The Revenge Page 3

  Damien heard snickering.

  The stallion stopped and swung about his massive bulk. “What are you all laughing at?” he asked, his forehead wrinkled like old, rotten fruit. “You guys couldn't outrun a lion if you had to…except for Malcolm and Petra, of course. Well done, as usual.” He nodded to the two foals who bore a strong resemblance to him. “Now the rest of you, gallop back and forth six times.”

  Despite his heavy breathing, Damien blindly undertook the run again, desperate to fit in.

  When he had finished his sixth attempt, his legs shaking with fatigue, Seamus shook his head in disgust. “Isabelle's right.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Damien.

  “You can't do it.”

  “But…” Damien whimpered, “I just started today.”

  “Doesn't matter. You'll never get it. I can tell.”

  “But give me another chance,” Damien pleaded, tears threatening to spill over.

  “No,” the stallion said, as he turned to the others. “The rest of you—ten more laps.”

  Lining up, they prepared to gallop when something large rustled in the woods. They stopped dead in their tracks.

  “What was that?” said Yousef.

  “A bear?” shrieked Petra.

  “Or a mountain lion?” said Gabrielle.

  “Neither,” said a tall, noble stallion, stepping through the mist.

  “It's Samuel,” whispered Yousef.

  The foals’ attention shifted away from Seamus.

  “Samuel…” Seamus gave a curt nod. “I didn't know you were—”

  “Here?” Samuel finished the sentence for him. “I've been watching you all morning, and I don't see you giving Damien a fair chance as you were told to do.” He glared. “And you favour your foals over everyone else's.”

  Seamus' face twitched. “That's because they're superior to the others. They deserve a bit of praise for their work. Besides, who are you to judge me? I'm their teacher now since you disappeared in the middle of the night, not leaving the slightest clue as to where you went.”

  “I left for Amarah's sake. She'd had enough of Isabelle's undermining. She wanted to raise her foal in peace.”

  “A likely story. I think Amarah was hiding the fact he's red. That's why you fled.”

  Samuel gritted his teeth. “Seamus, you know what I think of you and Isabelle. You're both a scourge to our herd. You pit mares and stallions against each other, and you spread rumours. And that in itself proves to me that you're not fit to teach anyone. I'll take my son and instruct him myself, and if you don't like it, take it up with Isaac.”

  Seamus' breath caught. A cruel glint flashed in his eyes. “Oh, and what shall I say to him? That your colt can't learn the three survival skills? He's too…horse-like?”

  Samuel's eyes burned with anger. “This colt won't learn by being abused. He needs encouragement, not cruelty.” He turned to the young unicorns. “And I daresay everyone here agrees with me.”

  The young unicorns stood frozen, their eyes shifting between Samuel and Seamus. No one dared answer.

  Seamus broke into a triumphant smile at their silence. “You see? Take your horse-boy, then,” he rumbled. “But he only has six sun-ups. And if he can’t learn the skills in that time, Isaac will banish him…and you too.”

  Trembling, Damien turned to his sire. “Father, can he really do that?”

  Samuel gave him a reassuring look, then met Seamus’ hostile stare. “It's not up to you to decide. Azaria took far longer than six days to learn those skills, and we'll take as long as we need.” Turning to leave, he kicked his hooves, spraying dirt into Seamus' face.

  Chapter 6

  Aunt Agatha

  Corabelle slipped away from the house at dawn long before Mama rose. She knew the boy Autumn had described—the towheaded trouble-maker who carried a slingshot, aiming at squirrels and other small animals. He always had a vicious glint in his eye. She hoped she wasn't too late.

  Running on quiet feet, she stole into the yard where the boy lived, creeping to the back where she spied the box the family kept the boy's ‘catches’ in before he killed them either for food or their pelts.

  She checked over her shoulder, listening for movement inside the house. All was quiet. Trembling, she lifted the lid, worried she'd find it empty, but let out a sigh of relief when a male rabbit peered up at her.

