylviianel, fourth child of the human King Corone IV, would enter the pegasi’s mythical Caves, where no human had ever before set foot, the Caves which were the centre of their lives and their civilisation, and of ssshasssha, the pegasi history and recollection, which no human understood.

  Ebon had told her which of the mountain peaks roofed the main entrance to the Caves: there was a double-crowned mountain and then a falling-away series of smaller ones that made a zigzag line against the sky much sharper than those surrounding it. They were their own little range, visibly of some other, less erodible material than the rest. Ebon had first pointed them out to her the day she had arrived with her father, but she hadn’t taken it in; or rather, she had allowed herself to be distracted, because there were so many things to see, to make sense of, to try and understand.

  Look at old Cuandoia, Ebon had said. He’s the big one in the middle, with the two peaks. He used to be a stag, you know, and the peaks were his antlers. One of our story-tellers can sing you the story. Can you see how he looks like he’s leaning toward us? Our weather-seers will tell you it’s something about clouds and temperature but it’s still a good omen when
you see him like that.

  The days had passed, and those mountains had come closer, and Cuandoia seemed to watch them—watch and beckon. Well, he’s glad to see Lrrianay and Aliaalia, Sylvi said to herself. But it was hard not to feel, if she were going to think in terms of a mountain watching them, then he must be seeing her too, strange conspicuous creature that she was, and that it was acceptable to him that she was included.

  She was shivering when she climbed out of her drai that evening near the main entrance of the Caves, although it was no colder than it had been the evening before, and the close-woven pegasus blanket kept the wind out better than several of the sheep’s-wool blankets she was accustomed to would have done. Cuandoia’s double crown was lost in the twilight, but she still seemed to feel him watching—as if she could sense, even in the darkness, that there was an awareness, sharp as a beam of light, coming from the crowned mountain above the Caves—and not from anywhere else.

  They were here.

  If she had been among humans she might have been able to pass off her oppression of spirits as mere tiredness: but she was not among humans. The problem with silent-speech was how much else was available about you than only your words.

  I was scared gutless the first time I was brought to the Caves, Ebon said without preamble.

  I’m still scared, said Niahi. They’re so big and they’re so full.

  They’re nothing like full, said Ebon, in best big-brother-brushing-off-little-sister style. They’re hardly started.

  Oh, Ebon, don’t be a strawhead! said Niahi, obviously flustered. Sylvi could hear herself in Niahi’s silent voice, talking to one of her brothers. Niahi went on defensively, You know what I mean. There are leagues and leagues of them that are empty, but there are leagues of them that are full of us, of what we’ve been doing for the last thousands and thousands of years. And it’s not just the stuff on the walls. It hangs in the air. It follows you. It stands up ahead of you and calls you in a voice you can’t hear, but you know you’re being called, and it knows your name.