The Revenge Page 2

  The unicorns stared, their eyes wide.

  Seeing a colt, Damien dashed toward him, his tail wagging. “What's your name?”

  But instead of joining Damien in a game, the colt ducked behind his dam.

  Confused, Damien raced toward another. “Hello. Wanna play?”

  But the second colt bolted back, his eyes round.

  Damien cantered to a filly, circled her, and then stopped. “Let's race.”

  The filly's face crumpled as she sidled up to her dam. “Mama, I'm scared,” she whimpered.

  “Not to worry, Petra,” said the mare whose eyes were cruel. She let out a snort as she regarded Damien, then moved with arrogant steps until she stood face to face with Amarah, her tail swishing nonchalantly. “So I see you've come back. We all thought it odd how you slipped away into the night like that to have your foal.” Her voice was cool as she looked down her muzzle at the other mare. Her gaze fell on Damien. “Your new colt. He's very…interesting, isn't he?”

  “He's just a little different...” said Amarah.

  “Yes, I see that,” Isabelle answered, her sharp words cutting like jagged shale.

  “You see when he was born...”

  “Yes?” Isabelle stretched the word out, one brow raised in amusement.

  “He…well…”

  “Well, what?”

  The sound of hooves interrupted her. It was Samuel, accompanied by a withered old stallion whose coat was dappled with grey.

  “Ah, and here he is, Isaac. This is my son Damien,” Samuel announced to the older stallion, his voice jovial. “He's a bit small for his age, but he's brilliant.”

  Isaac stared the colt up and down as though he were observing a rare specimen.

  Damien, pleased to receive attention at last, leapt forward and touched the nose of the Great Stallion. Isaac staggered back, startled, as the other unicorns gasped. Confused, Damien turned and eyed Amarah, questioning.

  “You mustn't ever touch noses with the Great Stallion,” she whispered.

  Damien furrowed his brows. “Why not?”

  “Because it's simply not done.”

  Damien's face warmed. “Well, I didn't know.”

  “Not a problem, little one,” said Samuel, letting out a chortle. “You'll learn quickly enough. Now come and meet the other youngsters.” He introduced him to each foal, naming them in turn. “This is Jeremy, Malcolm, Simon, and Yousef. And these lovely fillies are Yasmine, Gabrielle, Petra, and Chrissandra.”

  Damien offered each one a friendly smile, but the foals only stared back at him, dumbfounded, then sidestepped away as he moved closer. Turning to his dam, he saw pain reflected in her eyes.

  Isaac cleared his throat. “H-he seems normal enough, b-but the problem remains that he is different and we don't know why. His colour...he's red…like an apple.” The Great Stallion flashed an uneasy look at the herd and back, then shook his mane.

  “Different, yes,” said Samuel. “And it's true, there has never been a red unicorn before, but we all know from our ancient tales that there's a purpose for everything.”

  Isaac pressed his lips together, glancing back at the herd before answering. “Yes, but I'm worried it could mean the beginning of another change as in the time of Azaria or Ulysees. Already, another one of our own was born with a pink stain below her eye. What if this is the beginning of something much bigger? A sign.” Isaac's brows knitted together in worry.

  “Or an evolution!” interrupted Samuel, his voice exuberant. “I've never seen a mind so inquisitive as this colt. Who knows who he will become in time.”

  Isaac cocked his head and stared at Damien, assessing him. “All right, then.” He cast another wary glimpse toward the herd. “We'll give it a try. I've always respected you, Samuel. You've been a good influence on our youth, so I'll give your colt the same honour and education we give the others.”

  Samuel broke into a smile. “Good. I promise you won't be disappointed.”

  Damien's mouth hung in bewilderment. Isaac's words had stunned him. The colt wasn't blind. He had always known he was red, but he thought all unicorns were born red and that they turned white as they grew older. The truth crushed him.

  “But…red's the prettiest colour of all,” Damien said, sidling up to Amarah. “It's the colour of apples and poppies. It's much prettier than white. What's wrong with being red?”

  “Nothing,” Amarah muttered, her eyes filled with despair. “Nothing at all.”

