Short Story: All the Pretty Little Horsies
Copyright July 2010 Anthony Redgrave
The gated community of Marigold Meadows has once again lured in another family with its promises of safety, convenience, cleanliness, and a fitness center. The crossing of ley lines pulsing quietly beneath its impeccably manicured lawns and vivacious shrubberies goes blissfully unnoticed. The welcome wagon is out in full force, spearheaded by my wife, her friends, and a multitude of desserts and casseroles. The whole neighborhood has come out to help in one way or another, providing either warm hearts or strong backs. They decided several new neighbors ago that that’s how they’d do it – so that there’s a sense of belonging right away, to support the newcomers once it happens. I can’t say I disagree with them, but I feel awkward attempting to be a part of it.
The unsuspecting newcomers are small family. There’s a well-groomed mother, in sensible shoes and a plain calico dress; a respectable father, in a checked shirt and new jeans; and a pretty daughter, probably no more than sixteen. She seems dangerously clean, the sort of clean that doesn’t stay that way for long, in spite of all the best intentions. Her hair is long, pale gold, and loose. She’s wearing what seems to be a purity ring. She blushes when she looks at me. She is already seeing a glimpse of who I really am – which is whatever is needed at the time. She is the one who was called here, I can tell. So can she, but she doesn’t know it yet.
As I am not a physically strong person, I have taken on the task of helping her unload her things, which are fairly lightweight, unlike the heavy antique furniture that fills the rest of the moving van. I carry a cardboard box to her room. She’s written her name in dramatic cursive, with little stars around it, and a flourishing tail coming off the last letter to swoop around and underline the rest. Blair. (The poor child. What were her parents thinking?) She follows me up, her face flushing. I know what she must be thinking about me, and I cannot condone it. All I can do is try to keep it from getting worse.
She asks me to sit the box down on her bed, and she opens it eagerly. It’s full of unicorns. Just unicorns. Porcelain, plastic, plush, glass – there must be seventy of them, or more. She unwraps the more fragile ones from their newspaper sheaths and attentively checks them for damage before lining them up on the white dresser. She has names for all of them. Her room makes me uneasy. My skin itches, and my eyes dart to the corners, expecting others to be there, watching with sinister intent. It takes me a moment to understand why. Her walls are painted bubblegum pink. I breathe a sigh of relief. The color is known to produce unusually strong psychological and physical effects. Nothing is actually watching right now, for a change.
The phone rings. She giggles at the sound of my ringtone, which I suppose must be endearing to her – the chorus of a popular metal song recorded some twenty years prior, a vestige of my former life. I answer, and there is the telltale crackling of the ley lines through the receiver. The quiet language is spoken underneath the static, calling me away, telling my my preparations for tonight must begin now. I hang up without speaking. Blair is staring at me. I must have a strange look on my face. I do my best to correct my expression and inform her that my work calls me away. She looks disappointed instead of confused now, and I depart her new home, glad to leave the nauseating Baker-Miller pink behind.
The house exits into the crossroads at the center of our neighborhood. The roads are wide here, wider than required by any vehicle. Wide enough for a large truck to turn around in. It is not immediately apparent to newcomers the reason for its size. I make a point to not cross directly though the center, although my house is at a diagonal to this one. I go around it, in an L-shape.
I enter my front door, nearly identical to the one I just exited, similar to all the others in our little village. There is still the lingering scent of cherry pie in the kitchen, which would still smell amazing by average standards, regardless of the healing properties baked into it by my wife. I continue down to the basement which is fairly dark even in daylight. At the south wall, near the corner, there is a heavy steel door locked in three places. Each lock takes a separate key, and I enter into a long, pitch-black hallway. I feel the wall with my hand so that I do not stumble, and I reach the next door at the end. This one too has three locks, and while they are nearly impossible to see in the dark, I unlock them easily.
I enter my workshop, my temple, my changing room. I am directly beneath the crossroads, and I can feel the power of its center. It coincides with the ley lines that cross here as well; they are mirror images of each other. There is no electric light here; I fumble with the sconce nearest the door and the others are lit easily after it. Everything is as I left it. No other member of my family or the community enters this room, despite their knowledge of its existence. Of all the remarkable gifts brought out in us by the well, mine is the most dangerous, and must be kept the most secure.
