The Revenge Read online

  Damien sauntered to the centre of the meadow and stood, feeling the breeze ruffle his fur. When it blew harder for just a few seconds, he sprang and was transported to the end of the meadow.

  He turned and faced Samuel, his mouth curved up into a huge smile. “Like that?”

  “Yes.” Samuel gave an exuberant nod.

  “That was really fun,” Damien said. “I'm going to try it again.” Breaking into a canter, he vaulted himself forward once more when another gust of wind blew up, but this time, he was catapulted high above the trees.

  “Father!” Damien screamed as his body hurled through the air and landed with a thud, his face wrinkled up with pain.

  Samuel dashed to his side. “Are you all right?”

  Damien scowled, then pouted. “That hurt.”

  “I can't believe you did that,” said Samuel. “No one has done that since the time of Ulysees, and that was during a storm when the winds were wild. Do it again, only this time, try to control it. Point your body in the direction you want to go.”

  The colt reluctantly picked himself up, then trotted to the middle of the meadow. This time, he exerted less effort when he leapt, and landed on all fours.

  “Well done,” said Samuel, wearing a proud grin. “We'll spend the next six sun-ups perfecting this. And when we're done, we'll show Seamus and Isabelle and the rest of the herd what a red unicorn can do. Right?”

  “Right!” exclaimed Damien.

  Chapter 8

  The Apprenticeship

  It took days before Corabelle was able to slip away again to begin her education with Aunt Agatha. The town had been brimming with whispers as Uncle Rupert spread new rumours of possible witchery. Corabelle felt as though all eyes were on her and that she could be accused of malfeasance for the simplest of acts. To protect herself, she chose to remain safe inside the cottage. Then, on the third morning, after the last person had left the village, Corabelle managed to dash away, ducking behind trees and shrubs until she reached the trail whose tall weeds hid her from the town’s view. Then she straightened up and began walking her usual pace.

  When she came to the fork in the road, she listened with her inner ear for the voice that would welcome her. At first, there was only the soft rustling of the wind, but once she turned down the path that led to Aunt Agatha's, she heard it.

  Corabelle, I’m so glad you can make it. Shall we pick flowers today?

  The girl's heart raced with anticipation. She smiled and answered, I’d love to.

  Breaking into a skip, Corabelle followed the footpath to the cottage where the old woman stood waiting, her silver hair draped over her woollen cloak and a large basket strapped to her side.

  Reaching behind her, Aunt Agatha pulled out a similar basket. “Here. You'll need this to carry our bounty.”

  Corabelle stared down at the oversized container with uncertainty.

  “I know it's a bit big, but you'll get used to it fast enough.”

  The girl slipped the large belt over her shoulder, the bottom of the basket brushing against her knees. “Where are we going today?” she asked.

  “To the lavender patch to begin with,” Aunt Agatha said, “since it's the closest.”

  They set out along a trail that led from the back of the cottage and up into the mountains. Steep at first, it eventually levelled off into a meadow.

  Corabelle drew in a breath at the beauty of the colourful flowers that dotted the grass. How much more vibrant than the fields back home.

  Aunt Agatha shaded her eyes with a hand, scanning the greenery until she spotted what she was looking for. “Over there,” she said, pointing a gnarled finger.

  They walked through the dew-covered grass until they stood next to a plant whose purple flowers shot up from straight stalks in perfect lines. Aunt Agatha stooped to pick one. Taking a bud between the palms of her hands, she crushed it and rolled it until a fragrance drifted to Corabelle's nose. “A lovely scent, isn't it?”

  Corabelle inhaled deeply. “Yes.”

  “Soothes the soul,” said the old lady. “It's good for those stricken by melancholy or those who are nervous and can't sleep.”

  Corabelle reached for a stalk and crushed the flowers as she'd seen her aunt do. “For people stricken with melancholy who can’t sleep,” she repeated under her breath.

  Aunt Agatha began breaking the stems near their base and placing them in her basket.