  “Come on, Acorn,” she whispered. “I'm getting you out of here.” She slipped her hands under the rabbit's forelegs and hoisted him up. “Ugh! You're so heavy.” The animal’s hind legs dragged as she pulled. One of his paws caught the edge of the lid. The cover slammed with a loud bang.

  Corabelle’s heart pounded as she broke into a run, the rabbit bouncing under her arm. She ducked through the gate, then bent down to release him. “Go, Acorn,” she ordered. “Back to your mate. Run!”

  Sprinting the rest of the way to the cottage, she slipped through the door she'd left slightly ajar, then climbed onto the straw mattress she and Mama shared. Mama's breathing hadn't changed. It was just as long and even as before.

  That morning, when the villagers left for the day, carrying their lunches to the fields, Corabelle snuck away again, keeping low behind shrubs until she came to the overgrown trail she'd often passed by on her daily visits to the animals. Tall weeds rose on either side of the little-used path, and morning dew clung to their stalks. Corabelle pushed them aside, the cold, damp stems whipping at her clothes. She winced with discomfort, wiping her face with wet hands, and then forged on until she came to a fork in the road.

  “Oh, no. Which way to Aunt Agatha's?” She studied the two paths, indecisive. If she chose the one to the right, she might end up in the fields where the townsfolk toiled. But if she took the one to the left, she might get lost.

  Take the one on the right, she heard a tiny voice say.

  Corabelle jumped, her heart quickening. Swinging about, she searched the brush around her for the person who had spoken them.

  You're almost here. Keep going.

  Corabelle took in a sharp breath. Again she scrutinized the brush around her, her brows furrowed. Was it one of the villagers who'd followed her? Had she been caught? Then it dawned on her. Aunt Agatha? Is that you?

  Yes, sweetie, it's me. I'm waiting for you. Now take the path to the right.

  Still questioning her sanity, Corabelle's feet shuffled the ground. Then, mustering up courage, she did as she was told.

  Quickly, before someone sees you.

  The girl broke into a run despite the wet weeds, sprinting until she saw the tiny cottage in the distance. Slowing to a fast walk, she gazed at the lodging and smiled. This was it—the place in her memory—the white, thatch-roofed cottage surrounded by wildflowers and tall firs.

  The door swung open revealing a woman whose face, like a dried apple, was pleated with wrinkles. She wore a long hand-woven dress that brushed the tops of her shoes. Her weathered hand clutched the ends of a blue shawl that hung over her shoulders, a shade that matched the small jewels of her eyes, little sapphires in brown earth.

  “Corabelle!” The old lady circled her arms around the slight girl.

  Corabelle sank into the woman's embrace, the fragrance of lavender filling her nostrils. She remembered these welcoming hugs and the softness of her flesh.

  “How come I could hear you speaking when you weren’t there?”

  “That's because I have the gift too,” Aunt Agatha's eyes twinkled as she spoke.

  “What gift?”

  “To communicate by thought. Like you do with the animals.”

  “But I've never been able to do it with another person before.”

  “That's because most people don’t know how, and we haven't seen each other for so long that you’ve forgotten. Did you know I used to talk to you from my mind when you were a baby? No one could understand why you rarely cried when you were with me. It's because I knew what you wanted.” Her face grew distant as she reminisced. “Ah, those were the days when
I saw you nearly every day—until Rupert started spreading his rumours. But never mind him.” She took the girl's hand and guided her through the door. “Come in.”

  Corabelle hesitated, uncertainty gripping her. “Aunt Agatha?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Uncle Rupert says you're a witch. Is it true?”

  The old woman chuckled. “I'm no more a witch than anyone else. Your Uncle Rupert's just a superstitious old fool.”

  Corabelle let out a giggle of relief. “He says the same about me. He says no one has pale blue eyes like ours except witches.”

  Aunt Agatha pursed her lips and made a raspberry sound. “Such rubbish.”

