White Horse Talisman (3 page)

Only Chantel stood still, mesmerized by the great white eye at her feet. Slowly she stepped forward and began to walk around it.

Holly turned and saw her. Amazement crossed her face. She stopped and pointed.

“What's up?” Owen asked.

“Did you tell Chantel about walking widdershins around the eye of the White Horse?” asked Holly.

Owen shook his head and also turned to watch.

Adam ran over to them. “What's the matter?”

“It's Chantel.” Holly's voice was a breathy whisper. “She's doing the ritual.”

Chantel continued to circle the eye.

“She's only walking in circles. She's goofing around again,” said Adam.

Holly shook her head. “She's walking widdershins around the eye. If she does it seven times, it's an ancient ritual, a real spell.”

Adam looked blank. “Widdershins?”

“Anti-clockwise … four … five … keep counting.”

“So what? What's it supposed to do? Turn her into a frog?” Adam laughed.

“'Course not, but she'll get whatever she wishes for in either seven minutes, seven days, seven weeks, seven months, or seven years.”

Adam laughed again. “Yeah, right. What are you trying to do? Freak us out?”

Holly laid a hand on his arm. “I'm not trying to freak anyone out, Adam Maxwell. I'm just telling you what they say in the village. And I hope your little sister has wished wisely, because she has just been round the eye seven times.”

Chantel stopped and gazed down at the ancient chalk face. Her dream memory of the beautiful horse was clear and vivid. “I wish I could see you again,” she whispered. “I wish you were my horse for the summer.”

A roll of thunder rumbled around the valley.

Startled, Holly, Adam, and Owen lifted their faces sky–ward. Dark blue and purple clouds had built up behind them, rolling, boiling and rapidly obscuring the clear sky.

“Better boogie,” shouted Owen. “That's a heck of a storm. Let's get the ponies before they're spooked.” He ran uphill towards the fence, Holly following.

Chantel was listening to the voice in her head. She crouched down and scraped frantically at the surface of the chalk eye at her feet.

Adam ran to Chantel, grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away. “Come on, you idiot. We'll be caught in the storm.”

Large drops of rain began to splatter the ground.

“You're hurting me.” Chantel shook off Adam's grip. She scraped at the chalk again, and plucked something from the ground. It glimmered gold as she closed her palm around it.

“We'll leave you behind,” yelled Adam, running uphill. “You'll never find your way back on your own.”

“Will so,” muttered Chantel as she followed.

The ponies shifted uneasily beside the fence, but quieted when the children arrived. Adam ignored his sister, so Holly helped her mount, then swung up herself.

The rain became a downpour, soaking everyone. The thunder rolled.

“Cut across the hill,” called Holly. “It's the short way home. Lean backward as we go downhill. Follow that magpie.” She pointed to a lone bird flapping towards the village.

Holly dug her heels into Harlequin's ribs. He snorted and headed across the side of the hill. Adam followed. Chantel held the reins in one hand and clutched the gold in the other. She urged Snowflake forward. Owen brought up the rear.

They were halfway across the slope when it happened.

A spear of lightning sizzled and struck the ground in front of Chantel and Snowflake. A thunderclap shook the earth.

With a whinny of fright Snowflake reared, tossing Chantel like a rag doll. She flew through the air and fell silent and unmoving on the wet grass. Her hand stayed tightly clenched around the gold fragment.

As fast as it had started, the storm stopped.

C
HAPTER
T
WO
T
WO
FOR
J
OY

The Wise Ones held council.

Equus's eyes shone. “I've made contact. A girl child sees
and hears me.”

Myrddin groaned. “One child. Millions of people, but
only one child hears us.”

Equus stamped a hoof, and a shower of stars sparkled
the heavens. “Celebrate, Myrddin! One child is better than
none. Besides, three other children were with her. Take heart.
Given time perhaps they too will hear us.”

“Time is short,” snapped Myrddin.

“Shhhh,” Ava soothed. “Traa dy liooar, remember. Time
enough.” She ran a wing down the horse's neck. “Be gentle
with the child, Equus. Humans are afraid of powers they
do not understand.”

Equus hung his head. “I know. I sent a lightning message
to them all. But it made her fall, and she broke a leg. She is
in a place of healing.”

Myrddin tutted and Ava sighed.

“I had forgotten the fragility of human children,” Equus
said. “But I've sent her healing dreams. She and I will talk
again.”

“How can you warn a child about the Dark Being?”
said Ava sadly.

“I'll explain one task at a time,” replied Equus. “She must
understand about being a Magic Child before she can help
us against the Emptiness.”

“We may not have time,” Myrddin insisted.

Ava smiled and held out her wings in blessing. “Have
faith in the Lady. There will be time enough.”

CCC

Chantel lay still and white on her hospital bed, her hand still clenched. No one had been able to pry apart her fingers.

Only the occasional flicker of her closed eyelids showed she was alive. But though she seemed unconscious, she spoke with the White Horse.

Hello, child.

Is that you, Horse? Did my wish come true? Are you
my horse now?

Yes, I'm the Great White Horse, and you are the Magic
Child.