  The day seemed to last forever for Damien as the foals clung to their dams, stealing glances at him while the mares whispered amongst themselves.

  Then he heard it—the rumour—as he moved away from his mother in search of purple flowers.

  “I don't think he's really a unicorn,” Isabelle muttered to another mare, her voice low.

  “Do you think so?” replied the mare, letting out a snicker.

  “I bet Samuel's not even his real father. I think Amarah mated with a horse.” Isabelle grinned in a mean, sadistic way.

  “A horse? Oh, my.” The mare moved away to spread the rumour. “Did you hear, Lilace?”

  The gossip circulated quickly, and soon all the females buzzed about Damien and Amarah.

  Damien wrinkled his brow at the words spoken just loud enough for him to hear. “Mother, they're saying bad things about us. Where's father?”

  “He's off with Isaac,” said Amarah. “He'll be here soon.”

  “I want him to make them stop saying those things,” said Damien. “He will, won't he?”

  Amarah sighed. “Damien, that's why I didn't want to come. That's how they are. They did the same to Chrissandra—treating her like she was beneath them because of her pink birthmark.”

  Damien tilted his head, his gaze moving to Chrissandra. “I don't mind her birthmark.”

  “Neither do I,” said Amarah.

  “It's like a little flower.”

  But Samuel didn't return, and Damien, his eyes heavy, fell asleep, wishing they'd stayed in the meadow with the creek running through it.

  Chapter 4

  The Gift

  Corabelle opened the door with the faintest of squeaks. Voices rumbled in the next room.

  “You just can't accept the truth, can you?” growled Uncle Rupert.

  “Accept the truth? How can I when what you're suggesting is utter nonsense!” Mama shot back.

  “I know what I saw,” insisted Uncle Rupert, “and believe me, it was not normal.”

  “So she likes to go into the forest to feed the animals. Is there a crime in that? She's always had a way with the creatures.”

  “No, I tell you, Marion.” Uncle Rupert's voice rose. “There was something supernatural about it. She can talk to them…and they understand.”

  “Rupert!” Corabelle heard Mama's fist hit the table. “Would you just stop it! Your imagination is running away as it always has.”

  “No, it's true. Corabelle’s like Aunt Agatha; they even have the same eyes.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “And everyone knows Agatha's a witch.”

  “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. So they both have light, blue eyes,” Mama said, sarcasm running deep in her voice. “That makes her a witch? Besides, Father Patrick hasn't declared Agatha as such.”

  Uncle Rupert grew more frantic. “That's because Father Patrick's a fool! An imbecile. Marion, I know those eyes. They see things no other human can. People with eyes like that are the spawn of the devil himself. Corabelle's not quite right. You know that. You saw how she predicted the Brain Fever, even naming its first victim.”

  “Rupert. You’re trying my patience. Just stop it! It's possible to foresee the future without having made a pact with the devil.”

  Uncle Rupert dropped his voice. “Marion, I tell you, no one will be safe until you accept the truth and do what needs to be done.”

  Mama slammed the cupboard door. “Enough!” she shouted. “You're my only brother, and you tell me my daughter's a witch?”

  “If t
he truth be told.”

  “Then leave, and don’t ever set foot in this house again!” A dish sailed past Corabelle and smashed against the wall.

  The girl shrunk into the shadows as Uncle Rupert fled. She remained hidden until she was sure he wouldn't return, then stepped into the candlelight.

  Mama jumped when she saw Corabelle. “I see you're home.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “No doubt you heard that nonsense?”

  Corabelle nodded.

  “The very idea. As though befriending animals makes you a witch.” She grabbed a broom and swept up the pieces of the broken dish. “I swear that man goes beyond ridiculous.” She gathered up the bits of ceramic, put away the broom, then smiled. “How were the animals today?”

  “Fine,” said Corabelle.

  “Good.” Mama began preparing the evening meal, cutting strips of meat from the smoked pork leg that hung in the cellar and scrubbing the carrots she had picked from the garden. The aroma of fresh bread drifted from the oven.