In the center of the room there is a round cloth painted with a protective circle. Bordering the circle are tall wooden wardrobes, ancient and mismatched. They have been here since we first bought the house. Each wardrobe is marked with a symbolic calling card of a specific spirit, and I am forbidden to touch the personal affects contained within them. I don’t know the names of any of these spirits, even though I have met most of them. The ceiling consists of dark wooden beams which support the rest of the house. the drop ceiling was stripped away from them, for the purpose of knowing where exactly to place the innumerable screw hooks. hanging from these hooks are many things too large to fit in the wardrobes – pelts of large animals, antlers, skulls, tails. The room extends a fair way beyond the circle, and the walls are concrete and painted with a smattering of protective sigils. Aside from the sigils, there are two ancient swords mounted on the south wall, forming an equal armed cross. I can see them clearly from within the circle. Their hilts are black, decorated with entirely too many natural rubies to be believed. I know they are always razor-sharp, despite the fact that I haven’t touched, let alone sharpened them since I found them in this room four years ago. There are a number of flourishes painted around them on the wall, mimicking the symbol on one of the wardrobes. Those blades only exacerbate the uneasy feeling this room gives me. This house rests exactly on the well, the axis of the two ley lines, and I know that those swords belong to whatever spirit orchestrates the gathering of the magically gifted in this place. Whatever spirit that is has a plan for me, and I don’t like the constant reminder of it.
I remove my clothing, sweaty from the day’s labor, and sit naked in the center of the circle. I close my eyes and breathe carefully, and see the flow of my energy patterns. I extend my Self up to the Heavens and down to the core of the planet, joining the circular flow of my Self to that of the Universe, anchoring my Self to this world and the others. The circle, the floor, the wardrobes, the walls, the sigils, have all vanished, and surrounding me now are only the bright threads of energy flowing around me, as far as the eye can see. I look up, and I can see our family dog glowing blue, flickering faintly as he chases squirrels in his sleep. Off in the distance there’s a pocket of sparkling lights of various hues and intensities, connecting to each other in wild kaleidoscopic spiderweb patterns as they work and laugh together. The trees hum, their roots thrusting down to the core of the Earth, where they connect with my spiraling circuitry and dance with my light. Bright flashes of birds and insects rocket across the sky. The longer I am fed by the Universe, the brighter it becomes. It borders on being painful.
I formally announce my presence in the quiet languages, and I wait to hear the voice which wishes to become mine. I always dread this moment, because it feels as though the spirits intentionally linger beyond my sight, making me squirm in anticipation, and giving me time to allow my imagination to become more terrifying than the reality of what I am about to do. I know I am open to any and all spirits who need use of a body, and I know that someday I may be asked to do something more terrible than anything I have done to this point. The fear makes the wait so much worse. I see the glowing red cross of the energies within the blades ahead of me, and I nearly lose my concentration for fear of what they signify.
They pulse. I forget to breathe, and there’s a hiccup in my energy circuit that makes the light show go black for a moment. My Vision returns to normal for just long enough to make me think it was a fluke, that the swords are merely testing me. I allow myself to relax, to listen for the calling spirit. I See on the edges of my Vision that there are many drawing close, as they often do when I announce myself, but none speak to me or come within my circle. They merely watch. I smell fear, apprehension. They are watching a train wreck about to happen.
The swords pulse again, brighter. The color of their energy is the color of the rubies in their hilts. As before, when they pulse, I am blind to all other energies around me, and only the swords exist. This time, however, everything around me stays black. I see a darker spot in the darkness, the shape of a man, standing just behind the swords. I can no longer delude myself. This is the time.
I stand, shaky, and try to look as strong for this spirit as I do for the people in my community. It laughs, the cackle of an old man. It can see straight through my act, an act I have honed for years. Still, I keep up appearances, straighten my spine, look directly into the blackness where its face should be, and demand to know its name.
The shadow speaks the quiet language. I am the keeper of the crossroads, cheval. What you could be, if you stopped being so proud and so frightened. I am You.
The quiet language wells up inside of me, flows too quickly to filter I sound like I did four years ago, when I first came to this place, and was not yet fluent. Liar liar it’s a lie lies it’s all lies you’re not me you can’t be me I’m me but who am I who am I WHO AM I
I feel as though my body can no longer hold its shape, that I am too unstable to be held in flesh. The shadow approaches my flickering outline. It leans into me, its shadow-face dancing with the whorls and sparks of my aura. You’re mine, Cheval, that’s what you are. You’re lucky I gave you warning. I’m practically asking permission of you, and you’re mine.
I do my best to keep my form a moment longer, to resist joining with this ghost, but I know that it is right; I was drawn to this place, like everyone else, because I had a purpose to fill, and my purpose is to be filled.