  Corabelle followed suit. The rhythm of the work filled her with a sense of purpose. “I really feel good doing this,” she said.

  “Yes, I do too,” replied Aunt Agatha. “Especially when you know it'll give peace of mind to others.”

  They worked their way through the field, careful to leave enough of the plant for future harvesting. When they were done, Aunt Agatha led her away.

  They followed the path higher up the mountain. The air was still cool despite narrow shafts of sunlight piercing the leaves and scattering beams on the foliage below. When the sun reached its highest point, they came to a patch of yellow flowers that lit up the forest floor.

  “This is arnica,” said Aunt Agatha, squatting down to pick them. This is best used on a fresh injury.”

  “What does it do?” Corabelle leaned over to examine the small blooms.

  “It takes away pain and swelling.”

  Corabelle clucked her tongue. “That would have been good for the Brain Fever…if only they had listened.”

  The old lady paused, her eyes meeting Corabelle's. She gave a matter-of-fact nod, then placed the precious buds in her basket.

  When Aunt Agatha deemed they'd picked enough arnica, she led Corabelle farther up the path, her eyes sweeping the foliage. When she spotted what she was searching for, she pushed aside the branches of low bushes, meandering through them until she came to a plant with small, bell-like flowers. She lowered herself to her knees.

  Corabelle knelt beside her. “How strange,” she said.

  “Yes, they are rather odd little flowers, aren't they—like small death bells?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Corabelle waited for Aunt Agatha to break off the flower, but instead, she dug down into the soil with her fingers, pulling up the plant's roots. She shook the dirt that clung to the small projections, then held them up for the girl to see. “This is black cohosh. Once it's dried, it can be brewed into a tea.”

  “A tea?”

  The old woman nodded, the corners of her mouth turning up into a smile. “Yes. It quiets a cough.” She broke a part of the root and handed it to the girl.

  Corabelle placed it between her two fingers and rubbed the dirt off, exposing the dark colour of its skin. She remembered the winter she'd been stricken by the whooping cough. She had nearly died when it stole her breath away, rendering her unable to inhale between wheezes. That’s when Mama had handed her a cup of hot tea, coaxing her to drink the entire concoction. Corabelle had whined at its bitter taste, but her cough was subdued soon after.

  They dug up more of the plants, stripping the roots, and adding them to the contents of their baskets, then trudged back to the trail. Hiking farther, they came to a small canyon where bright orange and yellow flowers grew.

  “These are marigolds!” exclaimed Corabelle. “There are plenty of these in the village.”

  “Not quite. These ones are a little different.”

  Corabelle waited for her to explain, but the old lady stared down at the soil, silent. When she finally looked up, her eyes were moist. “This is for open wounds. It has very effective healing properties. This is what should always be used after a battle. It heals faster than any plant I know—if you have a sizeable stock handy.” She pinched her eyes shut for a moment, squeezing out a tear, and then said, “Never be without this plant…ever!”

  The girl waited anxiously, unsure if she should say anything.

  After a while, Aunt Agatha wiped her eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Corabelle. My husband died in battle because we didn’t have enough of this medicine. So let’s gather as much a
s we can to avoid any more unnecessary fatalities.”

  Corabelle shivered at her words, and then picked a handful to add to her basket.

  As the shadows grew longer, Aunt Agatha started downhill. Corabelle was quick to follow the old woman's steps, the trip back seeming much quicker than the journey there. When they entered the foyer of the cottage, the old woman laid down her basket and searched about until she found her hand-woven string. Taking a knife, she cut it into even lengths and tied the flowers and roots into small bundles that she hung upside down from the ceiling.

  “These need to be dried if they're to last until the next outbreak…or battle,” said Aunt Agatha.

  Corabelle took flowers from her own basket and began separating the stems and tying them as her aunt had done, but when she reached up to hang them from the ceiling, her arms stretched helplessly.

  Aunt Agatha laughed. “Here, I'll do that for you.”