  “Who's Aunt Agatha?” Corabelle asked after her mother had removed the loaf, setting it on the cupboard to cool.

  Mama wiped her hands and sighed. “She's your great-aunt. She lives on the edge of the forest in the cottage surrounded by wildflowers and tall firs.”

  A vague memory tugged Corabelle—blue eyes, wrinkly blue eyes. And a kind smile.

  “You mean that old lady we used to visit? The one with all the bottles?”

  “The very one.”

  Corabelle pondered a moment, then said, “So why doesn't Uncle Rupert like her?”

  Mama snorted. “Probably because she can see right through him, and in Uncle Rupert's mind, I guess that makes her a witch. He’s scared of her.”

  Corabelle's heart thumped hard in her chest at the word witch. Gathering her courage, she asked, “Are you sure I’m not a witch, Mama?”

  “No, my sweet. What you have is a gift…like your drawings.”

  Mama filled the plates and laid them on the table. Corabelle sat down, glancing at the third chair that stood empty. How she missed her Papa since he’d disappeared several months ago, leaving early in the morning when the birds had begun to chirp. They expected him within a day or two dragging the carcass of a buck, but when a week had passed, and he hadn't come back, a posse of men from the village went in search of him. When they returned, they shook their heads, claiming his tracks had vanished. How does someone just disappear? For months, Corabelle had grieved, finally resigning herself to life with only one parent. It wasn't so bad, just her and Mama. But if Papa were here, he'd surely put Uncle Rupert in his place.

  “Why don't you paint tonight?” her mother asked before taking a bite of the fresh bread. “That'll get your mind off of Uncle Rupert. The birds you drew last time were so beautiful, and there's plenty more space on the wall.”

  Corabelle pondered how Papa would be so pleased to see the main wall of the cottage filled with her bright paintings…if he ever returned.

  “All right,” she said.

  After finishing the meagre meal, Mama cleared away the dishes while Corabelle carried the mortar to the garden where she picked berries and dandelions. Her bowl filled, she began crushing them, adding first the blueberries and dandelions to make green, then just the right amount of red fruit, mashing the mixture with the pestle until it changed to the warm brown of the rabbit's fur.

  She chose a spot in the corner of the wall, filling in the edges first. Slowly, a rabbit took shape.

  “That’s good,” Mama said.

  “Her name's Autumn,” said Corabelle. “And her mate was…” She stopped herself in time, remembering to guard the secret of the rabbit's plight.

  “Her mate was what?” asked Mama.

  “Ah…her mate's name is Acorn. And they have a lot of babies.”

  “Sounds like a rabbit.” Mama let out a laugh.

  Corabelle drew the kittens with care, each with its own character. The one near Autumn’s left foot appeared fat and lazy, the one close to her tail, excited. Another seemed impatient, and another very girlish. When she finished, she dabbed at the painting with a cloth until she was sure the colours wouldn't run.

  Mother and daughter stood back admiring the work.

  “You're getting better and better at this,” Mama said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I'm proud of you. Now let's get ready for bed.”

  Corabelle changed her clothing, then walked to the corner of the room. “Mama?” she said as she climbed in beside her on the straw mattress.

  “Yes?”

  “Why do we never visit Aunt Agatha?” she asked.

  Mama's voice hesitated before answering. “Because the village has decided to shun her.”

  “Shun? What does that mean?”

  “It means no one's allowed to talk to her. They avoid her.”

  “But that's not fair if all she has is a gift.”

  “I know, but we need to avoid trouble as best we can, right? Sometimes it's best to lie low.”

  Corabelle lay quiet for a while after hearing Mama's words, then rolled over. Was Aunt Agatha really as bad as Uncle Rupert said? Her curiosity piqued, Corabelle hatched a plan.

  Maybe the villagers are shunning Aunt Agatha, but I won’t.

  Chapter 5

  The Challenge

  When Damien awoke, cool, morning mist surrounded him. He blinked at the hazy image of the sun that had just risen above the horizon, beginning its journey across the sky.