I breathe deep. It smells as black as it looks. my breastbone swells; I am too full, my body is too small to contain it and also myself. I recede willingly, into the deepest corners of my mind, and give every inch of control over to it. I feel relief. If this face was still mine, it would be smiling. He feels amazing. Strong, stronger than I could ever hope to be on my own. I decide to allow myself to enjoy the ride.
A wet, animal sound escapes my body. The room is dark now; the sconces are spent of all their oil. I am standing – He is standing. My back doesn’t feel straight enough. I attempt to will it into a more appropriate posture, but it is not my will that drives this body now. He laughs that unnatural cackle again, and opens His wardrobe. His clothing within it feels remarkably average – a sensuously cool silk shirt that takes quite a bit of patience to button, and a pair of crisp slacks. There are some slick shoes which I can only assume are shined to a mirror finish, and soft leather gloves. I would have expected something more theatrical out of such an intense spirit, but His true sense of style makes about as much sense as any. He shoves aside the wardrobe, and it falls easily. I hear the splitting of old wood.
He steps over the splintered wardrobe, which He can somehow see in the darkness, and rends the swords from their mounts in the concrete. The mounts themselves pull out, and clatter to the floor along with pieces of the wall. The energy within them stings even through the gloves, and were I the one in control at this moment I would drop them without question. He holds them tight, however, even as their energy vibrates down to the very bones of our hands.
Empowered by His precious ritual weapons, He no longer has time or patience for locked doors. He kicks the door of the changing room off its hinges with a satisfied laugh and little exertion, although I know I will feel the soreness from it in the morning. Without a thought for the well-being of His vessel, He does the same to the next door, which is thicker, and bolted shut in two places. The locking mechanisms tear out of the jamb. He rushes up the stairs, dragging the swords behind Him, grinning wildly. He kicks down one last door, and the lights of my kitchen pour into the basement. My wife stands aside, bowing respectfully to the spirit wearing her husband’s skin. My son, though panicked, is equally silent. He growls through my mouth, a sound that the human body shouldn’t be capable of producing.. My wife has thought ahead, and the front door stands open for us. She and everyone else in the neighborhood know that, regardless of what they hear, they must stay indoors tonight. The ley lines don’t appreciate meddlers.
It is the deep of night outside, and there is no moon. Someone has opened the gate without My permission, He tells me, and nothing more. I am only allowed to watch as He slows, breathing loudly, dragging the swords behind Him. They spark and squeal against the sidewalk, and I am sure that everyone on the cul-de-sac hears us. My – no, our – no, His head hangs in concentration, His back curves down. A thread of spit begins to form from His mouth and sticks to His chin.
He stops at Blair’s door.
The euphoria of sharing a body with him fades instantly. No, I whisper in the quiet language. No, she’s just a girl, she’s innocent, you wouldn’t dare-
She is a bringer of monsters, He informs me. Look. She bought these with her sorrow.
He raises His head for the first time since leaving my home. Darker spots in the darkness circle her roof. Still more trample the flowerbeds flanking her front door. He will not let me look away. Their shape solidifies.
Horses.
Some are sleek and black with fiery manes. Others are winged and circling like equine vultures. Still more are putrescent, rotting, their skulls and ribs exposed, their lips torn away, revealing gigantic and powerful teeth. They have begun to notice Him. The power within His swords give them pause. Some snort loudly while stamping the ground, challenging Him.
Call out your Mistress, he demands.
A cacophony of whickering and grunting surrounds Him. They encircle Him from every side. There are at least seventy of them, or more. A window lights up in the second floor of Blair’s house. The circle of horses pulls in closer. The front door opens, and Blair, in a long nightshirt emblazoned with a rearing purple unicorn, stands on her front porch, her mouth agape. Her shock turns to smiles and laughter when she sees her grotesque creations. She covers her mouth with both hands and exclaims with glee.
Calm yourself, He says in the quiet language. She doesn’t hear Him, but she obeys. He lowers His head once more, and stares at her from under His brow, His mouth still trailing saliva.
She notices Him then, standing before her and her monstrous horses, and she says my name in surprise. I feel His displeasure at the sound of it, but He allows her to come to Him. She rushes towards Him, throws her arms about Him, smiling. She doesn’t yet know that it isn’t me. He doesn’t react, but I feel His hands tightening on the swords. I fear for the girl. I attempt to tell him that she is innocent, that this was all an accident, but I am completely silent.
You have brought forth your creatures without my permission, He says in the quiet language.
She begins to understand, and attempts to reply. My horsies came for me because I was lonely I had to leave my friends and I was sad so I wished and it came true they’re all here and this one’s Chloe and this one’s Mariah and this one’s Luna
Slow down.