  The old lady led the girl to the stone hearth where a warm fire burned, its wood crackling as it seared. Dried plants hung from strings suspended from the ceiling. The smell of flowers filled the air as the girl made herself comfortable at the table that stood before the fireplace while Aunt Agatha prepared food.

  A few minutes later, Aunt Agatha laid a platter before her. “Here you go,” she said.

  The young girl eyed the food—fresh scones and jam dotted with tiny strawberries. She took a pastry and spread the compote on it. Taking a bite, she relished the flavour. “Mmmm, this is good.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” said Aunt Agatha joining her in the seat opposite.

  “So why does Uncle Rupert think witches have light blue eyes?”

  Agatha leaned back in her chair. “It's a long story.” She reached for a scone. “You see, people used to come to me for herbs and medicines to cure their ills, or for birthing babies, whatever they needed. I was highly regarded in the village.” She reached for the jam, spreading it on her scone. “But when the Brain Fever struck, Rupert's boy, Georgie, became ill. Rupert came to me in desperation, pleading for the herbs to cure him. I gladly handed him some dried arnica, but alas, as you know, some pestilences are more than we can handle, and so Georgie passed away. Well, Rupert was devastated and refused to show his face in public for days. Then, for some strange reason, he laid the blame on me, saying it was I who gave him the herbs that would hurry the boy's death.”

  Corabelle gave her head a helpless shake and threw up her hands.

  “But it didn't stop there. Rupert decided that I had conjured up the disease and made a pact with the devil to increase my business so that I'd grow rich. That’s when he made up the story about witches having pale blue eyes as some kind of proof.”

  Corabelle dropped the bread she was eating and let out a loud laugh. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

  “Indeed,” said Aunt Agatha. “But unfortunately, the villagers fell for it. Rupert was able to raise a good deal of superstition. And because of that, folks stopped coming, and many people died who might have been saved.”

  “That’s sad,” said Corabelle. She lapsed into the story of how the town had shunned her for her visions of death.

  Aunt Agatha took in the girl's words, nodding from time to time. “I had heard you had visions. I do too. But it's better to keep them to yourself and let nature run its course. That way you can prepare for what's coming without being accused of witchcraft.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the girl, taking another bite of her scone.

  “Well, if you know a plague is coming, rather than warn everyone, you can gather the herbs necessary. Then you’ll be ready when the disease hits.”

  “But I don't know what herbs to gather. And no one would come anyway.”

  The old lady clasped her gnarled hands. After a time, she looked up, her eyes determined. “They will if we can defeat Rupert.”

  “But how?”

  “First, you need to learn the trade. I can show you the herbs that cure, the bark that takes away pain, and a number of other concoctions. I'll teach you how to dry them and store them. But you'll have to keep our lessons a secret, and you may have to forego your animal friends for a while so as not to draw attention to yourself.”

  “Stay away from the animals? But I can't. They need me.”

  “They can fend for themselves,” Agatha said. “They're wild.”

  Corabelle’s face twisted with worry. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Good, then. I want you to come whenever you can. And in the meantime, we'll communicate via our thoughts.”

  “But how will I hear you from so far away?”

  “You will in time. Just listen as you leave. See how far you can go before the sound of my voice disappears. Soon you'll learn to recognize when I'm trying to reach you. It's a feeling you'll get.”

  “Okay,” said Corabelle, barely able to contain her excitement.

  “But you must leave now because the villagers will be returning soon.” She got up and led the girl to the door. “Now be swift.”

  After a quick hug, Corabelle broke into a run. Her heart soared as she raced home. Who cared what the villagers thought of her? She had found a kindred spirit.

  Chapter 7

  The Discovery

  Father and son cantered along the trail, leaving Seamus far behind.

  “You sure told him.” Damien let out a triumphant laugh.

  Samuel snorted. “He needed to be knocked down a notch.”

  “The other foals, they don't seem to like him either—except for Malcolm and Petra.”

  “That’s because he's their sire and favours them.” Samuel twisted his mouth in disgust. “I took over teaching for him years ago because he was just awful. I didn't feel we needed another Icarus who controlled the herd with lies about a false god like in the time of Ulysees…and who committed murder.”