  “No,” said Corabelle. “I need to learn to do it myself if I'm going to be useful.” She dragged a chair over and climbed it, hanging the bundle.

  Aunt Agatha gave her a satisfactory nod, then grabbed the cohosh root, cleaning the mud and dirt off of it, then placing it near the fire where the flames would dry it quickly.

  “How long will it take before it's cured?” asked Corabelle.

  “About a week.”

  When they'd finished hanging the flowers, they sat down for a meal of bread, jam, and deer sausage. Their stomachs filled, Aunt Agatha rose and walked to the door. “The others will be back soon. It's time to go. You must appear as though you've been home all day if you're to keep our secret.”

  “I will,” said Corabelle.

  “And don't forget to listen for my thoughts as you leave, all right?”

  “Okay.” The girl hugged her aunt, then broke into a run down the path, listening to her words until they’d disappeared altogether.

  Chapter 9

  A Friend

  Damien worked hard the next few days, practicing the skill Samuel had taught him over and over.

  “It's so difficult, Father,” he complained after landing on his knees for the umpteenth time.

  Samuel offered a sympathetic smile. “I know. And it doesn't help that I can't teach you how to control your trajectory when you catch the wind, but I know you'll figure it out. Keep trying.”

  Damien leapt into the air, flew a short distance, and this time landed on four wobbling legs instead of his knees. “How was that?” he asked, throwing his head back over his shoulder, a grin stretched across his face.

  “Excellent!”

  The colt had positioned himself for another attempt when he heard something rustle in the woods. He froze. Casting an anxious glance at his sire, he noted that he too had tensed his muscles and was scrutinizing the forest.

  “Wait here,” said Samuel, breaking into the shadow-walk.

  Damien faded into his surroundings.

  A giggle erupted from the bushes.

  “What was that?” asked Damien.

  He heard it again—a giggle and more movement. Then two mares and a filly stepped into the meadow.

  Damien's heart nearly burst with joy. “Mother, you've come!” He dropped his camouflage, then broke into a gallop. Dashing to her side, he almost knocked her over before rising on his hind legs to touch her nose.

  The mare reached down and nuzzled him. “I brought you a friend.”

  “A friend? Me?” Damien eyed the filly who peeked out from behind her dam. He recognized the pink birthmark. It was Chrissandra.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, Damien.” She took bashful steps from the safety of her mother’s legs. “Mama, can I play with him?”

  “Of course you can.” Lisa's voice was kind. “That's why I brought you here.”

  Damien couldn't believe his luck. “Come on, then. Let's go!”

  They burst into a gallop, streaking across the flowery meadow. Damien threw up his hind legs, then raced as fast as possible to show off while Chrissandra giggled at his antics. They dashed around the field until they were out of breath, then waded into the creek, dipping their heads in for a refreshing drink.

  “You're so much faster than before,” said Chrissandra after swallowing a mouthful of water. “And it's only been a few days.”

  Damien smiled. “It's a lot easier when you don't have someone like Seamus hollering at you all the time.”

  “Yeah, he's pretty mean.”

  “I know. But Father says not to take him seriously. He says Seamus likes Petra and Malcolm better because they're his foals.”

  She nodded. Then her face grew sombre. “It used to be so difficult fitting in with the others,” she said, lowering her eyes to the ground before meeting his gaze again. “Then you came along, and now I don't care so much anymore. We're the same, you and I.”

  Damien couldn't contain the smile that exploded across his face. “Well, not quite. After all, you are a filly.”

  “Close enough.” Her voice dropped to a low whinny. “And you know what? I heard some of the mares whispering that your father might replace Seamus.”

  “Seriously?”

  Chrissandra nodded.

  Hope filled Damien. “That would be so great, especially since he taught me how to ride the wind so fast.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Here, I'll show you.” Taking a few steps away, Damien paused, letting the breeze ruffle his mane, and then thrust forward, catching the wind. Aware Chrissandra was watching, he took careful aim, his body lifting high into the air, then dropping down again to form a perfect arc.