She takes a breath. He backs away from her, and she stands on her own, looking down at her hands. How
You named them, made them real. You couldn’t bring them through the gate until you came here though. You didn’t have the strength on your own. You had to draw from the well in order to let them through. He seems to soften as He explains, but He still feels stern and upset by her actions. He feels like a father, now. I can suddenly relate to Him.
She shakes, wraps her arms around herself. What she speaks in the quiet language is unintelligible, far too emotional to interpret.
He continues. I would like to send them back. It will be easier with your help.
She looks in His eyes, and for the first time sees that I’m not there. With a deep breath, she attempts the quiet language again. Lonely scared
The monstrous horses wicker and scuff the ground, feeling her resistance, ready to defend her.
I will be here. All these people will be here. Your parents bought this house because I instructed them to, in this quiet language, for your sake. You have a gift which needs nurturing, not to be left to run wild and create incomplete monsters. You are useful to Me. You will not be alone. There is a hint of warmth in him now, despite how terrifyingly powerful I know Him to be.
She nods, knowing she must return her companions from where they came, but assured that the reason she willed them into existence is no longer a concern. She stands straight, and looks about at her multitude of horses. How
He offers her the sword in his left hand. I find it unbelievable – how could such a tiny girl handle something this powerful? How could He offer her His sword, after all these years in which I was not even permitted to clear dust away from them? She seems equally shocked, but her hand finds its way to the black and red hilt anyway. She winces, but grasps it tightly. He lets her take it.
I am still apprehensive as to the real purpose of these swords. Earlier, I was convinced that He intended to kill her with them. I still feel that this may be a concern, but at least now she is not unarmed. My imagination runs wild for a moment – if by some strange fluke, she defends herself against Him, it’s my body that she will injure, possibly kill. In reality, though, she doesn’t stand a chance against Him, and I may be discovered to be in possession of a murder weapon.
Silence, He tells me, and lifts His sword with both hands, pointing up to the sky. He nods to her, and she does the same.
They dance.
He leads her, step by step, in a slow circular pattern. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Left foot raised and crossed over right leg. It continues for some time. I see glimpses of her face; she is unsure at first, but soon it becomes natural, and the pace increases with every turn. Soon there is little logic or pattern to their dance. It is a whirling frenzy of heavy blades, spiralling in and out of the center of the circle they have created.
The air feels different here. Cooler. Brighter. The horses move in closer, leaving little room for the dance to continue, but they do not stop. It is dizzying. The swords begin to graze the necks and chests of the beasts. They inch forward in spite of it. They are sliced through effortlessly, and their energy dissipates. The more of them that are cleared away, the more of them close in to be dealt with in the same way. In what seems like a matter of minutes, they are all gone.
Blair collapses to the ground, dropping the sword. She breathes heavily, leaning on her hands and knees. He picks up the dropped sword, unfazed by their frenetic ritual dance. I know I will probably be incapable of moving my body at all in the morning, at this point. He offers her an elbow, and she accepts it. She pulls herself upright, and leans on His shoulder. She smiles, despite her breathlessness. How
If you have it in you, however subconsciously, to create and call forth such beings, he explains, you have it in you, however subconsciously, to dispel them. There is much you have to learn. I will be here to teach you.
She nods. She struggles with the quiet language, as if she has forgotten how to speak audibly. How can I find You
Ask Cheval. He brings forth spirits from the crossroads into himself; you bring forth spirits who do not need vessels. You will work well together, and he is Mine. Whenever either of you need Me, I will be there. I am the one who decides when I am needed, though. Our meetings will be infrequent.
Cheval … horse? Blair notices. I hadn’t thought of it, myself. I had wondered about His name for me.
He smiles. The sky is beginning to lighten, and the first birds of the morning are beginning to sing. Yes, He says. He is mine.
Blair understands this about as well as I do, which is impressive for such a young girl. She asks another question in the quiet language, a brave question that I have been instructed never to ask. Who are You?
To my surprise, He answers. It is of no consequence to me how you choose to address Me. There is little use for names in the quiet language. Some who are in My care and service, however, call Me Papa.
Papa. She nods. It sounds appropriate to me as well.
Return to your home, He instructs her. Your parents are still sleeping. They will not be aware of what has happened to you this night. They have been too preoccupied with their own assignments to awaken to all this noise. They will tell you all about it when they awaken, I assure you. Do not be afraid to tell them about your experience. After what they have been through, they will surely believe you. You are a family. We are all a family. We welcome you.