  “Rise and shine.” He heard Samuel call, his voice a little too enthusiastic.

  Damien's eyes combed the mist for his sire. His dim shape emerged from the fog.

  “Today, you start your training.” Samuel smiled.

  “What do you mean?” asked Damien, scrambling up on his hooves.

  “You're going to join the other foals to learn what they've been practicing.”

  Damien's heart leapt. Perhaps this would be his chance to make friends at last. Surely, they'd be used to the fact that he was red by now. He scampered forward, eager to follow, confident all would go well.

  Samuel led the way up the trail. The scent of fresh pine needles and wet earth filled Damien's nostrils as they walked. Dew moistened his hair, and small beads of water formed on his eyelashes. He paused to shake them off, drops flying everywhere.

  When they arrived at the meadow, Damien could barely make out the dim line of foals in the mist.

  Samuel lowered his head to Damien's level. “Your teacher will be here soon. Go join the others, and I'll be back to get you later.”

  Damien's muscles tensed at the thought of being left alone until he noticed Chrissandra standing slightly away from the group, her pink birthmark like a small jewel on her perfect white face. Was that warmth in her eyes?

  Damien gathered up his courage.

  “Good-bye, Father.” He watched his sire's shape diminish as the stallion drifted down the trail, disappearing into the mist. When he lost sight of him, Damien turned back to the group only to find himself face to face with the largest of all the colts—Malcolm.

  “Hey, horse-boy,” Malcolm taunted, the corner of his mouth twisted up into a smirk.

  The other foals chuckled.

  Malcolm threw them an amused glance. “So, horse-boy, do you even know how to run yet?”

  The foals laughed again, all except Chrissandra whose desperate eyes searched the trail.

  “Or are you gonna take another mud bath like the one you had yesterday when you slid down the mountain?” Malcolm sneered.

  “Yeah, cover up that ugly, red scab all over your body.” Petra cackled.

  Damien backed away, his eyes wide with disbelief. “But red’s a nice colour.” He sputtered.

  “Oh yeah, right.” Malcolm turned to his comrades. “Hey Simon, do you wanna be red?”

  Simon gave his head a vigorous shake.

  “And what about you, Jeremy and Yousef?”

  The two colts shared an anxious l
ook, then obediently shook their heads too.

  “You see? And what about you fillies?” He turned and regarded the wide-eyed young females.

  They remained quiet, huddled together, all except for Petra.

  “Are you kidding?” she said.

  “You see? No one wants to be like you.” Malcolm snorted. “You're a freak!”

  Damien gave Chrissandra a sidelong glance. Her mouth opened as though searching for words.

  The sound of thumping hooves echoed in the distance.

  “It's Seamus,” whispered Jeremy.

  The tomfoolery ceased, and all heads turned. Standing at attention, they made way for their teacher.

  The tall stallion was stocky, his dark eyes glaring with arrogance as he strutted past the group, giving them the briefest of glances. He stopped in front of Damien. “So you're the new colt?” He scrutinized the red unicorn, his lip curled up.

  Damien gulped. “Yes, sir.”

  “I'm the instructor. Name's Seamus. No doubt you've heard of me.” He pushed his chest out.

  Damien gave an intimidated nod.

  The stallion circled the colt, an odd fascination filling his eyes. “Isabelle said you were different, and that you are, but apparently I've been told to give you the benefit of the doubt.” He twisted his lips as though calculating.

  Damien's legs trembled, barely withstanding the scrutiny until Seamus, with a quick turn of the head, dismissed him and threw his attention to the others. “All right, gather together and prepare to race!”

  The foals scrambled to line up.

  The stallion waited until they'd placed themselves in formation, then commanded, “Fly!”

  As though one, the foals leapt forward.

  Unsure what to do, Damien bounded after them, galloping for all he was worth, but when he turned his head to gauge his position with the others, they were nowhere in sight. Looking ahead, to his astonishment, he saw them all waiting at the other end of the meadow. He glanced from the foals to where they had stood. How did they do that?

  Glowering, Seamus' attention shifted back to Damien. “You run like a horse.”