  “Murder?” Damien asked, his eyes rounding.

  “Yes, but I’ll tell you about that later.”

  They travelled until they reached a vast meadow where eloquent birdsong filled the air and a pleasant breeze cooled the skin, tickling and soothing at the same time. Wildflowers grew everywhere—purple, yellow, orange, and red—Damien's red, deep red. And tall trees provided shade, their leaves turning a silvery sheen when the wind blew.

  “This is beautiful, Father.”

  The stallion smiled. “I discovered this place when I was young. I used to come here when I wanted to be alone. I've never shown it to anyone else—except your mother. This is where I asked her to be my mate.”

  “Really?” Damien wondered how they must have looked at that age.

  “And this is where we'll stay until you've learned the three survival skills—the right way. Forget everything Seamus taught you today. You're going to learn the lesson the same way Azaria did, the way Darius taught him. All it takes is a bit of practice and discipline of the mind. I know you can do it.”

  The colt gave him a reluctant glance, then replied, “I hope so.”

  “Let’s go.” Samuel walked Damien to the farthest reaches of the meadow. “Now, the first thing I'm going to show you is how to camouflage.” The stallion took a step forward, then faded into his surroundings.

  When he reappeared, Damien's mouth hung open. “Father!” he cried. “You know how to do the melting.”

  Samuel's head jolted back, his brows furrowed. “What do you mean, the melting?”

  Damien pranced. “The melting. I thought I was the only one who could do it. I do it when I want to listen in on you and Mother without you seeing me.”

  Samuel gave a deprecating frown, then narrowed his eyes. “Show me.”

  “All right.” Damien positioned himself and closed his eyelids. He concentrated on the greenery, the multi-coloured flowers, and then melted into a perfect blend with the meadow. The colt held the stance for a few moments, stifling giggles. When he transformed back into himself, Samuel's eyes had grown three times their size.

  “Damien, how did you learn that?”

  The colt cocked his head. “I don't know. I just made it up.”

  The stallion stared at the colt in awe. “That's a complicated skill to learn.”

  “Really?” Damien gave a humble smile.

 
; “Yes.” Samuel eyed the colt, looking somewhat perturbed.

  “So what else do I need to learn?” asked Damien, his tail wiggling back and forth.

  “Well, there's the shadow-walk. But it's the most difficult of all the skills. It's a gait that leaves no traces and makes no sound.”

  The colt broke into a broad, toothy smile. “You mean like the silent steps?”

  Samuel took a short breath as though to speak, and then stopped. “What do you mean the silent steps?”

  “I used to do that when I was sneaking up on butterflies. Like this.” Damien walked away, through the tall grass, grinning as he demonstrated. When he reached the other end, he turned and faced Samuel. “Is that it?”

  Samuel let out a low whistle. “Damien, you're far more talented than I ever dreamed. I'm overwhelmed.” He paused, blinking back tears. “I can't believe you've learned this on your own.”

  Damien grinned at the praise.

  Recomposing himself, Samuel continued. “There's one more skill you can try.”

  “What?” asked Damien, skittering sideways with excitement.

  “To ride the wind.”

  Damien stopped bouncing. “Ride the wind?”

  “Yes. That's what Seamus was trying to teach you, but he never explained it properly.”

  “So how do you do it?”

  “It's easy. Can you feel the wind blow?”

  “Yeah,” said Damien, feeling the tickle of the breeze on his ears.

  “Well, when it blows, you leap and catch it, and it carries you faster and farther than you could ever gallop…unless it’s too weak.”

  “Ohhh,” said Damien. “So that’s how the other foals got to the end of the meadow long before me.”

  Samuel nodded. “Now watch.” He pointed his body in the direction of the wind. When a gust blew up, his body was carried as though weightless far into the field.

  “Wow!” cried Damien. “That was so much faster than galloping. How come you never did that back home?”

  Samuel chuckled. “Never needed to. It was a safe haven for us. Now you try.”