She throws her arms about Him and squeezes. I suspect I feel Him smiling. He feels proud. She runs back to her door and enters, shutting it as silently as she can.
I can feel His hold on me loosening now. My body aches easily twice as much as I was expecting. Heavy swords in hand, we limp back to my home, where my wife and son are waiting, still wide awake.
I can smell the cherry pie from outside my door.
The unsuspecting newcomers are small family. There’s a well-groomed mother, in sensible shoes and a plain calico dress; a respectable father, in a checked shirt and new jeans; and a pretty daughter, probably no more than sixteen. She seems dangerously clean, the sort of clean that doesn’t stay that way for long, in spite of all the best intentions. Her hair is long, pale gold, and loose. She’s wearing what seems to be a purity ring. She blushes when she looks at me. She is already seeing a glimpse of who I really am – which is whatever is needed at the time. She is the one who was called here, I can tell. So can she, but she doesn’t know it yet.
As I am not a physically strong person, I have taken on the task of helping her unload her things, which are fairly lightweight, unlike the heavy antique furniture that fills the rest of the moving van. I carry a cardboard box to her room. She’s written her name in dramatic cursive, with little stars around it, and a flourishing tail coming off the last letter to swoop around and underline the rest. Blair. (The poor child. What were her parents thinking?) She follows me up, her face flushing. I know what she must be thinking about me, and I cannot condone it. All I can do is try to keep it from getting worse.
She asks me to sit the box down on her bed, and she opens it eagerly. It’s full of unicorns. Just unicorns. Porcelain, plastic, plush, glass – there must be seventy of them, or more. She unwraps the more fragile ones from their newspaper sheaths and attentively checks them for damage before lining them up on the white dresser. She has names for all of them. Her room makes me uneasy. My skin itches, and my eyes dart to the corners, expecting others to be there, watching with sinister intent. It takes me a moment to understand why. Her walls are painted bubblegum pink. I breathe a sigh of relief. The color is known to produce unusually strong psychological and physical effects. Nothing is actually watching right now, for a change.
The phone rings. She giggles at the sound of my ringtone, which I suppose must be endearing to her – the chorus of a popular metal song recorded some twenty years prior, a vestige of my former life. I answer, and there is the telltale crackling of the ley lines through the receiver. The quiet language is spoken underneath the static, calling me away, telling my my preparations for tonight must begin now. I hang up without speaking. Blair is staring at me. I must have a strange look on my face. I do my best to correct my expression and inform her that my work calls me away. She looks disappointed instead of confused now, and I depart her new home, glad to leave the nauseating Baker-Miller pink behind.
The house exits into the crossroads at the center of our neighborhood. The roads are wide here, wider than required by any vehicle. Wide enough for a large truck to turn around in. It is not immediately apparent to newcomers the reason for its size. I make a point to not cross directly though the center, although my house is at a diagonal to this one. I go around it, in an L-shape.
I enter my front door, nearly identical to the one I just exited, similar to all the others in our little village. There is still the lingering scent of cherry pie in the kitchen, which would still smell amazing by average standards, regardless of the healing properties baked into it by my wife. I continue down to the basement which is fairly dark even in daylight. At the south wall, near the corner, there is a heavy steel door locked in three places. Each lock takes a separate key, and I enter into a long, pitch-black hallway. I feel the wall with my hand so that I do not stumble, and I reach the next door at the end. This one too has three locks, and while they are nearly impossible to see in the dark, I unlock them easily.
I enter my workshop, my temple, my changing room. I am directly beneath the crossroads, and I can feel the power of its center. It coincides with the ley lines that cross here as well; they are mirror images of each other. There is no electric light here; I fumble with the sconce nearest the door and the others are lit easily after it. Everything is as I left it. No other member of my family or the community enters this room, despite their knowledge of its existence. Of all the remarkable gifts brought out in us by the well, mine is the most dangerous, and must be kept the most secure.