What does that mean?

That together you and I can ride the wind and share
magical secrets. Relax. Open your heart and mind to me.
You are the new Magic Child with a powerful gift. But now
you must heal, so sleep and dream, sleep and dream. You
can learn through your dreams. Dream of the past, child.
See through the eyes of Alin, one of the people you call Celts.
He was the first Magic Child.

CCC

Alin stood among the circle of youths on the hilltop. Many were hopeful, some were apprehensive, and one or two shook with terror.

Not Alin. He stood proud and straight. This was the day he had prepared for all his fourteen summers on earth. The Day of the King, the day the Celtic people honored the Great White Horse God, the day the Chosen One would ride the wind like the Horse God himself.

Alin pulled back his shoulders and stood tall in the sunshine, a tiny smile on his lips. He watched intently. His heart knew his fate.

The hooded body of the oldest priest spun blindly in the center of the circle, faster and faster, dizzily swinging his staff in front of the boys. Finally, the priest staggered to a stop, just as Alin knew he would, with the staff pointing unerringly at him.

The other boys gave a whispering sigh as they drew back, leaving Alin alone. He strode towards the edge of the hillside. The crowds gathered on the terraces far below in the valley known as the Manger saw that a choice had been made. A faint roar of approving voices drifted upward on the wind.

Alin eyed the tabooed slope down to the Manger. It was a long way down and heart-stoppingly steep, but this mo–ment was what he had secretly trained for. He could ride it — given the right horse.

Next Alin turned towards Dragon Hill.

There stood the distant, glittering, gold-clad figure of the current king. Alin raised his arm in salute and bowed. The tiny figure raised its arm in acknowledgement.

Stepping back from the edge, Alin turned and looked at the hooded priest. The priest's staff gestured towards the horse corral built on the crest of the hill between the carved chalk spine of the Great White Horse and the protective ditch circling the hilltop fort.

Alin looked over the wattle fence and surveyed this year's choices. They were fine horses, strong and wiry, their mus–cles playing under their haunches as they nervously moved around the small space. His eye lit on a red mare with a foal nuzzling anxiously against her side. The mare turned her head and gazed unblinkingly at Alin. As their eyes met, Alin's heart quickened. She could do it. She had the wiriness and sure-footedness to tackle the hill, the strength in her hindquarters to hold on, and the will to survive for her foal. He stretched out his hand and exhaled gently.

The mare's ears flickered and she stepped forward and let him rub her forehead.

Two more priests appeared. One grasped the mare's forelock, threw the gold and enameled bridle over her head and buckled the small ceremonial saddle with gold stirrups onto her back. The other took Alin's arm. He was led away, back to the edge of the hill, where he was rapidly stripped and left to stand naked and vulnerable.

All this was done in silence save for the wind, the rustle of dry grass, the occasional whicker from the horses, and the ethereal song of the skylark.

Alin drew a deep breath, spicy with earthy smells, the sweat of horses and humans, the dusty chalk, the smoky odor of the priest's wool and leather robes, and the acrid smell of fear from several of the youths in the surrounding semi-circle. He glanced back at them, aware that now he was no longer part of their easygoing group. He was no longer a fellow conspirator in a prank against the elders, a worthy opponent on the wrestling ground, or a trusted partner in the wild boar hunt. Now he was the Chosen One. The few yards between him and his comrades were as great a distance as that between them and the far horizon.

Alin glanced at each well-known face. Some reflected awe, others pity and grief, some fear, and several gazed back as though he were a stranger. Only his best friend Halydd shared his joy. They exchanged a glance of triumph as the priests chanted a blessing and the attending acolytes responded with their ritual keening.

Once again the old priest raised his staff. The mare was led for–ward. The people roared, and Alin knew his time had come.

The old priest threw back his hood and lifted a braided necklace of white horse hair from around his neck. A gold talisman twisted and twinkled in the sunlight. He threw the necklace over Alin's head.

Alin glanced down. The outline of the White Horse was etched into the golden circle. He clasped the talisman and held it to his heart. “May the Great White Horse God be with me,” he murmured, and dropped the braid against his chest as he turned to his horse.

Grasping the bridle, Alin knotted it loosely and looped it over his arm. Next he twisted his bridle hand into the red mare's mane. “I won't drag on your mouth, little mare,” he whispered in her ear. “I'll stick to your back like a burr.” He leapt into the saddle. Using his knees he urged the mare forward towards the very edge of the steep slope into the Manger.

The crowd below roared again, then fell silent.

As he looked again down the almost vertical drop, Alin's stomach cramped with fear. He felt the red mare's answer–ing shudder of terror as she realized what was demanded of her. There was no going back
his fate was sealed. He was the Chosen One. Death was ahead of him, either within the next seven minutes or at the end of the next seven years. It had always been so for the Chosen Ones.

Alin's terrified gaze flickered towards the golden king far below on top of the dragon mound. He knew for the first time the terrible glory of being the Chosen One. Seven years ago the king had been a youth like him, and now his fate rested on Alin's skill. Alin trembled. Blackness began to gather behind his eyes.