  Chrissandra's chin hung down. “Damien, how did you do that?”

  “I don't know,” he said. “I just did.”

  “But only Ulysees has ever been able to go that high.”

  Damien felt himself glow with pride. “It's nothing, really.” He squirmed, then changed the subject. “Hey, you want to see something pretty? Father says no one knows about it except him and Mother.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let's go then.”

  Damien led the filly down a trail through a copse of trees. When they reached the other side, they came to a small, turquoise lake. It glistened in the sun.

  “It's beautiful,” she said.

  “I know, but it's a secret. You can't tell anyone, okay?”

  Chrissandra gave an eager nod. “I promise.”

  “Let’s go for a swim.” Damien bounded into the water with a huge splash. When he looked back over his shoulder, the filly stood on the shore, soaking wet. “Oops, sorry,” he said.

  “It's all right,” said Chrissandra, shaking her mane and blinking water from her eyes.

  “Come on in. The water's really nice.”

  “Well…okay.” Taking a leap, she landed beside him. “This is…um…refreshing,” she said, shivering.

  “It is a little cold. You’ve gotta swim fast to keep warm.”

  “Okay.”

  They swam about in circles, staying close to the shore.

  “This is fun,” said Chrissandra. “I've never tried swimming before.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Seamus doesn't let us do anything.”

  “What does he know? Hey, let's go over to that island.” He pointed his budding horn to where tall trees rose in the centre of the lake.

  They paddled for what seemed forever, passing through warm spots, then cool, but as they progressed farther and farther away, the tepid water gave way to icy waves.

  “I'm getting tired,” said Chrissandra, her breath coming faster.

  “I guess it's not as close as I thought,” said Damien. He turned around and stared at the shore. “But it's too late to turn back. All we can do is keep going.”

  “All right, whatever you say.”

  Onward they swam, their legs pumping. Damien heard Chrissandra’s panting getting heavier and heavier.

  “I'm really getting tired,” she said.

  “Just a little farther,�
�� said Damien. “We're almost there.”

  But Chrissandra still lagged behind. “I don't know if I can make it.”

  “Sure you can. It's just up ahead.”

  “No, I mean it. I'm exhausted.”

  Damien threw his head back over his shoulder and eyed the filly. Her head was sinking lower and lower into the water.

  “Chrissandra!” he shouted. Turning back, he drew up alongside her. “Here, grab onto my mane with your teeth, and then I can drag you along.”

  The filly did as she was told, but water still filled her nostrils. She sputtered.

  “Chrissandra, are you all right?”

  She coughed some more.

  In a panic, Damien hoisted himself up from the water and hovered as though suspended in mid-air, his legs paddling as if he were still in the water.

  “How do you do that?” Chrissandra barely managed to say through gasps.

  Damien glanced at his body in surprise. “I don't know. I caught the wind, I guess, only I started from the water.”

  “But…you're staying in one spot.” Her voice gurgled on the last word.

  “Chrissandra, quick! Try and do what I just did.”

  Mustering what little strength she had, Chrissandra leapt, and like Damien, seemed to float above the lake for a brief moment before tumbling back in.

  “Now try it again, but this time, let's see if the wind will carry us to the island.”

  They waited until a stiff breeze blew, then with great effort, she hoisted herself up and together they caught the gust. It carried them, dropping them close to the island, where the water was shallow enough to walk.

  “Chrissandra, I'm so sorry,” said Damien. “I didn't realize it was that far.”

  Chrissandra huffed and puffed, and then paused to flash a sassy grin. “It’s okay. I’m all right.”

  They waded through the shallow water, enjoying the warm sun on their backs and the cool liquid on their hooves.

  A neigh rang through the air from afar. Chrissandra's ears perked up. “Mother's calling us,” she said. “But I don't want to go back yet.”

  “I think you better. It seems urgent. Look over there—I think there may be a shortcut.”