In the center of the room there is a round cloth painted with a protective circle. Bordering the circle are tall wooden wardrobes, ancient and mismatched. They have been here since we first bought the house. Each wardrobe is marked with a symbolic calling card of a specific spirit, and I am forbidden to touch the personal affects contained within them. I don’t know the names of any of these spirits, even though I have met most of them. The ceiling consists of dark wooden beams which support the rest of the house. the drop ceiling was stripped away from them, for the purpose of knowing where exactly to place the innumerable screw hooks. hanging from these hooks are many things too large to fit in the wardrobes – pelts of large animals, antlers, skulls, tails. The room extends a fair way beyond the circle, and the walls are concrete and painted with a smattering of protective sigils. Aside from the sigils, there are two ancient swords mounted on the south wall, forming an equal armed cross. I can see them clearly from within the circle. Their hilts are black, decorated with entirely too many natural rubies to be believed. I know they are always razor-sharp, despite the fact that I haven’t touched, let alone sharpened them since I found them in this room four years ago. There are a number of flourishes painted around them on the wall, mimicking the symbol on one of the wardrobes. Those blades only exacerbate the uneasy feeling this room gives me. This house rests exactly on the well, the axis of the two ley lines, and I know that those swords belong to whatever spirit orchestrates the gathering of the magically gifted in this place. Whatever spirit that is has a plan for me, and I don’t like the constant reminder of it.
I remove my clothing, sweaty from the day’s labor, and sit naked in the center of the circle. I close my eyes and breathe carefully, and see the flow of my energy patterns. I extend my Self up to the Heavens and down to the core of the planet, joining the circular flow of my Self to that of the Universe, anchoring my Self to this world and the others. The circle, the floor, the wardrobes, the walls, the sigils, have all vanished, and surrounding me now are only the bright threads of energy flowing around me, as far as the eye can see. I look up, and I can see our family dog glowing blue, flickering faintly as he chases squirrels in his sleep. Off in the distance there’s a pocket of sparkling lights of various hues and intensities, connecting to each other in wild kaleidoscopic spiderweb patterns as they work and laugh together. The trees hum, their roots thrusting down to the core of the Earth, where they connect with my spiraling circuitry and dance with my light. Bright flashes of birds and insects rocket across the sky. The longer I am fed by the Universe, the brighter it becomes. It borders on being painful.
I formally announce my presence in the quiet languages, and I wait to hear the voice which wishes to become mine. I always dread this moment, because it feels as though the spirits intentionally linger beyond my sight, making me squirm in anticipation, and giving me time to allow my imagination to become more terrifying than the reality of what I am about to do. I know I am open to any and all spirits who need use of a body, and I know that someday I may be asked to do something more terrible than anything I have done to this point. The fear makes the wait so much worse. I see the glowing red cross of the energies within the blades ahead of me, and I nearly lose my concentration for fear of what they signify.
They pulse. I forget to breathe, and there’s a hiccup in my energy circuit that makes the light show go black for a moment. My Vision returns to normal for just long enough to make me think it was a fluke, that the swords are merely testing me. I allow myself to relax, to listen for the calling spirit. I See on the edges of my Vision that there are many drawing close, as they often do when I announce myself, but none speak to me or come within my circle. They merely watch. I smell fear, apprehension. They are watching a train wreck about to happen.
The swords pulse again, brighter. The color of their energy is the color of the rubies in their hilts. As before, when they pulse, I am blind to all other energies around me, and only the swords exist. This time, however, everything around me stays black. I see a darker spot in the darkness, the shape of a man, standing just behind the swords. I can no longer delude myself. This is the time.
I stand, shaky, and try to look as strong for this spirit as I do for the people in my community. It laughs, the cackle of an old man. It can see straight through my act, an act I have honed for years. Still, I keep up appearances, straighten my spine, look directly into the blackness where its face should be, and demand to know its name.
The shadow speaks the quiet language. I am the keeper of the crossroads, cheval. What you could be, if you stopped being so proud and so frightened. I am You.
The quiet language wells up inside of me, flows too quickly to filter I sound like I did four years ago, when I first came to this place, and was not yet fluent. Liar liar it’s a lie lies it’s all lies you’re not me you can’t be me I’m me but who am I who am I WHO AM I
I feel as though my body can no longer hold its shape, that I am too unstable to be held in flesh. The shadow approaches my flickering outline. It leans into me, its shadow-face dancing with the whorls and sparks of my aura. You’re mine, Cheval, that’s what you are. You’re lucky I gave you warning. I’m practically asking permission of you, and you’re mine.
I do my best to keep my form a moment longer, to resist joining with this ghost, but I know that it is right; I was drawn to this place, like everyone else, because I had a purpose to fill, and my purpose is to be filled.
I breathe deep. It smells as black as it looks. my breastbone swells; I am too full, my body is too small to contain it and also myself. I recede willingly, into the deepest corners of my mind, and give every inch of control over to it. I feel relief. If this face was still mine, it would be smiling. He feels amazing. Strong, stronger than I could ever hope to be on my own. I decide to allow myself to enjoy the ride.
A wet, animal sound escapes my body. The room is dark now; the sconces are spent of all their oil. I am standing – He is standing. My back doesn’t feel straight enough. I attempt to will it into a more appropriate posture, but it is not my will that drives this body now. He laughs that unnatural cackle again, and opens His wardrobe. His clothing within it feels remarkably average – a sensuously cool silk shirt that takes quite a bit of patience to button, and a pair of crisp slacks. There are some slick shoes which I can only assume are shined to a mirror finish, and soft leather gloves. I would have expected something more theatrical out of such an intense spirit, but His true sense of style makes about as much sense as any. He shoves aside the wardrobe, and it falls easily. I hear the splitting of old wood.
He steps over the splintered wardrobe, which He can somehow see in the darkness, and rends the swords from their mounts in the concrete. The mounts themselves pull out, and clatter to the floor along with pieces of the wall. The energy within them stings even through the gloves, and were I the one in control at this moment I would drop them without question. He holds them tight, however, even as their energy vibrates down to the very bones of our hands.
Empowered by His precious ritual weapons, He no longer has time or patience for locked doors. He kicks the door of the changing room off its hinges with a satisfied laugh and little exertion, although I know I will feel the soreness from it in the morning. Without a thought for the well-being of His vessel, He does the same to the next door, which is thicker, and bolted shut in two places. The locking mechanisms tear out of the jamb. He rushes up the stairs, dragging the swords behind Him, grinning wildly. He kicks down one last door, and the lights of my kitchen pour into the basement. My wife stands aside, bowing respectfully to the spirit wearing her husband’s skin. My son, though panicked, is equally silent. He growls through my mouth, a sound that the human body shouldn’t be capable of producing.. My wife has thought ahead, and the front door stands open for us. She and everyone else in the neighborhood know that, regardless of what they hear, they must stay indoors tonight. The ley lines don’t appreciate meddlers.
It is the deep of night outside, and there is no moon. Someone has opened the gate without My permission, He tells me, and nothing more. I am only allowed to watch as He slows, breathing loudly, dragging the swords behind Him. They spark and squeal against the sidewalk, and I am sure that everyone on the cul-de-sac hears us. My – no, our – no, His head hangs in concentration, His back curves down. A thread of spit begins to form from His mouth and sticks to His chin.
He stops at Blair’s door.
The euphoria of sharing a body with him fades instantly. No, I whisper in the quiet language. No, she’s just a girl, she’s innocent, you wouldn’t dare-
She is a bringer of monsters, He informs me. Look. She bought these with her sorrow.
He raises His head for the first time since leaving my home. Darker spots in the darkness circle her roof. Still more trample the flowerbeds flanking her front door. He will not let me look away. Their shape solidifies.
Horses.
Some are sleek and black with fiery manes. Others are winged and circling like equine vultures. Still more are putrescent, rotting, their skulls and ribs exposed, their lips torn away, revealing gigantic and powerful teeth. They have begun to notice Him. The power within His swords give them pause. Some snort loudly while stamping the ground, challenging Him.
Call out your Mistress, he demands.
A cacophony of whickering and grunting surrounds Him. They encircle Him from every side. There are at least seventy of them, or more. A window lights up in the second floor of Blair’s house. The circle of horses pulls in closer. The front door opens, and Blair, in a long nightshirt emblazoned with a rearing purple unicorn, stands on her front porch, her mouth agape. Her shock turns to smiles and laughter when she sees her grotesque creations. She covers her mouth with both hands and exclaims with glee.
Calm yourself, He says in the quiet language. She doesn’t hear Him, but she obeys. He lowers His head once more, and stares at her from under His brow, His mouth still trailing saliva.
She notices Him then, standing before her and her monstrous horses, and she says my name in surprise. I feel His displeasure at the sound of it, but He allows her to come to Him. She rushes towards Him, throws her arms about Him, smiling. She doesn’t yet know that it isn’t me. He doesn’t react, but I feel His hands tightening on the swords. I fear for the girl. I attempt to tell him that she is innocent, that this was all an accident, but I am completely silent.
You have brought forth your creatures without my permission, He says in the quiet language.
She begins to understand, and attempts to reply. My horsies came for me because I was lonely I had to leave my friends and I was sad so I wished and it came true they’re all here and this one’s Chloe and this one’s Mariah and this one’s Luna
Slow down.
She takes a breath. He backs away from her, and she stands on her own, looking down at her hands. How
You named them, made them real. You couldn’t bring them through the gate until you came here though. You didn’t have the strength on your own. You had to draw from the well in order to let them through. He seems to soften as He explains, but He still feels stern and upset by her actions. He feels like a father, now. I can suddenly relate to Him.
She shakes, wraps her arms around herself. What she speaks in the quiet language is unintelligible, far too emotional to interpret.
He continues. I would like to send them back. It will be easier with your help.
She looks in His eyes, and for the first time sees that I’m not there. With a deep breath, she attempts the quiet language again. Lonely scared
The monstrous horses wicker and scuff the ground, feeling her resistance, ready to defend her.
I will be here. All these people will be here. Your parents bought this house because I instructed them to, in this quiet language, for your sake. You have a gift which needs nurturing, not to be left to run wild and create incomplete monsters. You are useful to Me. You will not be alone. There is a hint of warmth in him now, despite how terrifyingly powerful I know Him to be.
She nods, knowing she must return her companions from where they came, but assured that the reason she willed them into existence is no longer a concern. She stands straight, and looks about at her multitude of horses. How
He offers her the sword in his left hand. I find it unbelievable – how could such a tiny girl handle something this powerful? How could He offer her His sword, after all these years in which I was not even permitted to clear dust away from them? She seems equally shocked, but her hand finds its way to the black and red hilt anyway. She winces, but grasps it tightly. He lets her take it.
I am still apprehensive as to the real purpose of these swords. Earlier, I was convinced that He intended to kill her with them. I still feel that this may be a concern, but at least now she is not unarmed. My imagination runs wild for a moment – if by some strange fluke, she defends herself against Him, it’s my body that she will injure, possibly kill. In reality, though, she doesn’t stand a chance against Him, and I may be discovered to be in possession of a murder weapon.
Silence, He tells me, and lifts His sword with both hands, pointing up to the sky. He nods to her, and she does the same.
They dance.
He leads her, step by step, in a slow circular pattern. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Left foot raised and crossed over right leg. It continues for some time. I see glimpses of her face; she is unsure at first, but soon it becomes natural, and the pace increases with every turn. Soon there is little logic or pattern to their dance. It is a whirling frenzy of heavy blades, spiralling in and out of the center of the circle they have created.
The air feels different here. Cooler. Brighter. The horses move in closer, leaving little room for the dance to continue, but they do not stop. It is dizzying. The swords begin to graze the necks and chests of the beasts. They inch forward in spite of it. They are sliced through effortlessly, and their energy dissipates. The more of them that are cleared away, the more of them close in to be dealt with in the same way. In what seems like a matter of minutes, they are all gone.
Blair collapses to the ground, dropping the sword. She breathes heavily, leaning on her hands and knees. He picks up the dropped sword, unfazed by their frenetic ritual dance. I know I will probably be incapable of moving my body at all in the morning, at this point. He offers her an elbow, and she accepts it. She pulls herself upright, and leans on His shoulder. She smiles, despite her breathlessness. How
If you have it in you, however subconsciously, to create and call forth such beings, he explains, you have it in you, however subconsciously, to dispel them. There is much you have to learn. I will be here to teach you.
She nods. She struggles with the quiet language, as if she has forgotten how to speak audibly. How can I find You
Ask Cheval. He brings forth spirits from the crossroads into himself; you bring forth spirits who do not need vessels. You will work well together, and he is Mine. Whenever either of you need Me, I will be there. I am the one who decides when I am needed, though. Our meetings will be infrequent.
Cheval … horse? Blair notices. I hadn’t thought of it, myself. I had wondered about His name for me.
He smiles. The sky is beginning to lighten, and the first birds of the morning are beginning to sing. Yes, He says. He is mine.
Blair understands this about as well as I do, which is impressive for such a young girl. She asks another question in the quiet language, a brave question that I have been instructed never to ask. Who are You?
To my surprise, He answers. It is of no consequence to me how you choose to address Me. There is little use for names in the quiet language. Some who are in My care and service, however, call Me Papa.
Papa. She nods. It sounds appropriate to me as well.
Return to your home, He instructs her. Your parents are still sleeping. They will not be aware of what has happened to you this night. They have been too preoccupied with their own assignments to awaken to all this noise. They will tell you all about it when they awaken, I assure you. Do not be afraid to tell them about your experience. After what they have been through, they will surely believe you. You are a family. We are all a family. We welcome you.
She throws her arms about Him and squeezes. I suspect I feel Him smiling. He feels proud. She runs back to her door and enters, shutting it as silently as she can.
I can feel His hold on me loosening now. My body aches easily twice as much as I was expecting. Heavy swords in hand, we limp back to my home, where my wife and son are waiting, still wide awake.
I can smell the cherry pie from outside my door.
